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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..82e5502 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #68524 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/68524) diff --git a/old/68524-0.txt b/old/68524-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 5b8617a..0000000 --- a/old/68524-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,10496 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of The optimist, by E. M. Delafield - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: The optimist - -Author: E. M. Delafield - -Release Date: July 14, 2022 [eBook #68524] - -Most recently updated: November 7, 2022 - -Language: English - -Produced by: Tim Lindell, David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed - Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was - produced from images generously made available by The - Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE OPTIMIST *** - - - - - -THE OPTIMIST - - - - - BY - E. M. DELAFIELD - - HUMBUG. A STUDY IN EDUCATION - THE HEEL OF ACHILLES - TENSION - - - - - THE - OPTIMIST - - BY - E. M. DELAFIELD - - New York - THE MACMILLAN COMPANY - 1922 - - _All rights reserved_ - - - - - PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA - - COPYRIGHTED, 1922, - BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY. - - Set up and electrotyped. Published October, 1922. - - FERRIS - PRINTING COMPANY - NEW YORK CITY - - - - - Dedicated - - TO C. A. DAWSON-SCOTT IN - AFFECTIONATE ADMIRATION OF - THE NOVELIST AND THE WOMAN. - - - - -I - -VALERIA AND OWEN QUENTILLIAN - - -(i) - -The ship swung slowly away from the side of the wharf. Several people -on board then said, “Well, we’re off at last!” to several other people -who had only been thinking of saying it. - -Owen Quentillian remembered another, longer, sea-voyage taken by -himself at an early age. Far more clearly he remembered his arrival at -St. Gwenllian. - -It was that which he wanted to recall, aware as he was of the necessity -for resuming a connection that had almost insensibly lapsed for several -years. - -He deliberately let his mind travel backwards, visualizing himself, a -disconsolate, shivering morsel, being taken away from Papa and Mamma -at the very station itself, and put into an open pony-cart beside Miss -Lucilla Morchard. - -The conversation between them, as far as he could recollect it, had run -upon strangely categorical lines. - -“Who are you?” - -“I’m Canon Morchard’s daughter. You can call me Lucilla.” - -“How old are you?” - -“I’m fifteen, but you shouldn’t ask grown-up persons their age.” - -“Oh, are you a grown-up person?” - -“Of course I am. My mother is dead, and I look after the house and the -children, and now I’m going to look after you as well.” - -Lucilla had smiled very nicely as she said this. - -“How many children are there?” - -“Three, at home. My eldest brother is at school.” - -“What are the names of the other ones?” - -“Valeria and Flora and Adrian. Valeria and Flora are sometimes called -Val and Flossie.” - -He had discovered afterwards that they were seldom called anything -else, except by their father. - -“Why don’t Papa and Mamma come in this little carriage too?” - -“Because there wouldn’t have been room. They will come in the brougham, -later on.” - -“They won’t go back to India without saying good-bye first, will they?” -he asked wistfully. - -He had known for a long time that Papa and Mamma were going back to -India and leaving him at St. Gwenllian. - -“No, I promise you they won’t do that,” had said Lucilla seriously. - -Owen had felt entirely that her word was one to be relied upon. Very -few grown-up persons gave him that feeling. - -He remembered extraordinarily little about the house at St. Gwenllian. -It was large, and cold, and there were a good many pictures on the -walls, but the only two rooms of which he retained a mental photograph -were the schoolroom, and the Canon’s library. - -He saw the latter room first. - -Lucilla had taken him there at once. - -He remembered the books against the wall--numbers and numbers of -books--and the big black writing table, with a small bowl of violets -next to a pile of papers, and above the writing-table a finely-carved -ivory figure, crucified upon a wooden cross, set in a long plaque of -pale-green velvet. - -Lucilla had seemed to be disappointed because her father was out. - -“He said he did so want to be here to welcome you himself, but he is -always very busy. Some one sent for him, I think.” - -The youthful Owen Quentillian had cared less than nothing for the -non-appearance of his future host and tutor. The prospect of the -schoolroom tea had touched him more nearly. - -But the schoolroom tea had turned out to be a sort of nightmare. - -Even now, he could hardly smile at the recollection of that dreadful -meal. - -Eventually Val and Flossie had resolved themselves into good-natured, -cheerful little girls, and Adrian into a slightly spoilt and rather -precocious little boy, addicted to remarks of the type hailed as -“wonderful” in the drawing-room and “affected humbug” in the schoolroom. - -But on that first evening, Val and Flossie had been two monsters with -enormous eyes that stared disapprovingly, all the time, straight -at Owen Quentillian and nobody else. Adrian had been an utterly -incomprehensible, rather malignant little creature, who had asked -questions. - -“Can you see colours for each day of the week?” - -Quentillian wondered whether he had looked as much alarmed as he had -felt, in his utter bewilderment. - -“_I_ think Monday is blue, and Tuesday light green, and Wednesday dark -green,” Adrian had then proclaimed, triumphantly, and casting his big -brown eyes about as though to make sure that his three sisters had -heard the enunciation of his strange creed. - -“Adrian is not a bit like other little boys,” one of them had then -said, with calm pride. - -Owen Quentillian, unconscious of irony, had ardently hoped that she -spoke truly. - -Adrian had pinched him surreptitiously during tea, and had laughed in -a way that made Owen flush when they had asked him what India was like -and he had answered “I don’t know.” - -He had thought the thick bread-and-butter nasty, and wondered if there -was never any cake. A vista of past teas, with sugared cakes from the -drawing-room, especially selected by himself, and brought to his own -little table on the back veranda by the Ayah, made him choke. - -There had been a dreadful moment when he had snatched at the horrid mug -they had given him and held it before his face for a long, long time, -desperately pretending to drink, and not daring to show his face. - -Lucilla, seated at the head of the table, had offered the others more -tea, but she had said nothing to the little strange boy, and he still -felt grateful to her. - -The miserable, chaotic jumble that was all that his mind retained, of -interminable slices of bread-and-butter that tasted like sawdust, of -thick, ugly white china, of hostile or mocking gazes, of jokes and -allusions in which he had no share, all came to a sudden end when he -had given up any hope of ever being happy again so long as he lived. - -Canon Morchard had come into the room. - -And, magically, Val and Flossie had turned into quiet, insignificant -little girls, looking gently and trustfully at their father, and no -longer staring curiously at Owen Quentillian, and Adrian had become a -wide-eyed, guileless baby, and the thick bread-and-butter and the ugly -china no longer existed at all. - -Only Lucilla had undergone no transformation. - -She said “This is Owen Quentillian, Father,” in a matter-of-fact tone -of voice. - -“I know, my child, I know.” - -His hand, large and protecting, had grasped the boy’s hand, and after a -moment he stooped and put his lips gently to Owen’s forehead. - -Quentillian remembered a presence of general benignity, a strangely -sweet smile that came, however, very rarely, a deep voice, and an -effect of commanding height and size. - -Memory could not recapture any set form of words, but Quentillian -endeavoured, whimsically, to recast certain speeches which he felt to -be permeated with the spirit of the Canon. - -“My dear little boy, I hope you may come to feel this as home. We -shall all of us endeavour to make it so. Lucilla here is my little -housekeeper--ask her for anything that you want. Valeria--my tomboy. -She and you will have some grand romps together. Flora is younger; -nearer your own age, perhaps. Flora plays the piano, and we hope that -she may show great feeling for Art, by and bye. Little Adrian, I am -sure, has already made friends with you. I call him the Little Friend -of all the World. There are some very quaint fancies under this brown -mop, but we shall make something out of them one of these days--one of -these days.” - -Some such introduction there had certainly been. The Canon had been -nothing if not categorical, and Quentillian could fancifully surmise in -him a bewilderment not untinged with resentment had his Valeria one day -tired of being a tomboy, and elected to patronize the piano, or Flora -suddenly become imbued with a romping spirit, to the detriment of her -artistic propensities. - -But the Canon’s children had always refrained from any _volte-face_ -calculated to disconcert their parent. Quentillian was almost sure that -all of them, except Lucilla, had been afraid of him--even Adrian, on -whom his father had lavished a peculiar cherishing tenderness. - -Quentillian could remember certain sharp, stern rebukes, called forth -by Valeria’s tendency to untimely giggles, or Flora’s infantile tears, -or his own occasional sulks and obstinacy under the new _régime_. But -he could only once remember Adrian in disgrace, and so abysmal had been -the catastrophe, that imagination was unneeded for recalling it clearly. - -Adrian had told a lie. - -Quentillian re-lived the terrible episode. - -“Which of you children took a message for me from Radly yesterday? Not -you, Lucilla?” - -“No, father.” - -“Mrs. Radly died last night.” The Canon’s face was suffused. “She -asked for me all yesterday, and Radly actually left her in order to -find some way of sending me a message. I hear now that he met ‘one of -the St. Gwenllian children’ and sent an urgent summons which was never -delivered. _Which was never delivered!_ Good Heavens, children, think -of it! I was here, in our own home-circle, enjoying a pleasant evening -reading aloud, when that woman was dying there in the farm, craving -for the help and comfort that I, her shepherd and pastor, could and -_should_ have given her.” - -He covered his face with his hand and groaned aloud. - -“In all the years of my ministry,” he said slowly, “I have never had a -more bitter blow. And dealt me by one of my own household! Children,” -his voice boomed suddenly terrible, “which of you received Radly’s -message yesterday?” - -Quentillian, in the retrospect, felt no surprise at the absence of any -competition in laying claim to the implied responsibility. - -At last Lucilla said tentatively: - -“Val? Flora?” - -“I never saw Radly at all, yesterday, nor any other day,” said Val, her -brown eyes wide open and fixed straight upon her father. - -Flora’s little, pretty face was pale and scared. - -“It wasn’t me. No one ever gave me any message.” - -Her voice trembled as though she feared to be disbelieved. - -“Owen?” said the Canon sternly. - -“No, sir.” - -“Adrian?” his voice softened. - -“No, father.” - -The Canon hardly appeared to listen to Adrian’s answer. His hand was -on the little boy’s brown curls, in the fond, half-absent, gesture -habitual to him. - -He faced the children, and his eye rested upon Owen Quentillian. - -“If any one of you,” he said sternly and slowly, “has been betrayed -into telling me a lie, understand that it is not yet too late for full -confession. Selfish heedlessness cannot be judged by its terrible -consequences, and if I spoke too strongly just now, it was out of the -depths of my own grief and shame. The forgetfulness was bad--very -bad--but that I can forgive. A lie, I can _not_ forgive. It is not too -late.” - -His face was white and terrible as he gazed with strained eyes at the -children. - -Little Flora began to cry, and Lucilla put her arm round her. - -“Understand me, children, denial is perfectly useless. I _know_ that -message was given to one of you, and that it was not delivered, and it -is simply a question of hours before I see Radly and obtain from him -the name of the child to whom the message was given. I accuse no one -of you, but I implore the culprit to speak out. Otherwise,” he hit the -table with his clenched fist, and it seemed as though lightning shot -from his blazing eyes, “otherwise I shall know that there dwells under -my roof a liar and a coward.” - -Quentillian could hear still the scorn that rang in that deep, vibrant -voice, terrifying the children. - -Not one of them spoke. - -And the Canon had gone out of the room with anguish in his eyes. - -The nursery court-martial that followed was held by Lucilla. - -“Flossie, it couldn’t have been you, because you stayed in all -yesterday with your cold. Owen and Val were out in the afternoon?” - -“We went to see the woman with the new twins,” said Val, indignantly. -“We never met anyone the whole way, did we, Owen?” - -“No.” - -Owen Quentillian had known all the time what was coming. He knew, with -the terrible, intimate knowledge of the nursery, that Adrian was the -only one of the Canon’s children who did not always speak the truth. - -Apparently Lucilla, also, knew. - -She said “Oh, Adrian,” in a troubled, imploring voice. - -“I didn’t,” said Adrian, and burst into tears. - -“I knew it was Adrian,” said little Flora. “I saw Radly coming up the -lane very fast, I saw him out of the night-nursery window, and I saw -Adrian, too. I knew it was Adrian, all the time.” - -None of the children was surprised. - -Adrian, confronted with their take-it-for-granted attitude, ceased his -mechanical denials. - -The preoccupation of them all, was Canon Morchard. - -“It’ll be less bad if you tell him yourself than if Radly does,” Owen -Quentillian pointed out. - -“Of course, it makes it much worse having told him a lie,” Val said -crudely, “but perhaps he didn’t much notice what you said. I’m sure he -thought it was Owen, all the time.” - -How much better if it had been Owen, if it had been any one of them, -save the Canon’s best-loved child, his youngest son! - -“You must come and tell him at once,” Lucilla decreed--but not -hopefully. - -“I can’t. You know what he said about a liar and a coward under his -roof.” - -Adrian cried and shivered. - -“He wasn’t angry the time I broke the clock,” said Flora. “He took me -on his knee and only just talked to me. I didn’t mind a bit.” - -“But you hadn’t told a story,” said the inexorable Val. - -They all knew that there lay the crux of the matter. - -Quentillian could see the circle of scared, perplexed faces -still--Lucilla, troubled, but unastonished, keeping a vigilant hold -on Adrian all the time, Val, frankly horrified and full of outspoken -predictions of the direst description, Flossie in tears, stroking -and fondling Adrian’s hand with the tenderest compassion. He even -visualized the pale, squarely built, little flaxen-haired boy that had -been himself. - -They could not persuade Adrian to confess. - -At last Lucilla said: “If you don’t tell him, Adrian, then I shall.” - -And so it had been, because Canon Morchard, re-entering the schoolroom, -had, with a penetration to which his children were accustomed, -instantly perceived the tears and the terror on Adrian’s face. - -“What is it, little lad? Have you hurt yourself?” - -The kind, unsuspicious concern in his voice, as he held out his hand! - -Quentillian was certain that a pause had followed the enquiry--Adrian’s -opportunity, conceded by Lucilla, even while she knew, as they all did, -that he would take no advantage of it. - -Then Lucilla had told. - -Quentillian’s thoughts went off at a tangent, dwelling for the first -time, with a certain surprised admiration, upon Lucilla’s resolute, -almost matter-of-fact performance of her painful and alarming task. - -Canon Morchard had been incredulous at first, and Lucilla had steadily -repeated, and reiterated again and again, the dreadful truth. - -A black time had followed. - -It assumed the proportions of a twelve-month, in the retrospect. Could -it have extended over a week? Strangely enough, Quentillian could not -recall the exact fate of Adrian, but he knew that the Canon first -fulminated words of wrath and scorn, and at last had actually broken -down, tears streaming down his furrowed face, and that the sight of -this unrestrained display of suffering had caused the boy Owen to creep -from the room, with the strange, sick feeling of one who had witnessed -an indecency. - -All the children except Lucilla, who indeed scarcely counted as one of -them, had avoided Canon Morchard in the ensuing days. They had crept -about the house silently, and at meals no one spoke until the Canon had -left the room. Owen Quentillian, playing with a ball in the passage -and inadvertently bouncing it against the closed study door, had been -suddenly confronted by the Canon, and the look of grief and horror -fixed upon that handsome face had rendered any spoken rebuke for levity -unnecessary. - -After all, they had left an impression, those Morchards, all of them, -Quentillian reflected. - -Lucilla had been calm, matter-of-fact, competent--perhaps a little -inhuman. Val, impetuous, noisy, inclined to defiance, yet frankly -terrified of her father. Flossie--impossible to think of her as Flora, -unless the name was uttered in the Canon’s full, deep tones--surely -the prettiest of the three, gentler than Val, less self-assured than -Lucilla, timid only with her father. Adrian, of course, did not speak -the truth. His contemporaries had known it, although Canon Morchard had -not realized the little boy’s habitual weakness. But then he had never -realized that the children were afraid of him. - -Why had they all been afraid of him? - -Quentillian decided that it must have been because of his own -phenomenal rectitude, his high standard of honour, and above all and -especially, his deep, fundamental sense of religion. - -Canon Morchard, undoubtedly, lived “in the presence of God.” Even the -little boy Owen had known that, and, thinking backwards, Quentillian -was convinced of it still. - -He felt curious to see the Canon again. David Morchard had said to him -in Mesopotamia: “Go and see him. They’ve none of them forgotten you, -and they’ll be glad of first-hand news. I’ve only been home once in -five years.” - -The shrug of his shoulders had seemed to Quentillian expressive. - -But evidently David had judged his family correctly. The Canon had -written and invited his old pupil to stay with him. - - “It will not only be joy untold to receive news of our dear lad, - David, but a real pleasure to us all to welcome you amongst us - once more. I have not forgotten my pupil of long-ago days, nor my - daughters their erstwhile playfellow. You will find all at home, - including Adrian. Dear fellow, I had hoped it was to be the Church - for him, but he has been so open, so anxious to decide the whole - important question _rightly_, that one can only leave the decision - to him in all confidence. I would not hurry him in any way, but his - brief Army days are over, thank God, and we have the untold pleasure - of having him with us now, so full of fun and high spirits, dear boy. - You, with your pre-war experience of Oxford, will perhaps be able to - talk things over with him and help him to a right and wise decision. - - “You will remember my eldest daughter, Lucilla. She is still my right - hand, mothering the younger ones, and yet finding time for all sorts - of wider interests than those afforded by her secretarial work for - me. I think that you will agree with me that Lucilla’s intellectual - abilities, had she been less of a home-bird, must have made their - mark in the world. - - “Valeria is still something of the madcap that perhaps you remember. - Her energy and enthusiasm keep us all in the best of spirits, even - though we are sometimes a little startled at the new ideas sprung - upon us. Both she and Flora worked valiantly during the terrible - war years, though I could spare neither of my darlings to leave home - for very long at a time. Valeria, however, was six months in France - at a Canteen, and I believe rendered really valuable service. Little - Flora, as I still call her, gives pleasure to us all with her music, - and our men in hospital were sharers in her gift as far as we could - manage it.” - -Quentillian took up yet another sheet of notepaper covered with small, -legible writing. It came back to him with a sense of familiarity, that -the Canon had always been an expansive and prolific writer of letters. - - “Make us a long visit, my dear boy. There are no near ones to claim - you, alas, and I should like you to remember that it was to us that - your dear father and mother first confided you when they left you - for what we then hoped was to be only a short term of years. God - saw otherwise, my dear lad, and called them unto Himself. _How_ - incomprehensible are His ways, and how, through it all, one must feel - that mysterious certainty ‘_all_ things work together for good, to - those that love Him!’ Those words have been more present to me than - I can well tell you, during the years of storm and stress. David’s - long, weary time in Mesopotamia tried one high, but when Adrian, my - Benjamin, buckled on his armour and went forth, my heart _must_ have - failed me, but for that wonderful strength that seems to bear one up - in the day of tribulation. How often have I not said to myself: ‘He - hath given His angels charge over thee ... in their hands they shall - bear thee up, lest haply thou dash thy foot against a stone!’ - - “Perhaps you will smile at this rambling letter of an almost-old - man, but I fancy that as one grows older, the need to bear testimony - becomes ever a stronger and more personal thing. His ways _are_ so - wonderful! It seems to me, for instance, a direct gift from His hand - that the Owen Quentillian to whom I gave his first Latin prose should - be returning to us once more, a distinguished young writer. I wonder - if we shall recognize you? I have so vivid a recollection of the - white hair and eyelashes that made the village boys call out, ‘Go it, - Snowball!’ as they watched your prowess on the football field! - - “Well, dear fellow, I must close this. You have only to let us know - the day and hour of your arrival, and the warmest of welcomes awaits - you. - - “I _must_ sign myself, in memory of old happy times, - - “Yours ever affectionately, - “FENWICK MORCHARD.” - -Quentillian, with great precision, folded the sheets together again. - -“So Lucilla is a home-bird, Valeria is still something of a madcap, -Flora is still ‘little Flora,’ and Adrian is a dear lad who is anxious -to decide rightly about his future career.” - -He wondered doubtfully whether he himself would come to endorse the -Canon’s opinion of the Canon’s progeny. - -And what was the Canon himself, if labels were to be thus distributed? - -The sensation of doubt in Quentillian’s mind was accentuated, but he -concluded his reflections by reminding himself, half tolerantly, and -half with a certain grimness, that the Canon was at least, according to -himself, Quentillian’s ever affectionate Fenwick Morchard. - - -(ii) - -“This is like old times,” said Quentillian. - -Lucilla Morchard smiled, shook hands with him, and made no answer, and -Quentillian immediately, and with annoyance, became conscious that the -occasion was not in the least like old times. - -Apparently Miss Morchard did not accept _clichés_ uncritically. - -Her face, indeed, expressed a spirit both critical and perceptive. -Quentillian could still trace the schoolgirl Lucilla in the -clearly-cut, unbeautiful oval, with the jaw slightly underhung, grey, -short-sighted eyes, and straight black brows. Her dark hair was folded -plainly beneath her purple straw hat, but he could discern that there -was all the old abundance of it. Her figure was tall and youthful, but -her face made her look fully her age. He surmised that Lucilla must be -thirty-five, now. - -“This time, my father _is_ here to welcome you.” - -She turned round, and Quentillian saw the Canon. - -“Ah, dear fellow! Welcome--welcome you be, indeed!” - -A hand grasped Quentillian’s hand, an arm was laid across his -shoulders, and the Canon’s full, hearty voice, very deep and musical, -rang in his ears. - -Quentillian felt inadequate. - -With all the acute self-consciousness of the modern, he was -perfectly aware that Canon Morchard’s warmth of feeling and ardour -of demonstration awoke in himself nothing but a slight, distinctly -unpleasant, sensation of gratitude, and a feeble fear of appearing as -unresponsive as he felt. - -“I think it’s the same Owen Quentillian, isn’t it?” - -The steady pressure of the Canon’s arm compelled his unwilling returned -prodigal to remain still, facing him, and submit to a scrutiny from -kind, narrowed eyes. - -“Just the same. All is well--well, indeed.” - -The Canon’s hand smote Quentillian gently between the shoulders, as -they walked down the platform. - -“The trap is waiting, dear boy. They are eager for your arrival, at -home. I have my whole goodly company awaiting you, thank God--Lucilla -here, and my merry Valeria, and little Flora with her incurably shy -ways, and my Benjamin--the youngest of the flock--Adrian. You and -Adrian must have many talks, dear lad. I want just such a friend for -him as yourself--full of youth, and fun, and merriment, as he is -himself, and yet able to help him when it comes to facing the deeper -issues--the deeper issues. You young people must have many wise, deep -talks, together, such as youth loves. I remember my University days so -well and how ‘we tired the sun with talking’--aye, Owen, your father -and I were famous philosophers, once upon a time! How does that strike -you, eh?” - -It struck Quentillian principally that his father’s contemporary -reminded him oddly of a book of late Victorian memoirs, but he did not -voice the impression aloud. - -Instead, it was a relief to him to be able to make an obvious, and -yet perfectly sincere, comment upon the unchanged aspect of the old -red-brick house, standing well away from the small town. - -“Valeria is our gardener,” said Canon Morchard. “You will be consulted -about various borders and the like, no doubt. But we have all of us an -interest in botany. You must remember that from the old days, eh? There -was a collecting craze, if I remember rightly, that led to a great deal -of friendly rivalry amongst you children.” - -Quentillian’s recollection of the collecting craze differed so -drastically from that of the Canon, that he glanced involuntarily -at Lucilla. She met his eye calmly, but he fancied a little latent -hostility in her unconsciousness. - -It rather served to confirm his impression of the extreme lack of -spontaneity that had characterized those bygone excursions into the -realms of Nature. They had been undertaken, at least by himself and -his ally and contemporary, Valeria, with one eye, as it were, upon the -Canon’s study window. Even Adrian, if Quentillian remembered rightly, -had relaxed the normal enthusiasm of boyhood in the pursuit of bird’s -eggs, after the wondrous eye for detail of the bird’s Creator had been -sufficiently often pointed out to him. - -“Welcome home,” said the Canon happily. “You remember the old -garden? I seem to recollect some capital fun going on amongst the -old rhododendron bushes at hide-and-seek, eh? We play lawn-tennis, -nowadays. I see a sett is going on now. Who is here this afternoon, -Lucilla?” - -“Captain Cuscaden is playing with Flora, and I suppose it’s Mr. Clover -in the far court.” - -“To be sure. Clover is my excellent curate, who has been one of -ourselves for several years now. Sit ye down, young people, sit ye -down. Tea will be out here directly, and the players will no doubt come -for refreshment.” - -The Canon settled himself with the deliberation of a heavily-built man, -and leant back in his wicker chair, with finger-tips joined together, -the breeze stirring the thick grey hair upon his temples. - -It was a cameo-like head, with something of the ivory colouring of -a cameo, but the cameo’s blank orbs were replaced by deeply-set, -brilliant hazel eyes of which the flashing, ardent outlook recalled at -once the child and the fanatic. Innumerable fine lines were crossed and -recrossed at the corners of either socket, but the broad forehead was -singularly open and unlined. - -Quentillian noted the feminine sweetness of the closed mouth, -contrasting with the masculine jut of the strong, prominent jaw. His -mind registered simultaneously the recollection of the Canon’s violent -and terrifying outbursts of anger, and his astonishing capabilities of -tenderness. - -The latter expression was altogether predominant, as the tennis players -came to join the group under the cedars. - -“Valeria--Flora--you need no introductions here, dear lad. Clover, -let me present my old pupil--one of whom you have very often heard -us speak--Owen Quentillian. This is my very good friend and helper. -And.... Ah, Captain Cuscaden--Mr. Quentillian.” - -Quentillian fancied less enthusiasm in this last introduction, and it -seemed to him significant that no descriptive phrase followed the name. -Either Captain Cuscaden was not worth classifying, or he could not -satisfactorily be relegated into any class, and Quentillian suspected -that Canon Morchard would resent the latter state of affairs more than -the former. - -At all events, Cuscaden was good-looking, of bold allure and sunburnt -face, revealing the most perfect of teeth in a pleasant smile. - -Mr. Clover was sandy and pale and seemed to be talkative. - -“I believe I should have known you anywhere,” Valeria Morchard told -Quentillian, frankly gazing at him. He was not sorry to have the -opportunity of gazing back as frankly at her. - -As children, the handsome or unhandsome looks of Val, his inseparable -playmate, had naturally interested him not at all. He had vaguely -acquiesced in the universal nursery dictum that Flora, with her fair -curls and wide, innocent eyes, was pretty, but he now found her blond -slenderness insignificant in the extreme compared to Valeria, with -her tall and perfectly balanced figure, ripe-apricot bloom, and brown -laughing eyes. No longer a very young girl, she somehow combined the -poise of her twenty-seven years with a shy, semi-abruptness of diction -reminiscent of seventeen. - -Quentillian thought her charming. - -So, apparently, did the other men. - -“And who bore off the palm of victory?” - -Canon Morchard indicated the tennis court. - -“We won, at five games all. A very good sett,” Clover replied. “My -partner’s service is almost invincible.” - -Canon Morchard smiled. - -“We think Valeria’s service is her strong point,” he explained to -Quentillian. “She was coached by our dear David, and David is no mean -player, I assure you. Little Flora needs to stand up to the ball -better--stand up to the ball better. Flora has the feminine tendency to -hit out too soon--eh, Flora? Our champion is Adrian, however. You and -he will have some great contests, I foresee.” - -The more the Canon foresaw, the more did Quentillian’s own aspirations -turn in search of contrary directions. The only diversion of those -predicted by his host, of which he felt able to tolerate the thought, -was that of being consulted by Valeria upon the herbaceous borders. - -“Clover, there, has a particularly good stroke on to the back line, -but you’ll get to know it. Have you played at all since you left the -’Varsity?” - -“I got a good deal of tennis when I was home on leave in -nineteen-sixteen, but nothing after that, when I was in Mesopotamia.” - -“Were you not in Flanders, dear boy?” - -“In ’fifteen and ’sixteen,” said Quentillian briefly. - -He wished to remember neither his two years on the Western front, nor -his many months in Hospital with shell-shock. - -“Where did you and David meet, in Mesopotamia?” inquired Lucilla. - -Quentillian had forgotten her presence, if not her existence, but he -felt grateful to her for sparing him the tentative category of his -soldiering capabilities which he suspected the Canon of having in -readiness. - -He was not, however, given time to answer Lucilla’s question. - -The Canon’s hand was uplifted. - -“Ah, Lucilla my dear--please! My little talk with Owen there, is to -come later. There is so much that I want to hear about our David--much, -indeed. And you shall have your share of news about your brother, my -child, but wait--at least wait--until we have had our little private -talk together.” - -Lucilla bent her head a little under the rebuke either in acquiescence -or to conceal some slight confusion; but Valeria blushed hotly and -unmistakably, and everyone looked constrained except the Canon, who -looked rather severe, rather grieved, and at the same time perfectly -serene. When he spoke again, it was with marked suavity. - -“Tell us something of your literary work, dear fellow,” he requested -Quentillian. “I am ashamed to say that I have read nothing of yours, as -yet. My time is so little my own. Lucilla here is our literary critic.” - -He placed his thin, beautiful hand, for a fleeting moment upon his -eldest daughter’s hand. - -“Lucilla tells me that she knows your work. Critical essays, is it?” - -“Yes, sir.” - -Quentillian gravely acknowledged the truth of the assertion. His -self-consciousness rather enhanced than diminished in him a keen -appraisement, perhaps rather less detached than he would have liked it -to be, of his own literary value. - -“I published a small volume of essays before the war, but since then -I have only been a very occasional contributor to one or two of the -reviews.” - -“Ah, yes. You must let me see what you have done, some day. This is the -era of youth. Indeed, some of the things I see in print today strike -me as not only crude and immature, but absolutely mischievous--false, -foolish, shallow teaching from those who have never submitted to -be taught themselves. I am not afraid of that in your case, Owen. -But remember this, all you young people: Nothing can be of real -or lasting value that is not founded upon the broad principles of -Christianity--charity, self-sacrifice, humility, loving-kindness. One -feels that, more than ever, nowadays, when cynicism is so much in -fashion.” - -The Canon leant back in his chair again with his eyes closed, as though -momentarily exhausted by the extraordinary passion with which he had -spoken. - -So profoundly did Owen Quentillian disagree with his host, that he -remained absolutely silent. He reminded himself that since his majority -he had sought, voluntarily, only the companionship of those whose -views were at least as progressive as his own. He had almost forgotten -that those other, older, views existed, were held with a passion -of sincerity contrasting oddly with the cool, detached, carefully -impersonal logic that was the only attitude contemplated by himself -and his kind for the consideration of all problems of ethics, morals, -or of Life itself. - -No doubt the Canon did not admit the normal evolution of the art of -self-sacrifice to be self-advertisement, and held the officious pelican -to be the best of birds. - -Quentillian, horribly aware of his own priggishness, wanted to reform -the whole of the Canon’s philosophy at once. - -Nevertheless he retained enough humour to hope that the preposterous -desire had not been apparent in his silence. - -His eyes met those of Valeria Morchard, and read there amusement, and -something not unlike protest. - -Lucilla, in her level voice, offered him tea. - -“The cup that cheers,” said Mr. Clover in a nervous way. - -The ineptitude roused in Quentillian a disproportionate sense of -irritation and renewed his old conviction that his nerves were not even -yet under his complete control. - -As though the Canon, too, were mildly averse from such trivialities, he -began to speak again. - -“What one feels in the cleverness of the day is the note of ugliness -that prevails. Do you not feel that? The sordid, the grotesque, the -painful--all, all sought out and dwelt upon. That, we are told, is the -new realism. We know, indeed, that there is a sad side to life, but is -it realism to dwell only upon one side of the picture? Surely, surely, -a sane optimism were the better outlook--the truer realism.” - -“You don’t think, then, that the optimism of England is responsible for -her present plight, sir?” - -Quentillian’s tone was one of respectful suggestion, but he was aware -that Val, beside him, had suddenly caught her breath as though at an -audacity, and that Flora and Mr. Clover were both gazing anxiously at -the Canon. - -A flash of lightning shot from those ardent eyes straight into the -passionless irony of the younger man’s. - -“But for England’s optimism, there would be no England today. It was -the spirit of optimism that won the war, Owen.” - -A sick recollection of men, armed and disciplined, taking steady aim at -other men, standing against a wall to be shot for cowardice or treason, -of grey-faced commanders leading those who followed them into certain -death, all surged into Quentillian’s rebellious mind. They, the men who -had been there, had known better than to prate of optimism. - -They had faced facts, had anticipated disaster, had envisaged the worst -possibilities, and their pessimism had won the war. - -“Are you, too, bitten with the folly of the day?” - -The Canon’s voice was gentle again, his arm once more laid across -Quentillian’s shoulders. - -“Did I not hear something about shell-shock, dear fellow? We must have -no talk of the war here. Thank God for that He hath brought it to an -end. Tell me, dear lad, will you play tennis?” - -Bewildered, almost affronted, Quentillian yet agreed to play tennis, -feeling himself more like a forward boy, being treated with -forbearance, than like a modern intellect illuminating the way of -thought for the older generation. - -He played with Valeria as his partner, and found the Canon’s eulogy of -her service to be entirely justified. - -He found an opportunity at the end of the game of expressing his -admiration for her play, and she replied, conventionally enough, that -she had a great deal of practice. - -“There isn’t much else to do,” she added, with a slight grimace. - -Under pretext of looking for a distant ball, they continued the -conversation. - -“If you remember this place at all,” Val said, “you know how dull it -is. Just tennis in the summer, and horrible bazaars and jumble sales, -and never a new person or a new idea from year’s end to year’s end.” - -“It sounds appalling. But, after all, you’re not bound, in the old, -antiquated way. You can go away.” - -“No I can’t,” she said bluntly. “I did get to France, for six months, -during the war, but it was only _because_ it was the war. And even -then--oh, well, the sort of letters I got were enough to make me feel -that Father really hated my being there.” - -Quentillian was genuinely aghast. - -“But I thought that sort of attitude had gone out with all the other -Victorian traditions. I thought women did what they liked--were as free -as men.” - -“That’s what it says in the books I read, and what some of the -girls I met in France told me. But it isn’t like that here. And -one _can’t_ hurt Father. You know what he’s like--so good, and so -sensitive, and--and so noble, somehow. He makes modern things seem -trivial--vulgar, even.” - -“Your father is a reactionary,” said Quentillian kindly, rather as one -might say: “Your father is a Hottentot.” - -“You mustn’t think that he just wants us to stay at home and arrange -the flowers,” Val said. “You know how he always wanted us to have -intellectual interests. Oh, Owen, don’t you remember the collections?” - -She broke off, and blushed and laughed. - -“It seems so very natural--I’ve so often thought of you as Owen.” - -“That was very nice of you, Val,” said Quentillian calmly. - -He had every intention of retaining his early privileges, where Val was -concerned. - -“I should like to read some of the things you’ve written,” she said -abruptly. “Lucilla reads your articles, and has always admired them.” - -It seemed to Quentillian so extremely natural that anybody who read -his articles should admire them, that he was conscious of receiving a -slight shock when Valeria added: - -“I gather that Father wouldn’t like them at all. Lucilla always kept -them out of his way.” - -“She is devoted to him, I can see that.” - -“Yes, of course.” - -Something in her voice made him look at her, and she exclaimed, half -laughing and half petulant: “We’re all devoted to him, Lucilla and -Flossie and I! I didn’t mean the least shadow of a criticism of _him_. -Only that it’s a little difficult, sometimes, to keep up to his level.” - -It seemed to Quentillian so monstrous a state of affairs that the -Canon’s three daughters should have no worthier aim in life than the -one implied, that something of his feeling was reflected in his face, -and Valeria on the instant applied herself to looking for the missing -ball, found it, and returned to the tea-table and the group there. - -The Canon was again speaking, this time to young Cuscaden. - -“If it is to be Canada, I believe I could give you one or two -introductions that might be of service to you. The Government people, -for instance.... I have one or two very good friends amongst them. You -are really anxious to leave the Army and try colonization?” - -“Quite determined to, sir.” - -“Ah, you young fellows, you young fellows! It seems to me that there is -none of the spirit of stability that existed in our day! But perhaps -the wish to see further afield is a natural one. Certainly, my own -greatest regret is that I have had so little time for travelling.” - -He turned to Lucilla. - -“Your dearest mother and I had planned a visit to Italy the very year -that she was taken from us. Well, well! It was not to be. I shall never -see the Eternal City now, I imagine, except with the eyes of the mind. -Clover, you are amongst those who have seen Rome. Think of it! Seen -Rome, where Peter healed and Paul preached the Gospel, where Laurence -and Agnes and Cyprian and countless others were martyred! Tell us -something of the Coliseum.” - -Mr. Clover did not give the effect of being an eloquent person, but he -had evidently been called upon before by the Canon, and he gave a not -unilluminating little description, punctuated, and indeed supplemented, -by Canon Morchard’s exhaustive comments. - -Quentillian listened in a sort of amazement, not at all untinged by a -rather uncertain wonder as to how he should ever sustain his own part -in these ingenuous conversations.... - -The others, he saw, listened, with the possible exception of Lucilla, -whose eyes were fixed upon a distant flower-bed. - -Captain Cuscaden kept his gaze upon Valeria, but he put in an -occasional question, generally upon a subject of architecture. Flora -played with a leaf and said nothing at all, and Val, unconsciously, -Quentillian felt sure, repeated everything her father said in more -colloquial English. - -“It amazes me to realize that with a lack of all our modern appliances, -such veritable giants of architecture should yet have been raised,” -mused the Canon. - -“Yes, isn’t it wonderful to think they had none of our machines and -things, and yet made those enormous statues and gates and things?” said -Val. - -“Well for us, indeed, that they did so, my child. Every fresh -excavation proves to be a new link with the past.” - -“Yes, indeed,” said Mr. Clover. - -“Yes, all the new things they dig up seem to make a fresh link with -those old Roman days,” echoed Val faithfully. - -“Yes, indeed,” said Mr. Clover. - -“If any of you young people followed the accounts of the recent -Egyptian excavations--Valeria, I think you are our keenest -antiquarian--were you not struck by the extraordinary confirmation of -Scripture narrative afforded by each fresh discovery?” - -This time Mr. Clover only said “Indeed?” and Valeria repeated: - -“Yes, it all carried out the things one reads in the Bible, didn’t it?” - -“We required no such confirmation, certainly, but it comes to one as a -fresh joy, and brings these things home with full force.” - -And Mr. Clover, with what Quentillian perversely chose to regard as -misplaced ingenuity, once more found a variation of his formula, and -remarked, “Indeed, yes.” - -On these lines they talked about Egypt. - -Then they talked about Rome again. - -Then they went back to Egypt. - -Quentillian looked at the rebellious profile beneath Val’s shady hat, -and came to the conclusion that, whether she fully realized it or not, -she was as profoundly bored as himself. - -It was Captain Cuscaden who released them from the strain, by rising to -take his leave. - -“I’m sorry you have not seen Adrian. He will be disappointed to have -missed you,” Canon Morchard said courteously. “Another day, when Adrian -is at home, you must come over again. He is spending the afternoon -with friends at a distance, and will hardly be home before dinner-time. -You must come over again.” - -“Thank you, sir. I should like to very much.” - -Something in the Captain’s prompt reply convinced Quentillian that his -acceptance was not merely a conventional one. - -“Your motor-bicycle is round by the hall door,” said Valeria, and she -and Captain Cuscaden left the garden together. - -“And now, dear lad, you and I must have some talk together.” - -Rather to Quentillian’s dismay, the firm and genial pronouncement of -his host seemed to have been anticipated. Lucilla could be discerned -bending over the distant flower-bed which had been the object of her -solicitation during the talk about Rome, and Flora had disappeared. Mr. -Clover now turned and hastened towards the house. - -“You and I have had our heart-to-heart talks before now, Owen,” said -the Canon affectionately. “We must have many more of them, dear -fellow--many more.” - - -(iii) - -The natural instinct of Quentillian, as of everybody else, was to -suppose that a heart-to-heart talk must necessarily be upon the subject -of himself. - -He was therefore slightly disconcerted, though also undoubtedly -relieved, when he perceived that the Canon’s thoughts were only -preoccupied with his own two sons. - -They disposed of David with a rapidity that was partly due to -Quentillian’s own determined uncommunicativeness, and partly to the -Canon’s evident anxiety to get on to the topic of Adrian. - -“I wish David had been able to come home before returning to India, -but no doubt these things are ordered for us. He writes fondly and -affectionately, dear boy--fondly and affectionately. Not as often as I -could wish, perhaps, but the young are thoughtless. It costs so little -to send one line to those who are anxiously waiting and watching at -home! Well, well--it has been a great joy to hear that the dear fellow -is his own bright self. And his faith, Owen? Is all well there? Did he -say anything to you of that?” - -“No, sir.” - -The Canon sighed. - -“Perhaps it was not to be expected. You of the present generation do -not discuss these things as we did. Even at Oxford, I am told, the men -no longer preoccupy themselves with such questions in the same way.” - -“Some do, sir,” said Quentillian, beginning to feel rather sorry for -the Canon. - -The Canon, however, received Quentillian’s consolatory effort very much -at its true worth. - -“Some do, perhaps, as you say, but they are not those from whom any -very valuable contribution to the problems of the times is to be -expected. The tone of Oxford is not what it was, Owen--not what it was. -It lessens my disappointment at not sending Adrian there, to find an -Alma Mater indeed, as his father before him. One had always thought of -the Church for him, dear boy, but these things cannot be forced. His -soldiering seems to have put an end to any leanings that way. Adrian is -one reason, amongst many others, why I am glad to welcome you amongst -us, Owen. He may find it easier to discuss things with a contemporary,” -said the Canon wistfully. “Your own destiny, I imagine, is sealed?” - -Quentillian assented, although he had thought of the very small -property recently inherited by himself in no such grandiloquent terms. - -“When do you take possession of your kingdom?” - -“In a few months, sir. The place was let during my uncle’s lifetime, -and there are repairs to be done before I go there. I intend to live -there, and try my hand at farming.” - -He purposely omitted any mention of his writing. - -“Good--good--excellent indeed. And we shall not be very distant -neighbours, eh?” - -“Just the other side of the county, sir. I should like to go over there -from here, if you’re kind enough to put up with me for two or three -days.” - -“By all means, of course--but let there be no talk of two or three -days, Owen, between you and me. Make this your headquarters; come and -go quite freely, as one of ourselves. We have always thought of you as -one of ourselves,” said the Canon warmly. “I think you have no very -close ties, this side of the Great Division?” - -“Thank you very much indeed,” said Quentillian, feeling unable to -accept the Great Division even by implication, but sincerely grateful -for the Canon’s most genuine and spontaneous kindness. - -“It’s more than good of you to receive me so kindly, and I shall be -only too glad to take you at your word.” - -He wished that his self-consciousness had allowed him to make this -speech without a perfectly clear realization that he only did so -because the normal economy of expression habitual to him would have -left the elder man dissatisfied. - -As it was, the Canon’s arm was, for the second time that day, -affectionately laid across Quentillian’s shoulders, and thus they paced -the garden and eventually entered the house, to the extreme relief of -the Canon’s unresponsive prop. - -“Your room, dear Owen. Lucilla is my housekeeper. Ask her for anything -you want,” said the Canon, carrying Quentillian back to his ninth year, -and almost making him expect to hear next that Valeria was the Canon’s -tomboy. - -No such inapposite piece of information followed, and Quentillian -expressed his pleasure at the very charming room in which he found -himself. - -“Make it your own, dear lad, for as long as you will,” and, as though -irrepressibly, the Canon added as he closed the door: “Bless you.” - -At dinner, Quentillian saw Adrian Morchard. He thought him very like -his sister Val, and also very like the little boy who had rehearsed -aloud colours for each day of the week. - -Adrian spoke of Quentillian’s writings, said that he had read some of -them, and was instantly and silently disbelieved by the author. The -subject was not pursued. - -In the drawing-room, later on in the evening, Flora played the piano, -and although Quentillian was no musician, he had sufficient knowledge -to understand that Flora was one. She played Bach, at the Canon’s -request, and Debussy at Adrian’s. The Canon admitted, with a slight, -grave smile, that he did not admire Debussy. - -Valeria occupied herself with needlework, but Lucilla sat with her -hands folded until her father said gently: - -“Are we to see none of your great tomes tonight, my dear?” - -Lucilla rose, and her father explained to the guest: - -“There are certain references for a small compilation that I may one -day attempt, which Lucilla is kindly looking out for me. You remember -her as a very scholarly little girl, no doubt.” - -The nearest thing Quentillian could compass to this was a very distinct -remembrance of having listened to several of the novels of Sir Walter -Scott, read aloud by Lucilla, and the Canon looked very much pleased at -the reminiscence. - -“We are not without our literary evenings now,” he declared. “There -have been some very pleasant readings and discussions round the lamp -on winter evenings. Lucilla provides me with some absorbing book, and -Valeria has her strip of embroidery there, and Flora is busy with her -pencil. I enjoy a pleasant evening of reading aloud.” - -The present occasion was not, however, one of reading aloud; -nevertheless, Quentillian had none of the talk with Valeria that he had -half-hoped to have. - -The Canon’s attitude towards his family circle was patriarchal. He sat -in an armchair and talked a great deal to Quentillian, and his eyes -rested with grave satisfaction upon his children, grouped round him. - -They remained there until half-past nine, when the Canon read prayers -to the assembled household. - -“We break up early,” he said afterwards to Quentillian. “Lucilla and -I have work to do--she is always my right hand. Valeria and Flora, I -believe, discuss mysterious questions of _chiffons_ upstairs. Don’t -prolong the conference too late, though, my dears. I heard voices last -night as I came upstairs, which was not as it should be--not as it -should be. Owen, dear boy, Adrian will look after you. Good-night to -you all.” - -The Canon kissed Val and Flora each on the forehead and laid his hand -for an instant upon either head with a murmur that was evidently an -habitual nightly blessing. - -Then he went into his study with Lucilla, and Adrian and Quentillian -sat in the smoking-room making desultory conversation that bore not -the slightest resemblance to the wise, deep talks of the Canon’s -forecastings. - -The forecastings of the Canon, in fact, like those of many other -dominating personalities, were scrupulously carried out in his -presence, and thankfully allowed to lapse in his absence. - -As of old, it was only Lucilla who was completely at ease in her -father’s company, and Quentillian presently came to the conclusion that -her silence, her unemotional acquiescences, denoted a mind that was -merely a reflection of his. - -Flora, remote, gentle, preoccupied with her music, gave him the odd -illusion of being slightly withdrawn from them all. - -Only in Valeria were to be discerned suppressed, but unmistakable, -flashes of rebellion, and with Valeria, Quentillian, as usual -scrutinizing his own impressions under a microscope, presently -suspected himself of falling quietly in love. - -In common with most young men of his day, Quentillian considered -himself to have outlived passion. In effect, the absorbing episode of -his young manhood was in fact over, and Val, ingenuous and beautiful, -was provocative of the normal reaction. - -One night she joined Adrian and Quentillian in the smoking-room, after -the Canon’s usual disappearance into his study. - -With a look half-frightened and half-mischievous, she lit a cigarette. - -Adrian laughed. - -“Don’t look so guilty, Val. It isn’t a crime, and besides, no one will -know.” - -Val coloured in a childish way, and said to Quentillian: - -“My father knows that I smoke--at least, I think he knows, in a sort of -way. He doesn’t like it, and that’s why I don’t do it in front of him,” -she concluded naïvely. - -“You’re wrong, Val,” said Adrian. “You and Flossie ought to assert -yourselves more. It would make it much easier for me, if you did. -Father’s ideas about women are so old-fashioned, one can’t introduce -him to any of one’s friends.” - -Quentillian exchanged a glance with Valeria. It required small acumen -to translate the plurality of Adrian’s “friends” into the singular, and -the feminine singular at that. - -“Father is very broad-minded,” said Valeria conscientiously. “He never -says that smoking is wrong; only that it’s unfeminine.” - -“It isn’t anything of the sort,” Adrian declared with the most -astonishing violence. “Some people--girls--require it for their nerves. -It soothes them. It doesn’t make them in the least unfeminine. I met a -girl the other day--you’d have liked her awfully, Val--and she simply -smoked _perfectly_ naturally, the whole time, just like a man.” - -“Who was she?” inquired Val smoothly. - -“Let me see--what was her name now?” - -This time Quentillian avoided Valeria’s eyes, positively abashed by the -extreme hollowness of Adrian’s pretence at forgetfulness. - -“Oh, yes--Olga Duffle--Miss Olga Duffle. She is staying with the -Admastons--the people I was with the day you arrived, Owen. Don’t you -think you girls might ask them all over to tennis, one of these days?” - -“I suppose so--yes, of course we will. Would Father like Miss Duffle? -He doesn’t much care for the Admastons, does he?” - -“Absolute prejudice, my dear girl. You’ve got into a rut, all you -people down here--that’s what you’ve done. You’d like Olga most -awfully--everybody does. She’s the most popular girl in London, and not -a bit spoilt, although she’s an only child and her people adore her. -Mrs. Duffle told me herself that Olga was just like a ray of sunshine -at home.” - -“What an original woman Mrs. Duffle must be,” murmured Val. - -“I always think there must be something remarkable about any girl, -if her own nearest relations speak well of her,” Quentillian said in -detached accents. - -Adrian looked suspiciously at his audience. - -“You’d like Olga awfully,” he repeated rather pathetically. “And I can -tell you this, Val, she’d give you and Flossie no end of hints about -clothes and things. She dresses better than any girl I’ve ever seen.” - -Valeria was roused to no display of enthusiasm by this culminating -claim of Miss Duffle on her regard. - -“What sort of age is she?” - -“She looks about eighteen, but I believe she’s twenty-four and a bit,” -said Adrian with some precision. “She plays tennis, too, rippingly. -You’d better ask the Admastons to bring her over, I can tell you. It -isn’t everyone who gets the chance of playing with a girl like that.” - -“We might have a tennis party next week,” Val considered. “I shall only -ask one Admaston girl; we’ve too many girls as it is. One Admaston, and -this Olga person, and Lucilla and I--Flossie won’t play if anybody very -good is there. That’s four, and then you and Owen and Mr. Clover--and -we could have Captain Cuscaden. I’ll talk to Lucilla about it, if you -like, Adrian.” - -“Oh, I don’t care about it. It’s for your own sake, really, that I -suggested it,” Adrian explained. - -His forefinger carefully traced out the pattern stamped upon the -leather arm of his chair, and he contemplated it earnestly with his -head upon one side, even murmuring a sub-audible--“One--two--three--and -a corner”--before clearing his throat. - -“H’m. No, my dear Val, don’t run away with the idea that I’m wildly -keen on this tennis stunt for my own amusement. In fact, I may say I’ve -been a bit off tennis lately, simply from seeing how extraordinarily -good some amateurs can be. It discourages one, in a way. But I thought -you girls might like to know Olga, I must say. She’d be an awfully nice -friend for you to have, you know.” - -There was a pleading note discernible in the tone of Adrian’s -philanthropic suggestions that might have been partly accountable for -the tolerance with which his sister received them. - -Nevertheless, she said to Quentillian next day, with a certain hint of -apology: - -“We’ve spoilt Adrian, I’m afraid. You remember what a dear little boy -he was?” - -Quentillian remembered better still what a tiresome little boy Adrian -had been, but this recollection, as so many others connected with the -house of Morchard, he did not insist upon. - -“I suppose he must have his Olga if he wants to, but I hope she’s a -nice girl. You know how very particular Father is, and I think he’s -especially sensitive where Adrian is concerned.” - -“It struck me that perhaps he was almost inclined to take Adrian’s -affairs too seriously,” Quentillian suggested, with great moderation. -“Adrian, after all, is very young, isn’t he, both in years and in -character, in spite of his soldiering?” - -“I suppose he is. He’s very susceptible, too. I sometimes think that -Father doesn’t altogether make allowance for that.” - -Even the very negative criticism implied was so contrary to the -spirit of the house that it gave Quentillian the agreeable illusion -of partnering Valeria in a mild domestic conspiracy, and pleased him -inordinately. - -The sense of conspiracy was deepened on the day of the tennis party, -when a Miss Admaston, gawky and unimpressive, duly escorted Miss Olga -Duffle to St. Gwenllian. - -She was less pretty, and possessed of more personality, than -Quentillian had expected. Very small and slight, her face was of the -squirrel type, her eyes very large and dark, her black _crêpe_ hair -brushed childishly away from her little round forehead, her nose -unmistakably _retroussé_. Two very white front teeth were just visible, -resting upon an habitually indrawn under-lip. - -Quentillian, quite irrationally, immediately felt certain that she -spoke with a lisp. She did not, but she certainly pronounced the name -of Captain George Cuscaden, with whom she appeared to be upon intimate -terms, as though it were spelt “Dzorze.” - -She also called Adrian by his first name, but gave no other startling -signs of modernity. Indeed, a very pretty, and most unmodern, deference -marked her manner towards Canon Morchard. - -“Father likes her,” Valeria murmured to Quentillian, who was more -concerned with her charming air of imparting to him a secret than with -Miss Duffle’s conquest of the Canon. - -It was only at tea-time that the Canon joined the tennis party. -Immediately afterwards he made courteous apologies and returned to the -house. - -It was undeniable that the absence of the Canon caused the -conversation, which had circled uneasily round cathedral subjects, to -lapse into triviality. The super-critical Quentillian could not decide -which form of social intercourse he found least to his taste. - -“Jam?” said Adrian. - -The Canon had said, a few minutes earlier: - -“You must try some of our strawberry jam, Miss Duffle. My daughter -Flora is responsible for it, I believe. Lucilla there is our -housekeeper, but I am given to understand that her younger sisters are -allowed to try experiments. I will not quote: _Fiat experimentum._” - -“Jam?” repeated Adrian. - -“Oh, there’s a wasp in the jam! Oh, save me!” - -Olga laughed as she uttered little cries of alarm, and her laughter -really suggested the adjective “merry.” - -“Save the women and children!” - -There was much ineffectual slapping of teaspoons against the air, the -tablecloth, the jam pot, and many exclamations. - -“Yonder he goes! Passed to you for necessary action, Miss Admaston!” - -“Be a man, Cuscaden; he’s right under your nose.” - -“Dzorze, do be careful--you’ll get stung!” Olga cried across the table. - -Captain Cuscaden neatly captured the wasp beneath an empty plate. - -“That’s got him. He’ll never lift up his head again.” - -“Oh, then may I have my jam?” - -Olga, with her head on one side, might have been imitating a little -girl, but Quentillian could not decide whether or no the imitation was -an unconscious one. - -“The wasp has eaten all the jam,” Adrian rejoined in the same tone as -Olga’s. - -“Oh! he hasn’t eaten all of it.” - -“No, he hasn’t eaten it all.” - -“Oh! the wasp didn’t eat all the jam, did he?” - -“Not quite all.” - -“There are still a few spoonfuls left that the wasp didn’t eat, Miss -Duffle.” - -Neither Olga, Adrian, Captain Cuscaden, Flora nor Miss Admaston -appeared to regard themselves as being amongst the extremest examples -of brainless fatuity produced by a fatuous century. Yet thus it was -that Owen Quentillian was regarding them, whilst at the same time -another section of his brain passionlessly registered the conviction -that his nerves were still on edge and his tendency to irrational -irritability passing almost beyond his own control. - -After tea he remained idly in a long chair beside Valeria, while they -watched Olga’s little nimble figure on the tennis court, where Adrian -was her partner. Lucilla played against them with George Cuscaden, and -Olga several times called out gaily: “Dzorze, I hate you!” - -When Lucilla sent an unplayable stroke across the net, she only cried: -“Oh, well played!” - -“I don’t like her voice, do you?” Val murmured confidentially. - -“Hideous,” said Quentillian, briefly and candidly. - -“I wonder if Adrian thinks he’s in earnest. Of course, I don’t suppose -she’d look at him. And of course he couldn’t think of marrying anybody -for ages. He’s too young, and he’d have to get a job.” - -“He’ll have to do that anyway, won’t he? He says he doesn’t dislike the -idea of business, and I could give him an introduction to a man who -might be useful.” - -“It’s very kind of you. I know Father wants to get him settled. Dear -Father, he was so disappointed that Adrian isn’t going into the Church -after all, and he’s taken it so beautifully.” - -Quentillian regarded the Canon’s disappointment with so much more -astonishment than sympathy that he wished only to avoid a discussion on -the beauty of its manifestation. - -“Curiously enough, I have a living in my gift, belonging to my very -small property at Stear. The old man there wishes to retire, and I want -to consult your father as to a new appointment. No one could be less -fitted than myself,” said Quentillian with an emphasis not altogether -devoid of satisfaction, “to nominate a candidate for that sort of -thing.” - -Val looked at him with all her peculiar directness of gaze. - -“Sometimes you talk as though you rather despised the Church,” she said -bluntly. - -There was a pause. - -“If I have given you such an impression, I must apologize. It was most -discourteous of me,” said Quentillian stiffly. - -He was fully prepared to acknowledge and to defend his own purely -rationalistic views, but the implication of a lack of taste in his -behaviour as guest in an orthodox household offended him. - -“I didn’t mean that,” said Val, calmly and gravely. “I know that a -great many very clever people are not believers in the sense that my -father is one, for instance; but they do respect the Christian ideal, -all the same. I only wondered whether you were one of them. Do you mind -my talking like this?” - -The relentless voice of Quentillian’s inner monitor assured him that -he was, on the contrary, ready to welcome any intimate discussion of -himself and his views, on whatever subject. - -Val looked at him expectantly. - -“Where I differ from, for instance, your father, is in separating -Christian morality from what might be called the miraculous element of -Christianity. Frankly, I can’t accept the latter.” - -“You don’t believe in the divinity of Christ?” - -Her voice was a very much shocked one, and Quentillian replied only by -a gesture. Val kept silence, and presently he glanced at her face and -saw that tears stood in her eyes. - -He was half touched and half impatient. - -“Surely that point of view isn’t altogether a new one to you. You -must know that the trend of modern thought is all very much in that -direction.” - -“I suppose I knew it, certainly. But it has never come very near me -before. Father has sheltered us from everything, in the most beautiful -way.” - -She spoke very simply and sincerely. - -The time-honoured _cliché_ as to never wishing to deprive anyone of his -or her faith--Valeria least of all--hung unspoken on his lips. - -If the spiritual intimacy of which Owen Quentillian was beginning -to dream should come to pass between them, he was quite clearly and -definitely convinced that Valeria’s early beliefs must go. - -“Have you really never felt any doubt at all--any inclination to -question?” - -Valeria looked troubled. - -“I suppose I’ve never thought it out very clearly. One doesn’t, you -know, brought up as we were.” - -Her eyes were full of thought. - -“Tell me,” said Quentillian gently, after a silence. - -“I was hoping,” said Val, with innocent eyes turned full upon him, -“that Father would never know about you. It would make him so unhappy.” - - -(iv) - -Val, in accordance with time-honoured tradition, nightly brushed out -her long brown hair in her sister Flora’s bedroom. - -They talked desultorily. - -“Choir practice tomorrow. I wish we could have Plain Chant instead of -those things....” - -“Father doesn’t care for Plain Chant.” - -“I know.” - -“Give me a piece of ribbon, Flossie. I’ve lost all mine.” - -“Val--here, will blue do?--Val, do you think Owen is falling in love -with you?” - -“I don’t know. Well, to be honest, I think he is.” - -“So do I.” - -“That’s Lucilla going up to bed. How early they are tonight.” - -They heard the Canon’s voice upon the stairs outside. - -“Good-night to you, my dear daughter. May God have you in His keeping!” - -Then came a gentle tap upon the bedroom door. - -“Not _too_ prolonged a conference, little girls! I have sent Lucilla to -seek her bed.” - -“Good-night, father,” they chorused. - -“Good-night to you, my dear children. Good-night, and may God bless -you.” - -“Father would be pleased.” - -Flora reverted, unmistakably, to the topic of Owen Quentillian. - -“I suppose so,” said Val doubtfully. - -“But you know he would! He is delighted with Owen, and it would be so -close to us--only an hour’s journey. I think it would be very nice, -Val,” said Flora wistfully, “and it’s time one of us got married. -Lucilla won’t, now, and nobody ever asks me, so it had better be you.” - -They both laughed. - -“Nobody has ever asked _me_, except that curate we had before Mr. -Clover, and I always thought he was more or less weak-minded,” Valeria -remarked candidly. - -“They may not have asked you, but they’ve wanted to,” said Flora -shrewdly. “Don’t answer if you’d rather not, but didn’t Captain -Cuscaden ever...?” - -Val crimsoned suddenly. - -“No. That was all nonsense. I believe he’s in love with that Olga girl.” - -“After you? Oh, Val!” - -“I don’t suppose it was ever me at all,” said Val with averted head. -“I can’t think why we’ve ever imagined such nonsense. Anyway, it’s all -over now, and I--I think I rather hate him, now.” - -“Oh!” Flora’s tone was both highly dissatisfied and rather incredulous. - -“One can’t hate a person and--and like them, at one and the same time,” -Valeria exclaimed, with all the vehemence of those who affirm that of -which they are not convinced. - -“I suppose not. See if you can untie me, Val--I’ve got into a knot.” - -There was silence, and then Valeria, without looking at her sister, -suddenly said: - -“Sometimes I wish we’d been brought up more like other people, Flossie. -I know Father’s care for us has been beautiful--dear Father!--but -somehow the girls I was with in France seemed more alive, in a way. -They knew about things....” - -“Isn’t that rather like Eve wanting the knowledge of good and -evil? Father always says that one should only seek the beautiful -side--‘whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are holy,’ like -St. Paul says.” - -“Owen wouldn’t agree to that. He believes that one ought to know -everything, good and bad alike.” - -“Perhaps it’s different for a man.” - -“Perhaps. We don’t know much about men, after all, do we, Flossie?” - -Flossie raised her eyebrows with an indescribable effect of fastidious -distaste, and closed her lips. - -“I don’t think I want to, particularly. Father is the most wonderful -man that anyone could ever want to know, I should imagine.” - -“Oh, yes,” said Valeria. - -She was perfectly conscious of speaking anything but whole-heartedly. - -She did indeed think her father wonderful, but she could not, like -Flora, feel herself to be forever satisfied by the contemplation of -parental wonderfulness. - -“You’re different since you came back from France, Val. I think you’d -better marry Owen,” said Flora calmly. - -“He hasn’t asked me, yet.” - -There was a sound from the floor below. - -“That was Father! He hates us to sit up late. I’d better go before he -comes up again. Good-night, Flossie.” - -“Good-night.” - -Flora looked at her sister, and once more murmured: “Father would like -it, you know,” half pleadingly and half as though in rebuke. - -“Father doesn’t know everything about Owen. He has been very much -affected by the tone of the day, as Father calls it. His faith....” - -“Oh, Val! Isn’t that one reason the more? You might do so much to help -him.” - -Flora spoke with humourless and absolute earnestness. - -“Valeria!” - -The Canon’s voice, subdued but distinct, came to them from without. - -“My dear, go to your room. This is not right. You are acting in -defiance of my known wishes, although, no doubt, thoughtlessly. Bid -your sister good-night and go.” - -Val did not even wait to carry out the first half of the Canon’s -injunction. She caught up her brush and comb and left the room. - -“Are my wishes so little to you, Valeria?” said her father, standing on -the stairs. “It costs so small an act of self-sacrifice to be faithful -in that which is least!” - -“I’m sorry, Father. We both forgot the time.” - -“Thoughtless Valeria! Are you always to be my madcap daughter?” - -His tone was very fond, and he kissed her and blessed her once more. - -Valeria went to her own room. - -She sat upon the side of her bed and cried a little. - -Everything seemed to be vaguely disappointing and unsatisfactory. What -if Owen Quentillian was in love with her? He was very clever, and Val -was tired of cleverness. Father was clever--even Flora, in her austere, -musical way, was clever. Val supposed grimly that she herself must be -clever, if imposed intellectual interests, a wide range of reading, a -habit of abstract discussion, could make her so. Nevertheless she was -guiltily conscious of desires within herself other than purely academic -ones. - -Flora was right. Those six months in France had made her different. - -She had worked in a canteen, where the preoccupation of everyone had -been the procuring and dispensing of primitive things--food, and drink, -and warmth. Women had worked with their hands for men who had been -fighting, and were going to fight again. - -Valeria had been the quickest worker there, one of the most efficient. -The manual work, the close contact with material things, had satisfied -some craving within herself of which she had not before been actively -conscious. - -She had learnt to cook and had become proficient with astonishing ease. -Scrambled eggs interested her more than herbaceous borders, more than -choir practises, more, to her own surprise and shame, than evening -readings-aloud at home. - -The canteen jokes, elementary, beer-and-tobacco-flavoured, had amused -her whole-heartedly. She had laughed, foolishly and mirthfully, for -sheer enjoyment, knowing all the time that, judged by the criterion of -St. Gwenllian, the jests were pointless, the wit undeserving of the -name. - -Very soon she had ceased to dwell upon any remembrance of the criterion -of St. Gwenllian. She had let herself go. - -There had been brief, giggling intimacies with girls and young women -whom Valeria could certainly not visualize as intimates in her own -home, allusions and catchwords shared with the men or the orderlies, -childish, undignified escapades which she was aware that the Canon -would have regarded and apostrophised as vulgar. Those days now seemed -like a dream. - -Even the girl with whom she had shared a room for six months no longer -wrote to her. - -She, the bobbed-haired, twenty-two-year-old Pollie Gordon, had had -love-affairs. Valeria remembered certain confidences made by Pollie, -and still blushed. Pollie had been strangely outspoken, to Miss -Morchard’s way of thinking, but she had been interesting--revealing -even. - -Valeria ruefully realized perfectly that Pollie Gordon, whether one’s -taste approved of her or not, had lived every moment of her short life -to the full. She was acutely aware of contrast. - -“And I’m twenty-seven!” thought Val. “I’d better go and be a cook -somewhere. If only I could! Or marry Owen--supposing he asks me. -Anyway, one might have children.” - -A humourous wonder crossed her mind as to her ability to cope with the -intelligent, eclectically-minded children that Owen Quentillian might -be expected to father. - -“It’s a pity he isn’t poor. I believe I should be better as a poor -man’s wife, having to do everything for him, and for the babies, if -there were babies.... The Colonies, for instance....” - -Although she was alone, Val coloured again and tears stood in her eyes. - -“What a fool I am!” - -It was this painfully sincere conviction that sent her to seek the -oblivion of sleep, rather than any recollection of the fidelity in -that which is least, enjoined upon her by her father. - -For the next few days Valeria was zealous in gardening and tennis -playing. She also, on two occasions, fetched volumes of Lamartine and -asked her father to read aloud after dinner. - -Her physical exertions sent her to bed tired out, and made her sleep -soundly. - -It surprised her very much when Lucilla, who never made personal -remarks, said to her: - -“Why don’t you go away for a time, Val? You don’t look well.” - -“I’m perfectly all right. I only wish I had rather more to do, -sometimes.” - -Valeria looked at her elder sister. She was less intimate with her -than with Flora. No one, in fact, was intimate with Lucilla. She spoke -seldom, and almost always impersonally. At least, one knew that she was -discreet.... - -Val, on impulse, spoke. - -“Do you suppose--don’t be horrified, Lucilla--do you suppose Father -would ever think of letting me go away and work?” - -Lucilla gave no sign of being horrified. - -She appeared to weigh her answer before she replied. - -“I don’t think it would occur to him, of his own accord.” - -“Oh, no. But if one asked him? Would it make him dreadfully unhappy?” - -“Yes,” said Lucilla matter-of-factly. - -Valeria, disappointed and rather angry, shrugged her shoulders. - -“Then, of course, that puts an end to the whole thing.” - -Lucilla finished stamping a small pile of the Canon’s letters, laid -them on the table, and placed a paper-weight upon the heap before -turning round to face her sister. - -“But why, Val?” - -“Why what?” - -“Why need it put an end to the whole thing? You know as well as I do -that it would make Father unhappy for any one of us to suggest leaving -home. But if you really mean to do it, you must make up your mind to -his being unhappy about it.” - -“Lucilla!” - -Lucilla did not elaborate her astounding theses, but her gaze, -sustained and level, met Valeria’s astonished eyes calmly. - -“You don’t suppose I’m as hideously selfish as that, do you?” - -“I don’t know what you are. But you’ve a right to your own life.” - -“Not at anyone else’s expense.” - -Lucilla began to stamp postcards. - -“Lucilla, you didn’t mean that, did you?” - -“Of course I did, Val.” - -“That I should hurt _Father_, and go away just to satisfy my own -restlessness, knowing that he disapproved and was unhappy? I should -never know a moment’s peace again.” - -“Well, if you feel like that, I suppose you won’t do it.” - -“Wouldn’t you feel like that, in my place?” - -“No, I shouldn’t; but that’s neither here nor there. It’s for you to -decide whether a practical consideration or a sentimental one weighs -most in your own particular case.” - -“Sentimental?” - -Val’s indignant tone gave the word its least agreeable meaning. - -“It is a question of sentiment, isn’t it? Father likes to have you at -home, but he’s not dependent upon you in any way.” - -“But wouldn’t he say that my place was at home--that it was only -restlessness and love of independence...?” Valeria stammered. - -She suddenly felt very young beneath the remote, passionless gaze of -her sister. For the first time in her life she saw Lucilla as a human -being and not as an elder sister, and she was struck with Lucilla’s -strange effect of spiritual aloofness. It would be very easy to speak -freely to anyone so impersonal as Lucilla. - -“It’s ever since I got back from France,” said Val suddenly. “I -don’t know what’s the matter with me, exactly, but I’ve ... wanted -things. I’ve wanted to work quite hard, at things like cooking, or -sweeping--and I’ve been sick of books, and music, and botany. I don’t -feel any of it is one scrap worth while. And, oh, Lucilla, it’s such -nonsense, because no one wants me to cook or sweep, so I’m just -‘seeking vocations to which I am not called,’ as Father always says. -Perhaps it’s just that I want change.” - -Lucilla was silent. - -“Do say what you think,” Val besought her with some impatience. - -“I will if you like, but it isn’t really what I think, or what Father -thinks, that matters. It’s what you think yourself.” - -Valeria stamped her foot. - -“I don’t _know_ what I think.” - -“Better go away,” Lucilla then said briefly. - -“Work?” - -“Yes, if that’s what you feel like. Of course, marriage would be -better.” - -“Lucilla.” - -“You asked me to say what I thought,” her sister pointed out. - -“I suppose you mean Owen Quentillian,” Val said at last. “But even -if I did that--and he hasn’t asked me to, so far--it would only -mean just the same sort of thing, only in another house. There’d be -servants to do the real work, and a gardener to do the garden, and a -nurse for the babies, if there were babies. Owen talks about farming -Stear, but he’d do it all out of books, I feel certain. We should be -frightfully--frightfully civilized.” - -“Owen _is_ frightfully civilized.” - -“Well, I don’t think I am,” said Val contentiously. - -“Lucilla, do you like Owen?” - -“Yes. I’m very sorry for him, too.” - -“Why?” Valeria could not believe that Owen would be in the least -grateful for Lucilla’s sorrow. It might even be difficult to induce him -to believe that anyone could be sufficiently officious to indulge in -such an emotion on his behalf. - -“I think his shell-shock has affected him much more than he realizes,” -Lucilla said. “I think his nerves are on edge, very often. He’d be a -difficult person to live with, Val.” - -Valeria remained thoughtful. - -She knew that Lucilla’s judgments, if rarely put into words, were -extraordinarily clear-cut and definite, and as such they carried -conviction to her own intuitive, emotional impulses of like and dislike. - -“Father likes Owen so much. Wouldn’t he be pleased if one ever did?” -Val said elliptically. - -“Very pleased, I should think.” - -“Of course, that isn’t really a reason for doing it.” - -Lucilla apparently found the wisdom of her sister’s observation too -obvious for reply. - -“Not the only reason, anyway.” - -Lucilla’s silence was again an assent. - -“Gossiping in the morning, my daughters?” - -The Canon’s deep, pleasant voice preceded him as he paused outside the -open window. - -“Is that as it should be? Lucilla, my dear love, at your desk again? -You look pale--you should be in the open air. Is not the day a glorious -one? When this world about us is so unutterably fair, does it not make -one think of ‘eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither hath it entered -into the heart of man to conceive, what things He hath prepared for -them that love him’?” - -The Canon’s uplifted gaze was as joyful as it was earnest. - -“Heaven seems very near, on such a day,” he said softly. - -Val, always outspoken, and struggling with the unease of her own -discontent, joined him at the window and said wistfully: - -“I can’t feel it like you do, Father. I wish I could.” - -“Little Valeria! It will come, my dear; it will all come. These things -become more real and vivid to us as life goes on. So many of those I -love have gone to swell the ranks of the Church Triumphant, now--such -a goodly company of friends! How can I feel it to be a strange or -far-away country, when your mother awaits me there, and my own dear -father and mother, and such a host of friends? What a meeting that will -be, with no shadow of parting any more!” - -Valeria was conscious of foolish, utterly unexplained tears, rising to -her throat at the tender, trustful voice in which her father spoke. - -How she loved him! Never could she do anything that would hurt -or disappoint him. The resolution, impulsive and emotional, gave -her a certain sense of stability, welcome after all her chaotic -self-questionings and contradictory determinations. - -“Will you give Owen and myself the pleasure of your company this -afternoon, Valeria? We meditate an expedition to Stear--an expedition -to Stear.” - -She said that she would go with them. - -None of the Canon’s children had ever refused an invitation to go out -with the Canon since the days when the Sunday afternoons of their -childhood had been marked by the recurrent honour of a walk with -Father. An honour and a pleasure, even if rather a breathless one, -and one that moreover was occasionally liable to end in shattering -disaster, as when Flora had been sent home in disgrace by herself for -the misguided sense of humour that had led her, aged five, to put out -her tongue at the curate. Or that other unforgettable episode when Val -herself, teased by the boys, had vigorously boxed Adrian’s ears. - -She smiled as she recollected it, and wondered if Owen remembered too, -and yet there was a sort of disloyalty in recalling the affair too -closely. - -The Canon had been so _very_ angry! His anger, as intense as it was -memorable, had been succeeded by such a prolonged period of the -blackest depression! - -Val realized thankfully that it was a long time since any of them had -seen the Canon angry. - -She turned aimlessly down the garden. - -The Canon had already gone indoors. He was never other than occupied, -and Valeria had never seen him impatient of an interruption. - -“The man who wants me is the man I want,” the Canon sometimes quoted, -with his wonderfully attractive smile. - -“Father _is_ wonderful. _Never_ could I disappoint or grieve him,” -thought Val vehemently. - -She suddenly wheeled round and returned to the open window, determined -that Lucilla, the astonishing Lucilla, should know of her resolution. - -“You know what we were talking about just now?” she demanded abruptly. - -Lucilla looked up. - -“I’ve quite made up my mind that your advice was wrong,” said Val -firmly. “I know you said what you thought was best, and it’s nice of -you to want me to be independent, but, after all, one’s duty comes -first. I don’t believe it’s my duty to dash away from home and make -Father unhappy.” - -Lucilla looked down again. - -“Of course, if anything happened _of itself_ to make me leave home, it -would be quite different. If I married, or anything like that. But just -to go away for a purely selfish whim----” - -She paused expressively. - -“I couldn’t do it, you know.” - -“Well--” Lucilla’s tone conceded, apparently, that Val had every right -to judge for herself. Further than that, it did not go. - -“Lucilla, if you really think like that, about living one’s own life, -and I suppose from the aggravating way in which you won’t say anything, -that you do--why don’t you do it yourself?” - -“But I haven’t any wish to,” said Lucilla, looking surprised. - -“Haven’t you ever had any wish to?” - -“Oh, yes, once. But not now.” - -“Then why didn’t you?” Val pursued desperately. She felt as though she -was coming really to know her sister for the first time. - -“I suppose because I thought, like you, that it wouldn’t do to leave -Father.” - -“But you don’t think that any more?” - -“No.” - -“Did anyone advise you?” - -“Oh, no. There wasn’t anything to advise about. One has to think things -out for oneself, after all.” - -“Oh!” Val was conscious of her own perpetual craving for approval from -everyone, for any course that she might adopt. - -“Did you ever ask anyone’s advice, Lucilla?” - -“I don’t think so. If I did, it would be because I meant to take it, -and I can’t imagine wanting to let anyone else decide things for me. -Just talking about one’s own affairs isn’t taking advice, though people -like to call it so.” - -“I think it’s a very good thing you’re not married,” said Val crossly. -“You’re too superior.” - -“Perhaps that’s why no one has ever asked me,” said Miss Morchard with -calm. - -Valeria, in spite of her momentary elevation of spirits in resolving -never to grieve her father, prepared for the visit to Stear in a -discontented frame of mind. - -At the last moment Adrian suddenly announced a wish to accompany them. - -“My dear! But of course--” The Canon’s pleasure was very evident. -“Owen, you will welcome this lad of mine as part of our little -excursion, eh? Why not make one of the old-time family parties? Why not -let us all go and explore this future home of Owen’s? It’s not very -often that I have a free afternoon nowadays--and to have all my dear -ones to make holiday with me would be indeed a rare joy.” - -He looked round him expectantly. - -“The caretaker won’t be able to manage tea for so many,” said Lucilla, -looking at Quentillian. - -“There speaks my practical housekeeper! - - For though on pleasure she was bent, - She had a frugal mind. - -“Eh, Lucilla? Could you not contrive a basket for us, my dear, picnic -fashion? Come, come, let’s have an impromptu picnic. What say you, -young people?” - -They said what the Canon wanted them to say. No one, Val felt, could -have done otherwise, in the face of his eagerness. She was partly -disappointed, and partly relieved. There had been a certain romance in -going with Owen to see Owen’s home, with the barely acknowledged wonder -whether it might not one day also be hers. - -But there was no hint of romance in the solidly packed basket presently -produced by Lucilla, and reluctantly carried by Adrian, nor in Flora’s -tardiness that nearly caused them to miss the train, nor in her -Father’s gentle, humourously worded rebuke to her. - - -(v) - -If Valeria was slightly discomposed by the tribal nature of the -expedition to Stear, Quentillian was seriously annoyed by it. He had -figured to himself a grave and gentle readjustment of values, when he -should see the place that he had known since boyhood transformed into a -setting for the figure of Valeria. - -He did not suppose himself to be tempestuously in love, but he had made -up his mind that he greatly wished to marry Valeria. - -A wistful uncertainty possessed him as to whether Valeria would wish to -marry him. - -Stear looked forlorn and uninhabited, and the repairs were even less -advanced than Quentillian had expected them to be. - -He reflected that he ought to be upon the spot, and shuddered -involuntarily, and to his disgust, at the lonely prospect. - -Since his shell-shock, he had very often been afraid of his own -company, and the knowledge was peculiarly galling to him. - -“Your lines have fallen to you in pleasant places, Owen,” said the -Canon genially. - -“You are optimistic, sir,” said Quentillian rather dryly. “It will be -months before these men are out of the place.” - -“You should move in yourself,” Lucilla suggested. - -“I believe I should.” - -“Thoughtless Lucilla! Why should Owen leave his present quarters, if -he is happy with us, as I trust he is? Aye, dear Owen, you are very -welcome at St. Gwenllian whilst your own nest is being prepared for -you.” - -The Canon’s ready hand sought Quentillian’s arm. - -Owen glanced at Lucilla half apologetically, but her gaze, impervious -to subtleties, and mildly cheerful, met his very readily. - -“Please stay on with us, if you should care to.” - -“Thank you,” said Quentillian non-committally. - -Later, at the Canon’s suggestion, he took them to visit the church. - -“You will one day have the responsibility of finding a new shepherd for -the flock here, I understand, Owen.” - -“I shall hope for some advice from you, sir.” - -“Aye, indeed? It’s a very good living, is it not? Though that is very -far from being the first consideration--very far, indeed.” - -“What’s it worth?” Adrian inquired. - -“I believe it’s considered worth about £700 a year.” - -“A job for a married man,” said Adrian casually. - -An involuntary flash of amused comprehension passed between Quentillian -and Valeria. He understood it to be in reference to this when she said -to him in a low voice on leaving the church: - -“I don’t think Olga Duffle would make a clergyman’s wife, do you?” - -“I should doubt it.” - -“But Adrian couldn’t really be thinking of it.” - -“I thought he’d decided against the Church.” - -“So he has. I think it was one of the greatest disappointments Father -has ever had.” - -“Your father would only have wished it if Adrian had wished it.” - -“Oh, yes,” said Val emphatically. “Naturally, he looks upon it as a -question of vocation. Father is the last person to ignore that.” - -She hesitated, and then said: “Owen, do you believe that everyone has a -vocation?” - -The question, to him so oddly reminiscent of the perplexities of a -bygone age, nearly made him laugh, but his amusement was wholly tender. - -“I don’t believe in a special vocation straight from Heaven for each -one of us,” he admitted. “You know, I never can believe that Heaven -takes that acute personal interest in individuals that religious people -always emphasize when they’re talking about themselves. But, of course, -there are certain lines of development----” - -“I think,” Val said seriously, “that I should like to feel I had -a definite job in life, that no one but myself could do. I feel -so--indefinite.” - -“I believe I might enlighten you on that subject,” Owen replied in -measured accents. - -“I don’t mean Sales of Work or a botanical collection, Owen.” - -“I know you don’t. The sales of work and the collections were never a -means of self-expression, were they?” - -“They did stand for something, though.” - -“For your wish to please somebody else?” - -“The wish is still there, Owen.” - -“Val, you know I think self-abnegation is all wrong.” - -He was half laughing, but the flushed face that she turned towards him -was altogether earnest. - -“Don’t think me arrogant, Val, but I do so wish I could make you see -it as I do. Don’t you see that the Christian ideal of self-sacrifice -was only the swing of the pendulum, from the brutal old days when men -rejoiced in seeing their fellow-creatures tortured and killed? Feelings -had to be developed, and so the Sermon on the Mount was preached. The -pendulum has swung too far the other way now--charity has come to mean -self-advertisement or sentimentality.” - -Quentillian, deeply interested in his own exposition of views that were -by no means new to him, was brought up short by a call from behind him. - -“Hi, Owen! Are you walking for a wager? I want to ask you something.” - -Quentillian, not at all disposed to welcome Adrian and his -interrogations, was obliged to slacken his steps as Valeria did hers. - -Adrian was swishing at the long grasses on either side of the road with -a slender length of ash. - -“Look here, old man, have you got anybody in your eye for that living?” - -Adrian’s head was studiously turned towards his depredations with the -ash-stick. - -“Because if you haven’t--not that it matters to me, particularly, you -understand, but I’ve got a friend, who might be the man you want.” - -“Who is he?” - -“I should have to sound him first,” Adrian explained. “I suppose you’d -want a youngish fellow and--and I suppose you’d rather he was married?” - -“Not in the least.” - -Adrian looked disturbed. - -“I thought a parson’s wife was useful in a large, straggling sort of -place like this. Not that it matters to me.” - -“Is your friend married, Adrian?” Val enquired. - -Quentillian could not decide whether the simplicity of her manner was -ironical or no. - -“He isn’t married at present. I think he’s engaged. You see, a living -like this would justify a man in getting married, wouldn’t it?” - -“It would depend on the sort of person he wished to marry.” - -“Supposing she had a little money of her own?” - -“The sort of girls who marry clergymen never do have money of their -own,” said Quentillian, firmly. - -On this discouraging pronouncement, they were rejoined by the rest of -the party. - -Nevertheless Valeria contrived to enquire of Quentillian, in a -disturbed murmur: - -“What _can_ Adrian be thinking of?” - -It was not at all difficult to guess what Adrian could be thinking of, -and became still less so as the days slipped by and his infatuation for -Miss Olga Duffle led to her inclusion in innumerable games of tennis -and impromptu tea-parties at St. Gwenllian. - -“What can he _see_ in her?” Valeria demanded, after the fashion of -sisters. - -Quentillian was unable to provide any adequate explanation of the -phenomenon, but he was fully prepared to discuss it, and prolong -thereby the sense of intimacy with Valeria. - -It seemed to Quentillian that a new, slight, tinge of gravity shadowed -Valeria’s frankness. - -With all the logic and consistency of most persons so situated, -Quentillian alternately viewed this as being hopeful or unhopeful, in -the extreme, for the fulfilment of his wishes. - -He was slightly amused at finding himself in the extremely conventional -position in which he had so often viewed, with dispassionate distaste, -the spectacle presented by other men, and this amusement was not -without its share in determining him to submit his proposal to Valeria -in writing. - -A tendency, real, or fancied by Quentillian’s self-consciousness, on -the parts of Flora and Adrian at least, to vacate any room in which -he and Valeria might be, upon excuses of a shadow-like transparency, -finally brought Quentillian to the point of leaving St. Gwenllian, -under promise of an early return. - -“You must come back, to us, dear Owen--you must come back,” the Canon -repeated. “I want many a talk with you yet, and Adrian here will miss -the evening confabulations in the smoking-room--eh, Adrian? Stear will -hardly be ready for you yet awhile, to our advantage be it spoken, so -you must make your home with us in the meanwhile. Come and go quite -freely, dear lad.” - -“Thank you very much.” - -Quentillian felt that he had already said these words all too often, -and conscientiously sought to vary the formula. - -“It’s been a delightful time altogether, and I’m more than grateful. -It’s been wonderful to get such a kind welcome after these years -abroad.” - -“Ah, dear fellow!” - -The Canon’s fine face softened as he laid his arm across the younger -man’s shoulders. - -“Never doubt your welcome here, Owen,” he said. - -Owen suspected significance in the words, and then derided himself. - -Whatever his certainties as regarded the Canon, it was with Valeria -that Quentillian was concerned, and he could augur nothing from her -frank and cordial regret at his departure. - -“I shall write to you, Val.” - -“Yes, do. And I’ll tell you what happens with Adrian and that Olga.” - -“I hope nothing will happen.” - -“Oh, no--but it’s amusing.” - -She did not look amused. Something of her ripe-apricot bloom had -faded, and there were shadows beneath her brown eyes. Before he left -St. Gwenllian, Owen said rather earnestly to Lucilla that he thought -Valeria looked tired. - -“So do I.” - -“Is she ill?” - -“I don’t think so.” - -“I should hate to think of her being ill.” - -“I don’t think she’s ill, Owen.” - -Lucilla evidently accepted his solicitude as a natural thing. - -“I’ve always thought that Val needed a greater outlet for her energies -than she gets here. She’s very strong, really, and she did splendidly -in France when she was working so hard at her Canteen. I wish she could -go away and work again.” - -“Really?” - -“Don’t you think so yourself?” - -“Perhaps--if she wished it very much. There are other things besides -work, though,” said Owen Quentillian. - -“Well--” Lucilla’s favourite monosyllable held, as usual, a sound of -concession. - -“Couldn’t one do anything for her--take care of her, somehow?” - -“I will order a cup of beef-tea for her at eleven o’clock,” said -Lucilla with seriousness, but with amusement lurking in her eyes. - -They parted upon a mutual smile of excellent understanding. - -Quentillian thought that he liked Lucilla, with her impersonal calm, -and her unquestioning acceptances. - -He wrote to Valeria from London, letters that he felt to be -self-conscious, and received uneloquent replies. He had left St. -Gwenllian a fortnight when he finally composed an epistle that left him -a little--a very little--less than profoundly dissatisfied with his own -powers of composition. He received her reply by return of post. - - “Owen, dear, I’ve got your letter. I can’t answer it in the way I - should like to, making you understand everything that I mean. But do - understand first of all that your thinking of me like that makes me - very proud, and I wish I was more worth it all. - - “I’m glad you loved someone else before, and thank you for telling - me. The reason I’m glad is because I used to like someone very - much myself once, but it wasn’t like yours, it was only my own - foolishness, and never came to anything. But I think perhaps it’s - prevented my falling really in love, because, dear Owen, I am not in - love with you. If I married you, it would be because you are, as you - say, very lonely, and because I am very, very fond of you, and also - perhaps, a little, because it would make Father so happy. But none of - those reasons are _the_ real, true reason for marrying, are they? - - “We have known one another so long, and understand one another. Can’t - we discuss it honestly together, before settling anything? Either - way, we are always friends, so I will sign myself your friend. - - “VALERIA MORCHARD.” - -Quentillian read the letter with a strange mingling of disappointment, -relief, and mortification. - -Nevertheless it was in all sincerity that he wrote to Val of his -admiration for her candour. - -“You and I are moderns, my dear. Let us, as you wish, discuss the -future impersonally, but let me first of all say that when--or if--ever -you should come to the decision which I want you to come to, then so -far as I am concerned, philosophical discussion will go for nothing. -I shall wait for your sign, Val, and if it comes, there shall be no -more pen and ink between us, but a meeting for which I long with all my -heart.” - -“Academic,” said Owen’s inner monitor, relentless as ever. - -He posted his letter in spite of it. - -It was with relief, and yet with a happiness less defined than he had -expected it to be, that Quentillian found himself engaged to Valeria. - -He regretted his own absence of ardour, and was all the time aware of a -faint, lurking gratification at having so early outlived the illusions -of passionate emotion. - -He returned to St. Gwenllian. - -This time it was Valeria who met him. Something in the simplicity with -which she accepted their new relationship touched him profoundly, and -rendered of no account his own temperamental subtleties. - -It was with a deepening sense of sincerity that Quentillian said to her: - -“You have made me very happy, dearest.” - -“I’m glad, Owen. I’m happy too.” - -Her hand lay trustfully in his. - -“They want to see you so much, at home, Owen. I’ve told them. They’re -all so pleased.” - -It evidently added to Valeria’s content, that it should be so. - -“You know that Father has always really looked upon you as another son, -even in the days when you and I got into trouble for playing at Greek -sacrificial processions with the guinea pigs on silver salvers.” - -They laughed together at the recollection. - -The Canon had not been hard upon the classically-minded delinquents. - -Quentillian believed himself to have realized fully the adjuncts, -necessary and fitting in the eyes of the Morchard family, but to -himself distasteful in the extreme, of his engagement to Valeria. - -He was prepared for conventional congratulations, for the abhorrent -necessity of discussing his personal affairs, for an emotional absence -of reticence that would differ as widely from his own impersonal, -dissecting-room outspokenness as would the Canon’s effusive periods -from Quentillian’s cultivated terseness of expression. - -Nevertheless, he was less well-armoured, or more severely tried, than -he had expected to be. - -Canon Morchard seemed to shower welcome, blessings, congratulations -upon him. He said: - -“Dear lad, you and I must have a long talk together, at no distant -date.” - -They had many. - -It seemed to Quentillian that he saw more of the Canon than of Valeria, -in the days that ensued. - -“Val, when will you marry me? I’m quite selfish enough to want you -to myself,” Quentillian said to her with firmness after a week at St. -Gwenllian that seemed to him to have been mainly differentiated from -his last visit there by the increased number of one-sided talks with -the Canon to which he had been subjected. - -Val said tentatively: “The end of January?” - -“Why not before Christmas? Stear should be quite ready for us by then.” - -It relieved him with a strange intensity to know that he would not, -after all, go alone to Stear. - -Valeria looked at him, and although her voice when she spoke was -serious, a certain mischievous amusement lurked in her eyes. - -“Before Christmas, it’s Advent,” she said. - -“Advent?” - -“I don’t think Father would like my wedding to be during Advent, at -all.” - -“I see.” - -“Oh, don’t be vexed, Owen. It’s only a month’s difference after all.” - -“It isn’t that,” began Quentillian candidly, and then shared in her -slight, unoffended laughter at his lack of gallantry. - -“I only mean, my dear, that I don’t like to see you bound by that sort -of convention. Do you really think it can make any difference if we’re -married on one particular date rather than another?” - -“I’m thinking entirely of Father,” gently said Val, thus altogether -evading the real point at issue. - -Quentillian was again and again made aware of this capacity in Val for -the avoidance of any discussion between them on the subject of religion. - -It was as though the faint rebellion that he had discerned in her at -her own way of life had been extinguished by the mere prospect of its -coming to an end. Nor, when he finally forced an issue, did Val appear -to possess his own capacities for impartial, essentially impersonal, -discussion. - -“Can’t we leave it alone, Owen? You told me what your views were--and -you know what mine are. We’ve been honest with one another--isn’t that -all that matters?” - -“In a sense, of course it is. You don’t think that perhaps it’s a -pity to know there’s one subject we must tacitly avoid--that we can’t -discuss freely?” - -He spoke without emphasis of any kind. - -“It _is_ a pity, of course,” said Val literally. “But how can we help -it? I can hardly listen to you without disloyalty of the worst kind. -If you look at it from my point of view for a moment, you do see that, -don’t you, Owen?” - -“Yes, I suppose I do see that,” he said heavily. - -He felt strangely disappointed and disillusioned. - -“Do you wish me to say anything to your father about that?” - -Val blushed deeply, but spoke quite resolutely. - -“No, I don’t. I’ve thought it over, and I can’t see that it concerns -anyone but you and me. Lucilla says so, too. I asked her what she -thought. It’s not as though I were eighteen, and it’s not as though I -didn’t trust you, absolutely, not to interfere with my beliefs, any -more than I with your--unbeliefs.” - -Confronted with her grave trustfulness, no less than with the obvious -justice of her words, Quentillian could only agree with her. - -His rather arrogant conviction of earlier days, that Val’s beliefs must -go, gave place to an unescapable certainty that they would not even -be modified. Rather would Valeria, enforced by tradition and by the -inherited faith that was in her, expect with the course of years to -influence her husband’s views. - -Owen felt strongly the hopelessness of such expectation, and still more -strongly the inexpediency, not to say the impossibility, of urging that -hopelessness upon Valeria. - -It was decided that the wedding should take place in January, and the -engagement be made public just before Christmas. - -“You do not want to let the world in upon your joy too soon, young -people,” the Canon told them with a grave smile. - -Val’s answering smile acquiesced in the assumption, as indeed the -smiles and silences, no less than the spoken words, of his entire -family were always apt to acquiesce in any assumption made by Canon -Morchard, whether the facts warranted such acquiescence or not. - -The days slipped by, very much as they had slipped by before -Quentillian and Valeria had become engaged. If Quentillian had expected -a greater difference, a more profound element, he was destined to be -disappointed. - -Val was charming and--he would not have to face loneliness at Stear. - -Indeed at one moment, it almost appeared as though Valeria would not -be alone in accomplishing the destruction of the spirit of solitude at -Stear. - -Adrian Morchard sought his prospective brother-in-law, and said, with -singularly ill-chosen colloquialism: - -“Tell me, old thing, have you had any talk with the governor about that -living at Stear?” - -“Not yet. The present incumbent hasn’t even resigned.” - -“I suppose--ha-ha--you’ll laugh--in fact I shouldn’t be surprised if -you thought it dashed funny--it makes me smile myself, in a way--you’ll -_roar_ when I tell you what I’m thinking of.” - -Quentillian felt as melancholy as do the majority of people thus -apostrophised, and was aware that his melancholy was reflected on his -face in a forbidding expression. - -Adrian had turned rather pale. - -“You know the old man’s always been desperately keen on my going into -the Church? Well--I say, you can laugh as much as you want to, I shan’t -be offended--I’m not at all sure I shan’t do it.” - -Quentillian felt no inclination whatever to indulge in the prescribed -orgy of merriment. - -“You coming into the family like this, with a good living going -begging, makes it a pretty obvious move in a way, doesn’t it--and then -it’d please the old man frightfully--and really there are precious few -openings for a man who hasn’t been brought up to anything special, -nowadays.” - -“Yes. And what is the real reason?” - -Adrian laughed uncomfortably. - -“Sherlock Holmes! Well, between ourselves, I don’t mind telling you -that I want to see some prospect of being able to marry, and if I had a -definite thing in view, like Stear, I might be able to bring it off.” - -“You can’t be ordained in five minutes. Don’t be absurd.” - -“I’ve got to wait, anyhow,” said Adrian gloomily. “She won’t even be -engaged, yet. I thought I might as well fill in the time at Cambridge -or somewhere, if it’s going to lead to something. I’m quite willing to -wait if I must, and of course I shall never change.” - -“It’s Miss Duffle, I suppose. I can’t say I should have thought she’d -enjoy the life of a country parson’s wife.” - -“You haven’t the least idea of what she’s really like.” - -“Perhaps not.” Owen’s voice implied the contrary. “What about yourself? -Do you really suppose you could stand it?” - -“Of course I could, if it meant _her_. My dear fellow, my mind’s -_absolutely_ made up, I may tell you, and has been for--for days. -But, of course,” he added ingenuously, “it does depend a good deal on -whether you’ll promise me Stear or not at the end of it all.” - -“What about your father?” - -“Oh, he’ll jump at it, of course. It’s been the one wish of his heart, -all along,” said Adrian easily. - -Quentillian wondered how it was possible that any youth, brought -up in the intellectual atmosphere of St. Gwenllian, could be so -entirely devoid of insight. To his own way of thinking, it was utterly -incredible that Canon Morchard, ardent Christian and idealist, should -contemplate with any degree of equanimity, his son’s proposed flippant -adoption of a vocation which he regarded as sacred. - -Owen committed himself to no promises. - -“I should like to talk it over with Val.” - -“I suppose if you must you must,” said Adrian, grudgingly. “But don’t -let her tell anyone else.” - -Valeria’s views were not far removed from Quentillian’s own. - -It sometimes, indeed, seemed to Owen that the identity of their points -of view on every other subject only rendered more evident the deep gulf -dividing them on the topic that Valeria had decreed should be a barred -one--that of religion. - -Spoken, their very difference might have brought them closer together. -Unspoken, it seemed to Owen to pervade all their intercourse since -their engagement as it had never done before. - - -(vi) - -Valeria had been engaged for nearly a month when she wrote a letter. - - “DEAR CAPTAIN CUSCADEN, - - “I thought I would like to tell you myself that I am engaged to be - married. It is to Owen Quentillian, whom I have known all my life, - almost, and we hope to be married in January. - - “I hope you will have very good luck in Canada, and that you will - sometimes let us know how you get on. We are expecting you on - Saturday, to come and say good-bye. - - “Yours sincerely, - “VALERIA MORCHARD.” - -Val spent a long while over the composition of her brief letter, -re-read it a great number of times, and finally tore it up very -carefully into small pieces. - -“What’s the use?” she said. - -Captain Cuscaden, however, did not seem to have been dependent upon -Valeria for news of Valeria’s engagement. He congratulated her formally -on the Saturday afternoon when he came to pay his farewell visit to St. -Gwenllian. - -Olga Duffle was there, too, and Miss Admaston. - -“No more tennis this year. It’s going to rain again,” said Flora. - -“Here it comes,” Mr. Clover pointed out. - -“It may clear up later--let’s have tea.” - -After tea the rain was still falling heavily. - -“How are all you young folks going to amuse yourselves?” genially -enquired the Canon. “Lucilla, can you not organize some of our old -_jeux d’esprit_, with pencil and paper?” - -There was an inarticulate protest from the Captain, to which no one -paid any attention except Valeria, who heard it, and Olga, who replied -to it: “I’ll help you, Dzorze, if you’re very good.” - -Mr. Clover was zealous in finding paper and pencils. - -“I can’t resist this,” said the Canon boyishly. “I must give some of my -old favourites a turn before going to more serious affairs. Now what is -it to be?” - -No one appeared to be very ready with suggestions. Captain Cuscaden -was gloomily gazing out of the window. Olga and Adrian were talking in -undertones, and Miss Admaston was telling Quentillian how very much -she dreaded and disliked any games that required the use of brains. - -“Are we all ready?” said Mr. Clover joyously. - -“I suppose we’re as ready as we ever shall be,” said Captain Cuscaden. - -Thus encouraged, they began. - -Canon Morchard, Lucilla, and Owen Quentillian outmatched the rest -of the players with ease. Each seemed to think with promptitude of -great men whose names started with A, battles that began with M, or -quotations--English--of which the initial letter was W. - -They challenged one another’s references, and verified one another’s -dates. They capped quotations, and they provided original _bouts rimés_. - -The entertainment gradually resolved itself into one animated trio, -with a faithful but halting chorus, in the persons of Mr. Clover and -Flora, and a rapid and low-toned aside between Adrian and Miss Duffle. - -Captain Cuscaden played a listless game of noughts and crosses with -Miss Admaston, and Valeria leant back in her chair and ceased to -pretend that she was occupied. - -She looked at the sapphire and diamond ring on her finger, and thought -about Owen’s cleverness. She remembered that Lucilla had said he would -be a difficult person to live with. She remembered her own secret -desires for a life of work, and her assurance to herself that such -ambitions were out of place. She reminded herself that her father -had been, in his own parlance, glad beyond words to welcome Owen -Quentillian as a son. And she looked at Owen himself, and saw him -intent, over his little slips of paper, and a sudden rush of tenderness -came over her. His absorption in the game seemed to make him younger, -and in more need of her. She could remember Owen as a flaxen-haired, -solemn, rather priggish little boy, and she suddenly felt that perhaps -he had not changed a very great deal since those days, after all. - -Val felt happier, in a subdued and wistful way. She woke to the -realization that the games were ended. - -The Canon had arisen. - -“Look up that derivation, Clover, dear man, and let me have it. I -shall be curious.... Fare ye well, young people, I recommend Lucilla -here as a veritable dictionary of dates, if you wish to continue your -amusement.” - -Nothing could have been more evident, the moment the Canon had left -the room, than that no one wished to pursue amusement on the lines -indicated. - -Even Mr. Clover joined in the general movement that thankfully -relinquished paper and pencil, and sent everyone to the piano, flung -open by Olga Duffle. - -“Do play something,” Adrian pleaded. - -“Oh, not me. Make your sister play. She plays so much better than I do.” - -It was indubitably true that Flora played a great deal better than did -Olga, yet nobody seemed to want Flora to play the piano, and Olga, -even as she protested, slipped on to the music stool and ran her small -fingers over the keys. - -“I say, how well you do everything!” Adrian murmured ecstatically above -her. - -She looked up at him and smiled, showing all her little pointed teeth. - -They clustered round her. - -“Do you know ‘Oh, Kiss Me and I’ll Never Tell,’ that comes in that -revue--I forget it’s name--the new one? It’s lovely.” - -To the perceptions of Valeria Morchard, trained in the eclectic school -of the Canon’s taste, the musical inspiration in question was not -only undeserving of being called lovely, but was vulgar to the point -of blatancy, ringing through the St. Gwenllian drawing-room in Olga’s -little, high, soprano voice. - -She was not at all surprised that Owen should look at her through his -_pince-nez_ with eyebrows expressively elevated, nor that Mr. Clover, -presumably in a futile endeavour to spare the Canon’s ears, should -unobtrusively go and shut the door. - -Val looked at Lucilla. - -There was something not at all unlike amusement on Miss Morchard’s -face, but Val did not think that it was caused by the humour of “Oh, -Kiss Me and I’ll Never Tell.” Rather it might have been born of a -gentle irony, embracing alike the puzzled distaste of Flora, the -obvious terror of the curate lest he should be supposed to be enjoying -the entertainment, the absorption with which Captain Cuscaden, Adrian, -and even Miss Admaston stood and listened, the supercilious detachment -of Owen Quentillian, the complacent unconsciousness of the small, pert -singer at the piano. No doubt Lucilla could have detected, had she -cared to do so, the unspecified emotions that Val suspected of being -written upon her own unsmiling face. - -She felt suddenly impatient. - -“We’re all intolerable. Lucilla is superior, and Flossie takes this -rubbish _au grand serieux_, like a crime, and Owen is thinking how -deplorable it is that idiotic words should be set to inferior music, -and put before the British public for its education.... I can hear -exactly what he’ll say about it afterwards.” - -It struck her that the anticipation scarcely boded well for a life that -was in future to be spent in Quentillian’s company. - - “My dusky gal is black as coal - “But she’s just the whitest, brightest soul.” - -carolled Olga. - -“I love the darky girls, don’t you?” - -“Rather.” - -“Why does the English youth of today seek artistic inspiration from -the uncivilized population of Central Africa, I wonder?” said Owen -Quentillian. He addressed himself to Lucilla, but his very distinct -utterance was perfectly audible to everybody else. - -Captain Cuscaden laughed, and Olga looked round with perfect good -humour. It was Adrian who glared at Quentillian, and Mr. Clover who -observed reproachfully: - -“I’m sure those old plantation songs are charming, _as_ Miss Olga -renders them.” - -“You shouldn’t be so superior, Owen,” said Lucilla tranquilly. - -It was what Val had been thinking, but she had found herself quite -unable to say it, from the very intensity of her feeling. - -Lucilla placed an old album on the music stand, and they all began to -sing together “Comin’ through the Rye.” - -The music affected Valeria almost intolerably. - -All the Morchards had good voices, and both Flora and Lucilla sang -well. Their true, deep voices gradually dominated Olga’s high pipe, -and the four men sank to a mere murmur of accompaniment. Miss Admaston -had never done more than crane over everybody’s shoulder in turn in an -endeavour to see the page at close quarters, and murmur the last words -of a verse in an undertone when everyone else was singing the first -line of the refrain. She was now altogether silent. - -“Sing the Russian songs, Flora,” said Quentillian. - -Valeria pressed her hands closer together, and leant against the wall. - -It was growing dark. - -The air of the Russian song that Flora chose was wild and sweet. - - “You are my darling, you are my soul - Light of my life, my sun, my goal ... - You are my being, my delight - Star of my darkest night.” - -Direct, primitive worship of one man for one woman: Flora’s voice held -all the passion that was not in her, save at her music. - -The ache at Val’s heart seemed to her physical in its intensity. - -She knew what she wanted, now, and she knew that Owen Quentillian would -not give it her. - -To her own horror, a rush of tears blinded her. - - “But all is well for thou art with me - “The world is full of only thee.” - -sang Flora. - -“What is the matter?” said the low, troubled voice of Cuscaden beside -her. - -Val started violently. - -“Val, you _must_ tell me. What is it...?” - -They looked at each other. - -It suddenly became the thing that mattered most in the world that Val -Morchard and George Cuscaden should speak alone to one another. - -Regardless of the rain pouring outside, Valeria gently opened the -French window behind her. - -“Come outside. I must speak to you,” she said urgently. - -She had no idea what she was going to say. - -Outside, in the rapidly gathering darkness, the rain fell in torrents -and splashed up from the ground against the stone step of the low -veranda that ran round the house. - -Cuscaden stepped out of the warm room and closed the window again -behind him. It was as though he had shut them out of the world of music -and companionship, into some colder, more virile atmosphere. - - “But all is well for thou art with me - “The world is full of only thee.” - -Flora’s song reached them as faintly as possible, and neither heeded -it. - -They faced one another, and Val found that she was shivering from head -to foot. - -“Why do I never get a chance of speaking to you nowadays?” said Captain -Cuscaden violently. - -“You could have,” said Valeria, and her voice broke. - -His arms went round her. - -“Val, Val, I love you so.” - -It was as though Quentillian had never existed. - -“And you’re going to Canada,” she wailed. - -“You’re coming with me.” - -“I must,” Val said, and surrendered herself to his kisses. - -“My daughter, how wet you are!” exclaimed the Canon. - -His daughter, hastening to her own room, paused under the light of -a lamp, and inadvertently thereby gave the Canon an opportunity of -verifying his statement. - -Val, beneath his astonished gaze, became acutely aware that her -rain-wet hair was disordered, her face flaming, and showing all the -marks of recent and violent weeping. - -“What is all this?” the Canon enquired rather sternly. - -Valeria felt utterly incapable of replying. - -“Answer me, Valeria.” - -“Captain Cuscaden is looking for you,” said Valeria almost inaudibly. - -“Captain Cuscaden?” - -“Yes.” - -They gazed speechlessly at one another. - -A weight had descended upon the Canon’s brow and the lines round his -mouth were set sternly. - -“Valeria, has he insulted you?” - -The intimate conviction overwhelmed her that the Canon’s opinion of -her recent interview with Captain Cuscaden would certainly demand -an emphatically affirmative reply to the enquiry. She felt a purely -hysterical desire to burst out laughing at the thought. - -“How is Captain Cuscaden concerned with you? If it is as I think, -Valeria, you did well to refer him to me.” - -“But it isn’t. He--I--we are both to blame, Father. I’m going to break -off my engagement to Owen. I love George.” - -The words were said, and although Valeria broke into a flood of tears, -it was with a sense of relief. Telling Owen that she did not intend to -marry him after all, was, she honestly felt, nothing to telling the -Canon so. - -She sank down on the stairs and hid her face in her hands, afraid -to face her father’s realization of the implication that her words -contained. - -It did not tarry. - -“Do you want me to understand that you are under a solemn engagement -to marry Owen Quentillian, and that you have at the same time been -allowing--encouraging--the clandestine attentions of this--this -_fellow_? You, my daughter, behaving like a wanton? I won’t believe -it--I can’t believe it--” the Canon’s voice rose violently. “Valeria, -for God’s sake tell me I’m mistaken--don’t crouch there like a guilty -creature--tell me I’m wrong, tell me you’re the pure, honest maiden -I’ve tried to make you and not--not--a creature without honour, without -decency----” - -The rising note of anguish broke on a strangled sob. - -Below, a door was shut sharply. - -“Get up,” said the Canon with violence. - -Valeria rose, and he pulled her to her feet and gazed searchingly into -her face. - -“And this is my child!” said the Canon, and in his turn dropped his -face into his hands, groaning. - -“I couldn’t help it,” she spoke between her sobs, like a child. “Owen -knew I wasn’t in love with him ... only I never realized, I didn’t know -George cared, too--it was always him....” - -“Stop!” thundered the Canon. “Are you without shame, Valeria? Is that -fellow waiting for me downstairs, or has he crawled away as I should -expect, from one who has so repaid my hospitality?” - -The words gave Valeria a needed impetus. - -“He is ready to meet you, Father--he went to find you. And I love -him--I suppose I’ve been very dishonourable, but I--I believe Owen will -understand.” - -She broke into tears again, and left him. - -Overwhelmed with the sense of her own dishonour, regarding the Canon’s -wrath as might have a child, in the light of the greatest calamity that -life could present, she turned with absolute relief to the thought of -Owen’s dispassionate judgments, his studiously impersonal attitude -towards life. Owen would understand. - -There came a knock at the door. - -“Val, may I come in?” - -“What is it?” said Valeria unwillingly. - -Lucilla entered the room, unperturbed, but fully accepting the -disordered aspect of its occupant. - -“I’m afraid, Val, that the drawing-room door was open, and it was -impossible to help hearing Father. I thought you’d rather know, in case -you wanted to speak to Owen.” - -“Owen knows?” almost shrieked Valeria. - -“I suppose he does. He must have drawn his own conclusions.” - -“I couldn’t help it,” said Val again. “I never meant anything like that -to happen--it’s George Cuscaden, Lucilla. It was always him, indeed it -was, only I didn’t know it, and it all seemed to happen in a minute--it -was stronger than either of us.” - -“I daresay you did quite right. Why don’t you wash, Val?” - -“Oh, Lucilla, how like you!” - -Valeria laughed shakily, but she followed her sister’s advice. - -Lucilla methodically produced Val’s brush and comb, and dry clothing. - -“Maud Admaston and Miss Duffle have gone, and Adrian went with them. -Mr. Clover has gone, too, so it was only Owen and Flossie and I that -heard.” - -“What did he say?” - -“He didn’t say anything. Shall I fasten you up, Val?” - -“Lucilla--what am I to do?” - -“Tell Owen you can’t marry him, and tell George you will marry him.” - -“I wish it was as simple as that! You always take things so literally.” - -“Well,” said Lucilla unmoved, “I don’t see any other way of taking -this. You can’t be engaged to two people at once. You know--Owen will -understand.” - -“That’s what I feel,” said Val to her own surprise. “But Father--Father -will never, never understand.” - -“Probably not. But after all, it’s you, and Owen, and George, isn’t it, -that are concerned? I shouldn’t let there be scenes and upsets about -it, Val, if I were you--really I shouldn’t. Why don’t you just see Owen -tonight, and tell him about it, and then you and he and George could -all talk it over quietly tomorrow morning?” - -Val was conscious of profound astonishment and also of extreme relief. - -“Do you think one could? But Father----” - -“You needn’t go downstairs again. I quite understand that you don’t -want to see Father again tonight. Shall I tell Owen to come up here?” - -“Here? How could he, in my bedroom?” - -“Goodness me, child, you may just as well be hung for a sheep as a -lamb, surely. But if you think it’s so dreadful, I suppose you can come -out on the landing and speak to him.” - -Impossible to disconcert Lucilla! - -Val assented to the surprising propositions so matter-of-factly -delivered. - -“Yes, tell Owen to come up. I’d better get it over. But -Lucilla--George----” - -“Do you want me to see him, or give him a message?” - -“I want to know what Father says to him,” Val said faintly. - -“Very well. I’ll ask Father if George has gone.” - -“And, oh, Lucilla! I know you can’t prevent it, really, but if only -you could make Father not come up to me tonight! I can’t bear any -more--indeed I can’t.” - -“Well,” said Lucilla, “you’d better lock the door then.” She took the -key from the lock, put it on the inside of the door and tried it in a -practical manner. “That’s all right. You can lock it on the inside as -soon as Owen has gone.” - -She went downstairs, but turned and came up again the next moment. - -“I’ll have dinner sent up to you, shall I?” - -“I don’t want any.” - -“I should think you’d better have something, Val. I’ll send up soup and -chicken. The pudding is only ginger, and you know how badly she makes -ginger pudding.” - -Lucilla departed in earnest, upon this prosaic pronouncement. - -She was succeeded by Owen Quentillian, and Val went out upon the -landing to meet him. - -“Will you forgive me, Owen? I can’t marry you.” - -“What has happened?” - -“I thought you knew,” she said piteously. - -“I suppose I do. Is it Cuscaden?” - -“Yes.” - -“Then why,” Owen demanded in reasonable accents, “couldn’t he have -proposed to you himself without waiting for you to be engaged to me?” - -“He thought he couldn’t ask me to go to Canada--and he’s badly off--and -then, when you came, he--he thought it was you I cared about.” - -“I see,” said Quentillian dryly. - -“I don’t think I knew, exactly, that I still cared for him, and I was -sure he hadn’t meant anything, and it--it was really all over--only -then--Flora’s music, somehow--and he asked me what it was--and I cried. -Owen, won’t you forgive me? Surely it’s better than if I’d tried to go -on with it?” - -“Of course it is.” - -They looked at one another rather helplessly. - -“Val, if I can do anything to help you, of course I will. What are you -going to do?” - -“I can’t think,” said Valeria faintly. - -“When does Cuscaden sail?” - -“Next week.” - -“That’s bad luck,” said Owen impartially. “Look here, my dear, you must -be tired out. Won’t you go and sleep now, and in the morning we could -see what’s to be done?” - -“Oh, how good you are!” - -He frowned slightly. - -“Surely the day of heroics is over. I haven’t the slightest desire to -exchange pistol-shots with Captain Cuscaden, I assure you. We are three -reasonable human beings, and we find ourselves in a difficulty from -which only clear thinking and absolute plain speaking can extricate -us. You may believe me when I tell you that I am perfectly prepared to -discuss the case upon its own merits.” - -Valeria could believe him without difficulty. Even in the midst of -her distress, she could not altogether stifle a slight suspicion that -Owen was appreciating the opportunity afforded him of being thoroughly -modern and rational. - -“Have you seen Father?” - -“Not yet.” - -Quentillian’s tone betrayed no great eagerness for the prospective -interview. - -“He is very, very angry with me, and I know he has every right to be. -But indeed, Owen, I was coming straight to you, only I met him first, -and it somehow came out. George was going to tell him.” - -“Your father has never liked Captain Cuscaden,” said Quentillian -meditatively. “I am afraid he will make things very difficult.” - -“I deserve it.” - -“Don’t be absurd,” said Quentillian, with severity. “This is that -foolish idea of atonement and repentance--and all the other cheap -salves to the humiliation of having made a mistake. Don’t you see that -it’s all waste of time and energy, Val? You ought to be thinking of -what you’re going to do next, and how you can do it with least wear and -tear for us all. Life isn’t a series of sins and punishments or virtues -and rewards, as it is in one’s nursery story-books. There are actions -and their consequences--that’s all.” - -She looked up at him, bewildered, and yet slightly relieved at -perceiving that he still possessed the power of sententiousness. - -“Only say you forgive me, Owen.” - -“If you wish it, my dear, of course. Please don’t cry any more.” - -Valeria, however, crying more than ever, drew the sapphire and diamond -ring from her finger and mutely held it out to him. - -Owen gazed at it for a moment through his _pince-nez_. - -Then he put it gently back into her hand again, and closed her fingers -round it with his own. - -“Please, Val.” - -Still holding her hand, he bent forward and very softly kissed her wet -cheek. - -“If we’re not engaged any more, we’ve got to go back to what we were -before--brother and sister, Val. Good-night--don’t cry any more.” - -The smile with which he left her was in his eyes as well as on his -lips, and held nothing so much as very gentle amusement, and an -affectionate concern. - - -(vii) - -The amusement was no longer to be seen in the eyes of Quentillian, and -the concern had no affinity with affectionateness, when he reached the -door of the Canon’s study. - -He felt himself to be eleven years old once more, and in complete -uncertainty as to the manner in which he might be received, after the -discovery of some unwonted misdemeanour. - -The thunderous voice that bade him come in did nothing to dispel the -unpleasing illusion. - -The Canon was sitting at the writing-table, under the carved crucifix -that hung against the green velvet plaque. A blotting pad, deeply -scored with heavy black lines, lay beneath his hand, and a broken -lead pencil testified to the energy with which that hand had sought an -outlet for the feelings that presumably agitated its owner. - -The Canon swung round in his chair as the door closed behind -Quentillian. - -“Owen, Owen!” His voice broke. “My boy, how can I face you?” - -The Canon answered his own question by rising impetuously and leaning -heavily upon Quentillian’s shoulder, one hand across his eyes. - -“My dear, dear fellow!” - -His voice, charged with emotion, broke horribly over each fresh -ejaculation. - -“My son--Owen--you’ve been nothing less to me--and now--treated like -this--one of mine own household--what can I say, what can I say?” - -Quentillian longed heartily to implore the Canon to say nothing at all. - -“Won’t you sit down, sir? I thought I’d better come and talk to you, if -I may.” - -“Anything, anything, dear lad. Have you seen my unhappy child?” - -“Valeria and I have agreed that we are no longer engaged,” said Owen -carefully. “I don’t consider that I have been unfairly treated. She -discovered, rather before the eleventh hour, that she and Captain -Cuscaden were in love with one another, and it would have been quite as -unjust to me as to herself, if she had not acted upon the discovery.” - -Canon Morchard gazed anxiously at the victim of this neatly-analysed -situation. - -“For Heaven’s sake, Owen, don’t let yourself become bitter. It is so -easy--so fatally easy, when one is suffering. Take a stronger grip of -your faith than ever before, dear lad--remember that ‘_all_ things -work together for good.’ One learns to dwell upon those words, and the -meaning deepens into something so unspeakably precious....” - -To Owen’s relief the Canon sank back into his chair again. - -“I can offer you no atonement,” he said presently, with a deep -weariness in his voice. - -“I am still unutterably bewildered. How I have failed, how I have -failed, with my motherless girl! And I thought I knew my child--my -merry Valeria, as I have called her from her babyhood--I thought I -knew her through and through! _She_ to be dishonourable, _she_ to be -heartless, _she_ to attach herself to a godless, brainless, mannerless -fellow--and when a man like yourself had received her troth! Owen, it -is as though mine own right hand had turned against me.” - -The Canon held out a trembling right hand and gazed upon it. - -“Where is Captain Cuscaden now, sir?” enquired Quentillian, almost -expecting to hear that the object of his solicitude had been bound and -cast into outer darkness. - -“Where!” Canon Morchard struck the table with his clenched fist until -the blotting-paper and the broken pencil bounded again. “Where! I have -dismissed him, Owen. Does he think that I shall give my daughter to -one who comes like a thief in the night? There is such a thing as a -righteous anger, and such an anger was mine then.” - -It seemed to be his still, Owen reflected, and boded ill for his own -wish to discuss the situation impartially. - -“Valeria is very unhappy, sir.” - -The Canon groaned. - -“I can’t trust myself to see her, to speak to her. God knows that my -place is with my unhappy child, but my shameful lack of self-control -makes me tremble. I have been angry--I am angry still.” - -He looked piteously at Owen. - -“I have thought to get the better of my devil with prayer and fasting, -but the old Adam is strong--terribly strong. When I saw my child--my -little Valeria--her eyes wild, her person disordered, dashing upstairs -as might a shamed creature, to hide itself--when I realized the depths -of her dishonour--Owen, it was in me to have struck her. I could have -raised my hand against my own child!” - -His head sank upon his breast. - -Quentillian waited before making a further, strangely inadequate, -contribution to the conversation. - -“Do you think, sir, perhaps you may be taking this too seriously?” - -Canon Morchard stared at him. Then he smiled grimly. - -“Generous--very generous, Owen. But I am to be deceived by no such -feint. I, who have had the care of souls these thirty years! Do -you think that, whatever front you may present to the world, my -eyes--_mine_--are to be blinded? Do you think that _I_ do not know -that the iron has entered into your soul?” - -The Canon’s eyes were so extraordinarily piercing as they gazed into -Quentillian’s, that the object of his penetration sought in himself -almost hopefully for some of the searing emotions attributed to him. - -He discovered none. - -Wounded in his vanity, annoyed, disappointed even,--but nothing more. - -Owen, quite aware of futility, inwardly formed phrases of complete -truthfulness, only to reject them. - -“I assure you that I am not in the least unhappy at having been jilted -by your daughter ... it leaves me quite cold ... I don’t think I ever -really wanted to marry Val very much ... we were much better friends -before we tried to become engaged....” - -Or, with a yet more devastating candour: - -“I’ve been certain for days that I made a complete fool of myself by -ever proposing marriage to Valeria....” - -This surprisingly agile form of mental gymnastics was tempestuously -interrupted by the Canon. - -“For God’s sake, Owen, break down!” he groaned. “My boy, my boy, you’re -safe with me. Forget that I’m Valeria’s father--think of me only as -one who has known suffering--aye, and sin, too. Make a safety-valve -of me--let yourself go. But I can bear this sham cynicism of yours no -longer. It’s wrong, Owen, it’s wrong. True fortitude faces what lies -before it, finds its Gethsemane, and rises, purged of bitterness. Break -down--weep, nay, curse if you will, only cast open the floodgates. -Let loose whatever devils possess your soul, you, the victim of -treachery--let them loose, I say, and we will conquer them together.” - -For an instant, all that Quentillian could do hardly sufficed to -prevent his letting loose a violent fit of laughter. - -He drove his teeth into his lower lip. It was his increasing perception -of the Canon’s overwhelming misery that steadied him. - -“Val has hurt me less than you think, sir,” he said gently at last. “I -have sometimes thought that she and I had made a mistake.” - -The Canon gazed at him with a pathetic unbelief. - -“My unhappy child does not know what she has lost.” - -“I hope she is going to be happy in her own way,” said Quentillian. - -The Canon’s brow instantly became thunderous again. - -“Not one word, Owen, not one word on those lines,” he commanded -sternly. “I appreciate your generosity deeply, but there is such a -thing as carrying generosity too far.” - -“I can see small generosity in relinquishing to someone else what is no -longer mine.” - -The Canon swept on, unheeding. - -“My faith in my child has received a rude shock. Valeria is unfit for -wifehood and motherhood. How can I let her undertake responsibility -when she has proved herself unworthy up to the hilt? No, Owen, let it -rest there. _I_ will deal with Valeria, and may God help us both!” - -Quentillian felt inclined to echo the petition whole-heartedly. - -He could not doubt that the Canon’s misery was utterly unfeigned. So, -also, was his wrath. - -The incongruous sound of the dinner-gong vibrated violently through the -room. - -The Canon did not stir. - -His voice, when next he spoke, was almost a groan. - -“I cannot see Valeria tonight. God forgive me, I am not master of -myself. Your calm shames me, Owen. But it is not natural, not natural. -You will, and must, suffer for it later on. Tell me, dear fellow--that -I should have to say it!--do you wish to leave us--do you wish to go?” - -Owen wished for nothing so much as an immediate adjournment to the -dining-room, but he felt that it would indeed be impossible to say so. - -“You would not wish me to send Valeria from home, I know. Nor do I know -where I could send her.” - -“Let her marry Cuscaden,” said Quentillian boldly. - -“Never, Owen. Give my child--my weak, untrustworthy child, to a man -who could behave as Cuscaden has behaved? Believe me, I appreciate the -generosity that prompts you, but you know not what you ask--you know -not what you ask.” - -Quentillian, entirely unaccustomed to any such accusation, was silently -annoyed. - -He was also hungry. - -“I have sometimes thought,” said the Canon with a trembling voice, -“that my tendency has been to idolize my children. I lost their mother -so early! You know how it was with me, Owen. Lucilla was my eldest -born, my right hand. I have come to depend upon Lucilla, paradoxical -though it may sound, from a father towards his child. David, my eldest -son ...” the Canon paused a long while, and then murmured softly: -“‘Whilst he was yet a great way off’--David is in a far country, but he -will return to us yet, and though his Morning Prayer be our Evensong, -who shall say that there is separation between us? And I have kept my -other children by my side, Owen. Little Flora has never yet tried her -wings away from home. She is more like her mother than any of them--she -and the dear Adrian.” - -A smile like an illumination came into the Canon’s eyes as he spoke -Adrian’s name. “The light of mine eyes, that dear lad has always been. -My Benjamin! There are no words for what I went through whilst Adrian -was fighting, Owen. One could only remember in Whose keeping he was, -and that all _must_ be well, in reality. But all one’s faith was -needed--it must be so, with poor human nature. The soul goes through -dark waters, Owen, as you are finding now.” - -The protest which Owen almost automatically registered within himself -at this interpolated reference to the despair which he could not feel, -was necessarily a silent one. - -“Valeria has been the brightest, the most lighthearted, of all my -children. She is naturally gifted with high spirits, and she and I -have made innocent fun together, have shared the humourous view of -life, a thousand times. Have I allowed that gaiety of hers to turn to -flippancy--that mirthful spirit to cloak a lack of principle? I ask -myself again and again wherein I have erred, for I cannot hold myself -blameless, Owen. I have thought over my motherless children, I have -prayed, and yet it has come to this--it has come to this!” - -The Canon’s head dropped back into his hands once more, and Quentillian -felt as though this despairing round of anger, self-blame, self-pity, -and genuine misery, might go on forever. - -He glanced at the clock. The dinner-gong having failed of its appeal, -it appeared as though nothing need ever interrupt them again. - -“I will give him five minutes more, and then I shall stand up,” -Quentillian decided. - -The Canon lifted a haggard face. - -“Perhaps I had set my heart overmuch upon your marriage with my -child, Owen. It may be so--it may be so. I may have forgotten that we -poor mortals cannot, after all, see very far--that all plannings and -schemings are very vain, seen by the light of Immortal Wisdom. If so, I -am receiving my punishment now.” - -The Canon groaned again. - -“I am at a loss how to act. I can decide nothing. I must see Valeria, -but how can I do so until I can command myself?” - -Even as he asked the question, the veins stood out upon the Canon’s -forehead, his nostrils quivered and his face became suffused. - -“Three minutes more,” Quentillian reflected. - -“Owen, one thing I must ask. Has she asked your pardon?” - -“Yes, but indeed I don’t think----” - -“No, Owen, no.” The Canon raised his hand in instant protest. “Each -generous plea from you, stabs me afresh. I ask myself if my unhappy -child even knows what she has lost. I thought I knew Valeria through -and through--that nothing in her nature was hidden from me, from her -father. I have been strangely mistaken, indeed.” - -(“Another half minute.”) - -“Am I harsh with her, am I harsh to my motherless girl? God knows that -I was angry when I met her this evening, distraught-looking, crouching -before me like a shamed and terrified creature. I cannot even now fully -understand what has occurred, but her own admission was that, engaged -to you, she believed herself to love another man--that she had allowed -him to make love to her.” - -Owen stood up resolutely. - -“Aye, Owen, I do not wonder at it, if you seek the relief of movement. -It is more natural so. I, too, in my day, have paced this room.” - -Quentillian, however, had no desire to pace the room except for the -very few steps that would put him outside it. - -He debated in vain within himself the most tactful method of making -this clear to Canon Morchard. - -“I suppose I have been blind. This blow has come upon me with fearful -suddenness--I suspected nothing--nothing. How could I----” - -The door opened. - -Quentillian looked round thankfully at Lucilla. She did not go up to -her father, but spoke quietly from the door. - -“Father, don’t you think Owen should come to dinner?” - -A quick frown drew the Canon’s always formidable brows together. - -“Since when do my children interrupt me in my own room, at my work, -Lucilla?” he enquired. - -Her face did not change, but she looked at Quentillian. - -“Thank you,” he said quickly. “I will come.” - -The Canon rose. His hand went once more to the resting-place now -rapidly becoming habitual to it--Quentillian’s shoulder. - -“Do not let my foolish child impose her trivial urgencies upon you.” - -The Canon’s other hand went out towards his daughter. - -“Did I speak over-sharply, my daughter? Perhaps Mary was nearer my mood -than Martha, just now--Martha, careful and troubled over many things. -Go, then, children. Lucilla, you will come to me later. Until then, I -do not wish to be disturbed again.” - -With a heavy sigh, the Canon turned again to his writing-table. - -Owen and Lucilla went out. - -“He is terribly upset. Could he not be persuaded to come to dinner?” - -“No, I knew he wouldn’t want that. But I shall take in a tray when I -go to him later. Sometimes, if he’s talking, he eats without thinking -about it. I was counting on that--and besides, he would have disliked -my suggesting that he should come in to dinner as usual.” - -Lucilla’s voice and her face alike were entirely guiltless of irony. - -Quentillian followed her into the dining-room: - -“The others have finished,” Lucilla said. “Would you rather I stayed, -or that I went?” - -“Stay, please.” - -She sat down opposite to him at once. - -“I wish your father were less angry with poor Val, although perhaps -it is not my place to say so. But in his--his generous sympathy for -me, I am afraid he has rather lost sight of what she must have been -suffering.” - -“I don’t think suffering, in my father’s eyes, would ever condone what -he considers wrong-doing.” - -The comment seemed to Owen to be rather an illuminating one. - -“I suppose not. It may surprise you to hear that I do not, personally, -consider that Canon Morchard is entitled either to condemn or condone -whatever Valeria may have done.” - -“I quite agree with you.” - -Quentillian was less gratified than astonished at the assertion. - -“Val herself would hardly agree to that.” - -“No.” - -“Well, but don’t you see, Lucilla, how difficult that’s going to make -things? To my mind, the only natural proceeding is for Valeria and -George Cuscaden to marry and go to Canada.” - -Quentillian paused almost without meaning to, on a pronouncement that -would certainly have met with drastic and emphatic interruption from -Canon Morchard. - -Lucilla, however, received it unmoved. - -“Don’t you think so?” said Quentillian, slightly disappointed. - -“Yes.” - -“But will Valeria do it? Won’t her strange ideas of filial duty -interfere? I am absolutely convinced that one of the principal reasons -for her ever becoming engaged to me, was her wish to please her father.” - -“I don’t think it was altogether that, Owen. But you did ask her to -marry you at a time when she was just beginning to realize that the -sort of life she led before the war wasn’t going to be enough for her.” - -“Need it have taken a European war to make her see that?” - -The smile that Lucilla turned upon his petulance was disarming. - -“Don’t be so cross, Owen.” - -She might have been talking to a little boy. - -“I think,” said Quentillian with dignity, “that perhaps you forget -it was only a few hours ago that I learnt how completely cheated -and--fooled, I have been.” - -He could not avoid a recollection that the Canon would not have needed -such a reminder. - -“Indeed, I don’t forget at all,” said Lucilla earnestly. “It must be -very vexing for you, but--Owen, do forgive me for saying that I can’t -really feel as if you minded dreadfully. You’re much too understanding, -really, not to know that poor Val didn’t wilfully cheat you, any more -than she cheated herself. And I think you, too, perhaps, in another -way, were beginning to feel that you’d made a mistake in promising to -marry one another.” - -Lucilla, Quentillian realized half ruefully and half with amusement, -had beaten him at his own game. Her unvarnished appraisement of the -situation brought to it no more and no less than the facts warranted. - -His answering gaze was as straight as her own. - -“You’re right,” he said abruptly. - -She held out her hand with a laden plate in it. - -“Pudding?” she enquired, prosaically. - -“Thanks.” - -He made an excellent dinner. - -“But what will happen to us now, Lucilla?” - -“Well, George Cuscaden will be here again, and that’ll make Val feel -better. And you’ll help, won’t you?” - -“Certainly.” - -And, on the strange assurance, they separated. - -It was much later that Owen, from his own room, heard the door of the -study immediately below him, open once more, and then shut. - -Barely audible, but still unmistakable, he heard a steady stream of -sound, rising and falling, easily to be identified as the Canon’s voice. - -“Good God, what more _can_ he have to say about it?” reflected -Quentillian. He was destined to ask himself the question again, for the -sounds, punctuated by the briefest of pauses, doubtless consecrated to -the delivery of laconic replies from Lucilla, continued far into the -small hours of the morning. - -Finally, after Quentillian had fallen asleep, he was roused by a -gentle, reiterated knocking at the door. - -Only too well aware whose hand was responsible for those considerately -modified taps, he rose and went to open the door, omitting the usual -invitation to enter. - -As he expected, the Canon, unutterably pale and weary-looking, stood -without. - -“Dear fellow, I knew that I should find you awake. Owen, I could not -but come to tell you that all is well with me now. I have forgiven, -even as I myself hope--and need--to be forgiven. I will see Valeria -tomorrow, and tell her that she has my full and free pardon. Together -we will consider what is the best thing that we can make of this most -unhappy business.” - -“And Cuscaden, sir?” - -Quentillian intended to suggest the inclusion of Captain Cuscaden in -the proposed conference, which might reasonably be supposed to concern -him closely, but the Canon misunderstood the elliptical reference. - -“Aye, Owen, I have no bitterness left in my heart, even for him. ‘Unto -seventy times seven.’ Those words have been ringing in my ears until I -could almost bring myself to believe that I heard them uttered aloud. I -need not ask if all is well with you, dear boy? Your self-command and -generosity have shamed me all along.” - -The absolute sincerity of the utterance caused Quentillian, with -considerably more reason than the Canon, to feel ashamed in his turn. - -“I am very far from being what you think me, sir,” he said, earnestly, -and with complete truth. “I am afraid you are very tired.” - -The Canon, indeed, looked utterly exhausted. - -“If so, it is in my Master’s service,” said Canon Morchard gently. -“And you remember, Owen--‘there remaineth a rest.’ May it be mine, and -yours, too--all in His own good time! Good-night to you, my dear.” - -For the first time since Owen’s childish days, the Canon placed his -hand upon his head and murmured a word of blessing. - -Then, with a smile as wistful as it was tender, he turned and went away -upstairs. - - -(viii) - -The following day was one of singular discomfort, and of private -interviews that were held to be of the greatest necessity, in spite of -the fact that the participants always emerged from them in worse plight -than they went in. - -The Canon saw Valeria in his study, and she came out crying. - -Valeria sought Flora, and both wept. - -Quentillian deliberately demanded an interview from Captain Cuscaden, -but was baffled in his design of a rational discussion of the -three-cornered situation by Cuscaden’s honest bewilderment at the mere -suggestion of disinterested counsel. - -It seemed, indeed, that Captain Cuscaden would have understood Owen -better, and certainly have thought more highly of him, had the -traditional horsewhip, abhorred of all Owen’s most deeply-rooted -prejudices, held a place in their conversation, at least as threat, if -not as actual fact. - -Failing the horsewhip, Cuscaden was inclined to follow in the wake of -the Canon and attribute to Valeria’s discarded _fiancé_ a spirit of -generous heroism that was even less to Quentillian’s liking. - -“Captain Cuscaden takes primitive views,” Quentillian observed to -Lucilla, whom alone he suspected of summing up the whole situation very -much at its true value. - -“Yes, that will suit Val very well.” - -“You think she takes primitive views, too?” - -“Yes, don’t you?” - -Owen realized that, although he had never thought Valeria subtle, -he had at least supposed her to be capable of appreciating his own -subtlety. But subtleties had not, apparently, really weighed with Val -at all. - -The sight of her tear-mottled face annoyed Owen’s æsthetic sense so -much, and he felt so sincerely ashamed of his annoyance, that it -constrained him to absent himself from the house all the afternoon. He -would gladly have left St. Gwenllian altogether and felt sure that the -Canon expected nothing less of him, but Flora brought him a piteous -little message from Val to beg that he would remain until “something -was settled.” - -In the forlorn hope that this had been achieved, Quentillian returned. - -An eager grasp met him almost upon the threshold. - -“Owen, dear lad! Where have you been? I have been uneasy--most uneasy, -at your prolonged absence.” - -“I’m very sorry, sir.” - -“Nay, so long as all is well with you! I should have had more faith.” - -The Canon smiled gravely, and relief was latent in the smile. -Quentillian suddenly realized that Canon Morchard had not improbably -known the sub-conscious fear of his guest and _protégé_ having sought -some drastic means of ending an existence in the course of which he had -been played so ill a turn. - -His sense of his own inadequacy increased every moment. - -“May I know how things stand?” he enquired abruptly. - -“_May_ you? Who has a better right than yourself, dear Owen? Come you -out with me, and let us have a few words together.” - -Owen followed his host. - -“It has been a trying day--a sad and trying one. But I need not tell -you _that_--you, whose grief is so much greater than mine own, even. -Though you, at least, Owen, have nothing to reproach yourself with, -whereas I am responsible for the weakness in my poor child which -has led to this unhappy state of affairs. But at least she is fully -sensible of error--she knows what she has done.” - -It would be strange indeed if she did not, Owen reflected, in -the universal _bouleversement_ that had characterized Valeria’s -surroundings ever since her sudden departure from the conventions. - -“To my surprise, Lucilla, upon whose judgment I place a certain -reliance, although it may sound somewhat odd to hear of a father -seeking counsel of his child--Lucilla advocates my sanctioning her -sister’s marriage. My first instinct was of course to cut her short at -the mention of anything so premature--so--so lacking in all taste or -feeling. But--I hardly know----” - -“There is nothing against Captain Cuscaden, is there?” - -Quentillian made the observation in the simple hope of expediting the -Canon’s decision, but he immediately perceived that it led him open -once more to the imputation of high-minded generosity. - -“I mean to say, he can afford to marry?” he amended hastily. - -“He has satisfied me upon that score,” Canon Morchard admitted. “I have -never desired wealth for my dear ones, nor have they been brought up to -it. Valeria is not unfitted to become the wife of a poor man. Nay, had -she but acted an honourable and high-minded part throughout, I should -gladly send her forth into the New World. Valeria has something of the -pioneer spirit, I have always felt.” - -He sighed heavily. - -“In short, Owen, if, as Lucilla tells me, you share her own view, then -I shall not withhold my consent to this marriage. The haste is strange -and unseemly, but Captain Cuscaden cannot postpone his departure, in -view of the position awaiting him, and my unhappy child, left here, -would be in a difficult and awkward situation, nor have I any security, -alas, that she has sufficient discretion to face such a situation.” - -“It might be difficult for her,” Quentillian admitted. “Lucilla is -looking for us, I think, sir.” - -Lucilla was indeed advancing towards them. - -The Canon frowned slightly. - -“Am I wanted, my child?” - -“It was Owen that I wanted, father.” - -“My dear, Owen is engaged with me.” - -“I know,” Lucilla seemed slightly perplexed, but quite unruffled. “I -know, but the post is just going, and I thought Owen ought to see this -before I send it to the papers.” - -She handed him a sheet of notepaper, upon which he read a brief and -conventionally-worded announcement to the effect that the marriage -arranged between himself and Valeria Morchard would not take place. - -He passed it to the Canon, who groaned. - -“Must this be?” he enquired, with some superfluity. - -The superfluity seemed to strike himself, for he added almost at once: - -“‘If ’t’were done, ’t’were well ’t’were done quickly’, no doubt.” - -“There is the other announcement to be thought of,” said Lucilla with -merciless common-sense. “If Val is married at the end of this week, we -shall have to put that in the papers.” - -The Canon gave Owen a quick, anxious glance. - -“Come into the house, my daughter,” he said to Lucilla. “We can speak -of such matters there.” - -Owen understood that Canon Morchard was thinking of him. - -On a sudden impulse he went to seek Valeria. - -“Look here, my dear, I’d do anything to help you, but do you really -want me to stay on here any longer? It’s more than I can stand.” - -“Oh, Owen! I thought you’d forgiven me--I thought you didn’t mind, so -very much, after all,” she cried in dismay. - -“I don’t mind in the least,” Quentillian told her desperately. “But -it’s a false position altogether, and I want to be out of it.” - -“Of course you do, it was very selfish of me to want to keep you. -Only somehow Father is less--dreadful--when you’re there, Owen. But -he’s forgiven me,” her tears came falling fast, “and I’m going out -with George when he sails, at the beginning of next week. We shall be -married very, very quietly, on Saturday.” - -“I’m very glad to hear it. Indeed I am, Val. I’m sure he’s a good -fellow, and I hope he’ll make you very happy.” - -She was crying too much to speak, as he went away from her. - -And Quentillian, definitely, could tell himself that he had no regrets -in relinquishing Valeria. - -Her warm emotionalism had not been without its appeal, but he had no -liking for tears at a crisis, nor indeed for a crisis at all. His -mind reverted to Lucilla’s matter-of-fact fashion of dealing with the -crucial instances of life at St. Gwenllian, and theoretically, he met -her attitude with applause. But he also remembered that he had not -found her sympathetic, upon the preceding evening. - -Impartially, he acknowledged with a rueful smile, his own exactingness. - -He must go, and decided that it should be to London. As for Stear, he -would face it later. The thought of Stear, and the loneliness there, -brought the realest sense of loss to him that he had yet experienced -over the defection of Valeria. - -He had thought to hear her laughter there, to see the apricot bloom on -her lovely face, her children growing up there. - -With a long sigh, Owen let the vision go. The warm, human things of -life had come very near to him, but he had not known how to hold them. -Some subtle, inner sense warned him that Valeria had done well to -betake herself and the rich gifts of her ardent nature, to the simple -and primitive life of the colonies, and the man who was offering that -life to her. - -He went away to make his preparations for leaving St. Gwenllian. - - * * * * * - -Valeria’s wedding, not unnaturally, provided no occasion for festivity. - -The bride herself remarked in private to her sisters: - -“I feel exactly as though I was one of those unfortunate girls who come -to Father for him to marry them so as to ‘make honest women of them’ -at the eleventh hour. You know the way that sort of wedding is hurried -through, in a hole-and-corner style....” - -“It’s lucky for you you’ve got a good deal of your trousseau made -already,” was Lucilla’s practical reply. - -“Yes, and ‘V. Q.’ embroidered on more than half of it!” cried Val -hysterically. - -“You can’t possibly use it,” Flora declared austerely. “Unless I can -alter it for you in time.” - -“Of course she can use it,” said Lucilla. - -Valeria left them both. In the overstrained condition of her nerves, -Lucilla’s crudely-worded common-sense and Flora’s fastidiousness were -equally little to her taste. Her father’s sorrowful gravity struck her -with despair, and Owen Quentillian’s magnanimous detachment puzzled her -sincerely, and made her doubly remorseful. - -It was only when George Cuscaden was actually with her that she knew -with real certainty that she had done right at the last moment. - -On the night before her wedding, Canon Morchard called Valeria, gave -her his blessing and forgiveness, and handed to her some of her dead -mother’s jewelry. - -“God bless and help you in the way that you have chosen, and may He -bring all things together for good, as He alone can do.” - -“Forgive me, Father.” - -“My child, I have nothing to forgive. It was not I whom you wronged, -but yourself,--and one other. His pardon is yours, fully and freely, as -you know well. And now, my Valeria, you owe it to your husband to put -the past behind you. You will enter into your new life purified by that -very sense of past error, humbled by repentance.” - -The Canon’s voice was very gentle. - -It was long after midnight when Valeria heard him go upstairs. - -George Cuscaden and Valeria were married by Mr. Clover, immediately -after Matins next day, and Canon Morchard, throughout the ceremony, -knelt with his face hidden by his hand. - -The sense of irrevocability that comes to most brides assailed Valeria -irresistibly for a moment as she walked, alone with her husband, the -short distance from the church back to St. Gwenllian. - -She glanced up at him, and in the look that met hers she found all the -reassurance that she was ever to need. - -“A new life, and a new world, my Val. We’re going to face things -together, now.” - -She was no longer afraid or doubtful, but felt the strangest rush of -pure exhilaration. - -It was her justification for the past. - -“A new life, and a new world,” she repeated. “We’re going to be very -happy, in spite of everything that’s happened.” - -“We _are_ very happy,” said George Cuscaden firmly, her hand held fast -in his. - -“I think they’ll forgive me, at home, in time. Father was very kind -last night, and Flossie and Lucilla have been so good.” - -“Val, my darling,” said the young man very seriously, “there’s one -thing I do want to say, and you mustn’t mind. You’ve got to leave the -past behind you, now. Isn’t there something or other in the Bible about -forgetting thy father’s house and thine own people?” - -“Something like that.” - -“Well, I don’t really mean forgetting them, you know. But you’ve got -your own life now, and it isn’t going to run on the old lines any more. -It seems to me there’s been such a lot of talking and thinking in your -life up to now, that there’s been no room for doing anything. You and -I are going to change all that.” - -“Yes, George,” said Valeria. - -She had, mysteriously, become absolutely happy and absolutely secure. -Nothing mattered any more at all except the fact that George and she -had found one another in time. - -And she was able to surmise, not without a smile, that she had that -moment heard almost the only Scriptural quotation from her husband of -which he was ever likely to deliver himself. - -Quotations, collections, barren discussions, abstract ideals, all lay -behind her. In future her preoccupations would concern the health and -welfare of her husband and perhaps his children, food and clothing and -warmth, pots and pans, and the work of her own hands. - -And from the depths of her heart, Valeria was glad. - - - - -II - -ADRIAN - - -(i) - -“You know, I can’t help thinking you’ve been all wrong about this -business of Val’s,” Adrian said reproachfully to his remaining sisters. - -Lucilla seemed singularly undisturbed by the distressing pronouncement, -but Flora said anxiously: - -“Why, Adrian?” - -“Well, look how frightfully hard it is on the rest of us. You know what -Father is--he’ll be days and days, if not months and months, getting -over this, and it’ll put him dead against anything of that sort for -life.” - -“These things don’t happen twice in one family, I hope,” said Lucilla. -“Neither Flora nor I are particularly likely to break off one -engagement and enter into another and get married and go off to Canada, -all inside a week.” - -“You girls never think of anybody but yourselves.” - -“Are you thinking of doing anything like that, then, Adrian?” - -Lucilla appeared mildly to be amused, and not at all impressed by the -probability of her own suggestion. - -“How can I think of doing anything at all when I can’t get a decent job -and only have a nominal allowance? I know Father can’t afford more, -and we’re all in the same box--and then Val goes and marries a chap -like Cuscaden, who hasn’t a penny, when she could have had a fellow -with a decent little property and some money of his own, besides what I -suppose he makes by writing. Why, just think what she could have done -for all of us!” - -Lucilla laughed outright. - -“It wouldn’t have made millionaires of us, if she had married Owen.” - -“Well, I can’t say I blame her, from one point of view,” Adrian -conceded. “A more absolute prig than Owen has turned into, I never wish -to meet. You know he won’t promise me the living at Stear?” - -“The living at Stear?” - -Flora looked at her brother in all but speechless astonishment, and -Lucilla observed that a living was usually offered to a clergyman. - -“And is there any reason why I shouldn’t go into the Church?” Adrian -enquired, in counter-irony. “Goodness knows there was enough talk -about it before the war, and it would please the governor frightfully. -In fact, really, I’m thinking of him as much as anything. He was -disappointed about old David going into the army, and he’s frightfully -cut up about Val, and he may as well get a little comfort out of one of -us. And I really don’t dislike the idea much, especially if it means a -settled income in a year or two’s time.” - -Lucilla got up. - -“Talk to Mr. Clover, before you say anything to Father,” she advised. -“Flossie, I’m going to see about Val’s class.” - -Flora looked at Adrian with grave, unhumourous eyes. - -“You don’t realize what Father would feel about your speaking of going -into the priesthood in that sort of way, Adrian. You have no faintest -vocation to the life of a clergyman.” - -“What do you know about it? I’m the only person who can judge of that.” - -“It lies between you and your conscience, certainly. But if you suppose -that Father, with all his experience, would be satisfied with any but -the highest motives----” - -She stopped expressively. - -“There may be different opinions as to what the highest motives _are_,” -said Adrian. “I wish this business of Val’s hadn’t put it out of the -question to ask Owen anything.” - -“Owen is coming to Stear in another month. I am quite certain that -he doesn’t mean to let this make any difference, and you can ask him -anything you want to. But really and truly, Adrian, if this suggestion -wasn’t so absolutely wild, I should call it most irreverent.” - -It was evident that Flora had uttered the most profound condemnation of -which she was capable. - -That night she enquired of Lucilla whether it was Adrian’s infatuation -for Miss Duffle that brought to birth his strangely sudden desire for -clerical life. - -“I suppose so.” - -“But apart from everything else, he’s much too young to marry. And I -don’t suppose she’d look at him.” - -“Neither do I. So we needn’t worry about it.” - -“I feel as if Adrian was somebody quite new, whom I’d never known -before.” - -“He’s only growing up.” - -“Does Father really know Adrian?” - -Lucilla shook her head. - -Both missed Valeria, and the mournful haste with which she had been -equipped for her wedding and immediate departure for Canada had left -them with a curious sense of having come through a great catastrophe. - -The Canon was more profoundly depressed than they had ever seen him, -and rarely spoke. The reduced number of people present at every meal -rendered more significant the abysmal silences of each gathering. - -Owen Quentillian, who had shown no marked disposition to take an -immediate departure from St. Gwenllian, had been constrained to do so -by the Canon’s grieved air of perceiving for him no other alternative. - -The house bore a stricken aspect. - -Only Adrian retained a sort of uneasy jauntiness, that petered away -into silence in the presence of his father. - -Canon Morchard’s presence, however, was far more withdrawn than usual -from his family circle. Always energetic, he seemed able to find -innumerable claims upon his time, and after the daily adjustment of -these, the study door was apt to shut upon him decisively. - -At dinner-time only were they certain of seeing him, and the resultant -gloom was of a nature that induced Adrian, far more affected by it -than either of his sisters appeared to be, to invite the innocuous Mr. -Clover to dinner very soon after Valeria’s departure. - -The curate was always ready to promote conversation, and sincerely -supposed that his efforts must be consolatory to his hosts. His -attempts took the form habitual to him of slightly self-evident remarks -upon whatever caught his eye in his surroundings. - -“Ha! Clover, dear man!” The Canon’s voice was sepulchral, rather than -cordial. “Sit ye down--sit ye down.” - -Mr. Clover made a few timid remarks to his neighbour, Flora, and wished -that it had been Lucilla. He was always rather frightened of the silent -Flora, and showed his alarmed consciousness of her musical talent by -inquiring: - -“And how is the piano?” - -“What have we here, Lucilla?” said the Canon gravely, although the dish -of cutlets was of an unmistakable nature. - -He often made use of the phrase, and on this occasion it bore an -inflexion of disapproval that was evidently not inspired by the cutlets -themselves, but by some inner, more profound discontent. - -“Cutlets in a silver dish,” said Mr. Clover. - -“Do you know that the Admastons are getting up a theatrical show?” -Adrian inquired. “Good idea, isn’t it?” - -“I didn’t know any of them could act,” said Flora. - -“Oh, they’ve got friends and people. I tell you who’s awfully -good--Olga Duffle. She’s going to stay on for the performance. As a -matter of fact, they’ve asked me to help get the thing up.” - -Adrian’s elaborately casual tone did not prevent anyone except Lucilla -from glancing surreptitiously at the Canon, to see how the announcement -was received. - -The Canon was frowning heavily. - -“No one has more sympathy than myself with any diversions for young -people, but the modern craze for amusement is carried too far. What is -it that your friends are proposing to do, Adrian?” - -“Just get up a musical show--a sort of Pierrot entertainment. It’ll be -mostly singing and dancing, I expect.” - -“I presume they have a charitable object in view.” - -“I suppose so,” returned Adrian, in a tone that conveyed with -sufficient accuracy to the majority of his hearers that he had no -reason for supposing anything of the sort. - -“The youth of today is an amazement to me,” said the Canon -impressively. “After coming through Armageddon, the young men and -young women of the present generation seem given over to a spirit -of triviality--I can call it nothing else--that amazes me. There -is no humour, today, there is ‘ragging’ or ‘rotting.’ There is no -dancing--there is ‘fox-trotting,’ and ‘jazzing.’ There is no dressing, -with beauty and dignity, for young womanhood--there is blatant -indecency and an aping of a class that I cannot even name in this room. -There is no art, no drama, no literature--there are _revues_, and a new -class of novel of which I cannot even trust myself to speak.” - -The Canon drew a long breath and Adrian murmured sub-audibly: - -“And fifthly, and lastly----” - -Mr. Clover gazed at the bowl in the middle of the table and said: - -“Very--very--nice maidenhair,” in a rapid undertone, and Canon Morchard -resumed: - -“I yield to no one, as you young folk here should readily admit, in my -appreciation of the lighter side of life. I believe, indeed, that I -have poked some shrewd enough fun in my day, at those who would have us -believe that this world is a gloomy place. Rather would I say, in the -old words we all know: ‘A merry heart goes all the way, but a sad one -tires in a mile’--ah! You children can very well vouch for the amount -of innocent amusement and recreation that has gone on amongst us. Our -Sunday walks, our collecting crazes, our family quips in which young -and old have taken full share--with deference due, be it understood, -with deference due--our evening readings-aloud--I think all these, -if they have been an entertainment, have also provided a certain -instruction. And that is as it should be, let me tell you, young -people--as it should be.” - -“My father read aloud the whole of the Waverly novels to us, when we -were children,” Lucilla explained to the curate. - -“Nowadays, I am given to understand that children read an illustrated -supplement entitled _Comic Cuts_,” said the Canon bitterly. - -“Pretty Wedgwood plate,” came in an aside from Mr. Clover. - -“There is a reaction even against Tennyson, that king of song,” -thundered the Canon. - -“Most of all against Tennyson, according to Owen Quentillian,” said -Adrian rather maliciously. - -“Owen is tainted by the folly of the day, undoubtedly--but I cannot but -believe that a young man of intellectual calibre such as his will learn -to distinguish the true from the false in time. Owen is ‘the child of -many prayers,’” said the Canon with a sudden softening of his voice. - -A moment later he sighed heavily. - -The direction of his thoughts was only too evidently concerned with the -recent disastrous turn taken by Quentillian’s _affaire de cœur_. - -“What is the programme of your friends’ entertainment?” the curate -timorously inquired of Adrian. - -“Well, they’ve not really worked out the details yet, but I’ve been -asked to go over there this afternoon and help them settle. Of course, -Miss Duffle will sing, and she’s promised to do a step-dance, and she -and I thought of getting up a play of some kind.” - -“You are not in a position to bind yourself to anything of that sort, -Adrian,” said the Canon hastily. “I would have you realize that this -supineness cannot go on. You appear to forget that you have to find -some work for yourself.” - -It was so seldom that Canon Morchard vented his feelings upon his -younger son that an appalled silence followed his words, rendering them -the more noticeable. - -Then Mr. Clover said: - -“Half-past eight,” in time to the chiming of the clock on the -mantelpiece, and there was another silence. - -Adrian looked sulky, and Flora nervous. The curate gazed across the -table at Lucilla and inquired: - -“What news from India?” - -It was the head of the house who replied. - -“David is strangely lax as a correspondent, Clover, strangely lax. -Flora there is favoured with a letter more often than most of us--or -should I rather say, less seldom? And yet it costs so little to send a -few lines regularly to the loving ones at home! You young folk little -think what you are laying up for yourselves in the years to come by -neglecting tokens that may appear trivial at the time. The unspoken -kind word, the unwritten affectionate letter--how they come back to -haunt us later on!” - -It almost appeared that these non-existent symbols were haunting St. -Gwenllian at once, so heavily did the shadow of David’s remissness hang -over the dinner table. - -The Canon alternated between fits of profound and cataclysmic silence, -during which he ate nothing and his eyes became grave and fixed in -their unhappiness, and outbursts of vehement discoursiveness, that not -infrequently took the form of rhetorical remonstrances addressed to an -audience only too willing to agree with him. - -The consciousness of his grief pervaded the atmosphere. No one could be -unaware of it. His children, indeed, knew of old the successive stages -of anger, morose irritability, and heart-broken remorse, to which -mental suffering reduced their father. - -Mr. Clover’s ineptitudes fell upon tense pauses, and remained -unanswered. - -Gradually the little man’s kind, anxious face showed a faint reflection -of the misery that was so plainly to be read upon the Canon’s. - -Flora’s face looked set in its gravity, Adrian was frankly sulky and -resentful, and Lucilla’s impassivity was tinged with regretfulness. - -Outside sounds struck almost with violence upon the silence within, and -Mr. Clover murmured distressfully: - -“A motor going along the road, towards the town.” - -“The craze for rapid transport is ruining our English countryside,” -said the Canon. “Frankly, I cannot away with it. What profit or -pleasure can there be in whirling past unseen scenery, leaving clouds -of dust and an evil odour behind?” - -No one attempted to defend the satisfaction to be derived from the -pastime so epitomized, and the Canon after a moment pushed back his -chair. - -“Don’t move--do not move on any account. Clover, you will pardon me, I -know. I have a great deal of writing to get through. I shall require no -coffee, Lucilla.” - -He went out of the room, unsmiling, and with a slow, dejected step, his -grey head a little bowed forward. - -“How long is this going to last?” inquired Adrian, after a moment. - -No one attempted to misunderstand his meaning. - -“The worst of it is that he’ll be still more unhappy a little later on, -when he realizes that his depression has reacted on all of us,” said -Flora. - -“In the meantime, Adrian, I strongly advise you to find a job and begin -to work at it,” Lucilla added. - -“Your father is very, very much depressed,” said Mr. Clover. - -Adrian appeared to ponder these encouraging statements, and then he -observed: - -“Well, I don’t seem to be doing any good by staying here, so I think -the best thing I can do is to accept the Admastons’ invitation and go -over there and stay until after this show. It’ll be much handier for -rehearsals, after all.” - -It may be supposed that this reason, however adequate in fact, was not -put forward, unsupported, by Lucilla, upon whom Adrian as a matter of -course devolved the task of announcing his immediate intentions to the -Canon. - -“Let it be understood that he makes no further engagement of the kind,” -said the Canon curtly. “I cannot interfere with his promise to these -people, but this state of affairs must end. I will speak to him before -he goes. Adrian is only a boy still, for all his war experience.” - -There was the indulgent note in his voice that always crept there -sooner or later when speaking of his youngest son. - -Adrian went to the Admastons, and St. Gwenllian became used to the -silence. Gradually the Canon resumed his habits of reading aloud after -dinner, and of exchanging small items of general and parish news with -his family during meals. - -He seldom mentioned Valeria, but they knew that he had written to her. - -He spoke of her again when an invitation came from the Admastons to -witness their entertainment--an invitation which Adrian, it was evident -to his sisters, cheerfully took it for granted that his father would -refuse. - -“It is very soon--very soon, indeed--to meet our neighbours after this -unhappy affair of Valeria’s, that I fear has been only too much talked -about. But it may be right to accept--it may be right. I cannot wish -to disappoint the dear Adrian, either, though I am out of tune with -gaieties at present. I will think over it, Lucilla, my dear, and let -you know what answer to return.” - -Lucilla, according to her wont, uttered no opinion, until Flora said to -her: - -“Wouldn’t it be better if we didn’t go to these theatricals? Won’t -Father dislike them very much?” - -“Very much indeed, I should imagine.” - -“And do you suppose Adrian _wants_ us to be there?” - -“Probably not.” - -They looked at one another, Lucilla with a certain rueful -humourousness, Flora with none at all. - -“But, Lucilla, can’t you stop him?” - -“I shouldn’t think so.” - -Miss Morchard was always philosophical, rather than enterprising. - -The Canon’s decision was communicated to his daughters a few days later. - -“I have pondered this matter, my daughters, trivial though it be in -itself. And it seems to me that we should do well to accept Mrs. -Admaston’s invitation. Lucilla, you are my secretary.... And one thing -more, my daughters.” - -The Canon’s glance rested upon Flora, upon whose face a shade of dismay -had fallen. - -“One thing more. ‘_God loveth a cheerful giver._’ Even though it costs -us something, let us go with a good grace. We owe it to Valeria, to our -dear erring one, to show that she is whole-heartedly forgiven. Yes, I -can say it now, children. I have written my full and free forgiveness -to your sister. The cloud has lifted.” - -If so, it appeared to have done so only with a view to descending upon -other members of the Morchard _ménage_. - -Neither Lucilla nor Flora prepared for the Admastons’ party with any -feelings save those of profound apprehension, and Adrian, meeting them -in the hall, drew Lucilla aside in order to ask indignantly: - -“Couldn’t you have stopped Father from coming tonight? I don’t want to -be a beast, but really, it’s quite out of his line, and he won’t enjoy -himself. In fact, he’ll probably be sick.” - -The aspirant to the ministry was garbed as a Pierrot, with a -curiously-shaped black patch upon his cheek, revealed as a miniature -couple of dancers intertwined. - -“Olga made it--isn’t it ripping?” said Adrian of this masterpiece. “I -can’t wait--I ought to be behind the scenes at this minute. I came to -look for some salts or something--Olga’s most awfully nervous. She’s -simply shaking. What’s the proper thing to do for her, Lucilla? She’s -really most awfully upset.” - -“What about?” - -“Stage fright, I tell you. Really good actors and actresses always get -it. I wish I could get hold of some champagne for her.” - -“Try standing over her with the water-jug,” Lucilla suggested crisply, -and thereby deprived herself of her brother’s presence. - -The Canon was always apt, at any gathering, to require a daughter upon -either side, although he knew almost everyone in the county, and met -old friends with a great and urbane pleasure. On this occasion, his eye -roved in vain for Flora. - -She had murmured to Lucilla: “I don’t think I can bear it. Even Maud -Admaston says they’re all going to be very _silly_, and I know Father -will loathe it. I’ll change places later if you want me to.” - -She had then disappeared to the very back of the large billiard-room at -one end of which a stage and curtains had been erected. - -Their hostess, with what Lucilla inwardly qualified as misguided -kindness, conducted the Canon to a seat near the top of the room. - -Lucilla resignedly took her place beside him. - -“Capital, capital!” said the Canon genially. “But where is my little -Flora?” - -“I think she found someone who wanted to talk to her.” - -“Flora is still timid--very timid. I fear that Flora has let slip her -chance of joining our little family group. I should have enjoyed having -a daughter on either side of me, to exchange impressions.” - -The first item on the heterogeneous programme, however, was provocative -of no very eloquent exchange of impressions between Canon Morchard and -anyone else. - -He listened with a faint air of surprise to an opening chorus from a -row of Pierrots and Pierrettes, interspersed with various noises from -a whistle, a comb, a pair of castanets, and a small and solid poker -banged loudly and intermittently against a tin tray. - -At the close of it he only said: - -“I hardly recognized our dear lad, at first. That was he, was it not, -at the end of the row, next to the little lady with black hair?” - -“Yes. The girl was Olga Duffle. I believe she sings a great deal.” - -The literal truth of her own description was borne in upon Lucilla as -the evening went on. Miss Duffle did sing a great deal. - -She sang a solo about the Moon, and another one about a Coal-black Baby -Rose, and a third one, very short and modern and rather indeterminate, -asking where was now the Flow’r, that had died within an Hour, and -ending on the still more poignant enquiry, addressed to _le Bon Dieu_ -Above, Where was one who said “I love”? - -The Canon, to this item, only asked in a puzzled way if the end was not -rather abrupt? - -“What in my day, we should have termed an unresolved discord,” he -observed with some slight severity. - -The sudden introduction of a quantity of toy balloons amongst the -audience did not amuse him in the least, although he smiled, coldly and -politely, as the guests, with little screams, buffeted them lightly -from one to another. - -Only the people on the stage, all very young, seemed thoroughly to -realize the function of the toy balloons. - -They banged them hither and thither, shrieking with laughter when -the inevitable destruction ensued, and making each miniature -explosion an excuse for calling out the catchword of the -evening--imported from a _revue_ comedian whose methods, more -or less successfully imitated by most of the young men on the -stage, appeared to consist in the making of grotesque facial -contortions:--“May--I--ask--you--politely--to--_absquatulate_?” - -At each repetition of the phrase, the actors and actresses were -overcome with mirth. - -The members of the audience were more divided in their opinions. -Their laughter was not immoderate, and that of Canon Morchard was -non-existent. - -Lucilla, gazing anxiously at his severe profile, was yet able to feel -it some slight relief that at least Owen Quentillian was not present. -One such expression of melancholy beside her was more than enough. - -“I hope I am not what is vulgarly called ‘superior’,” said the Canon, -“but I confess that all this noise appears to me to be little short of -senseless. Surely our faculties were given us for some better purpose -than pointless, discordant merriment? No one is more ready than myself -to concede----” - -The upheaval of an enormous drum on to the stage debarred Lucilla -from hearing what it was that no one was more ready than her father -to concede, and she was left, amidst ever-increasing din, to judge -from his exceedingly uncompromising expression, how much more of -the performance would elapse without causing him to become what was -vulgarly called superior. - - -(ii) - -Lucilla Morchard was not naturally of a sanguine disposition, and it -must have been an optimist indeed who would have ventured to augur that -the effect of the evening’s entertainment might be of benefit to the -Canon’s spirits. - -From placidity he passed to tolerance, and from tolerance to endurance. -In the course of the short play that concluded the performance, Lucilla -perceived with resigned dismay that endurance was turning rapidly to -serious vexation. - -“Extravagant, vulgar, decadent nonsense,” was the Canon’s verdict, and -Lucilla’s critical faculty endorsed the trenchant adjectives that he -had selected, although she was devoid of her parent’s apparently acute -sense of disgust. - -“Olga Duffle is a good actress,” she said. - -“One dislikes the _levity_ of it all so profoundly,” said the Canon. “I -believe I am the last man in the world to hold back from any cheerful, -innocent amusement at fit and proper times and seasons, but I cannot -but regret that Adrian, naturally gifted as he is, should turn his -talents to no better account than mere buffoonery.” - -The part relegated to Adrian in the little play was indeed of no -exalted order, and the most subtle display of humour conceded to him -was concerned with the sudden removal of a chair behind him and his -consequent fall on to the floor. - -The audience laughed, with mild amusement. - -Lucilla dared not look at her father. - -A spirited speech from Olga Duffle, who had shown no signs whatever of -the stage fright that had caused her fellow-actor so much solicitude, -brought down the curtain. Lucilla’s applause was rendered vigorous by -an impulse of extreme thankfulness. - -She was also grateful to the Canon for the measured clapping of the -palm of one hand against the back of the other, with which he rewarded -a performance that he had certainly found to be neither instructive nor -amusing. - -Adrian sought no parental congratulations, when the performers, still -in theatrical costume, came down amongst the audience, but Olga Duffle -made her way towards the Canon. - -She looked, as usual, more attractive than any of the prettier girls -present, and spoke with her habitual childlike, almost imperceptible, -suggestion of lisping. - -“Didn’t you think us all very silly? I’m afraid we were, but so few -people care for anything else, nowadays.” - -Her glance and gesture eloquently numbered the Canon in the few, though -she did not extend the implication quite so far as to include Lucilla. - -“You are a good actress, Miss Duffle. Have you had training?” - -“Oh, no, nothing to speak of,” said Olga modestly. “They did offer to -give me a year at the big Dramatic Training place, free, after I’d -acted in a charity matinée a few years ago in London. They said I could -easily play juvenile lead in any theatre in London at the end of a -year, but of course that was all nonsense. Anyway my people naturally -wouldn’t hear of it.” - -“Indeed. Certainly it is a very moot point how far the possession -of a definite talent justifies embracing a life such as that of a -professional actress must needs be.” - -“Yes, isn’t it?” said Olga. - -Her big dark eyes were fixed on the Canon’s face, her lips parted with -the expression of absorbed interest that lent her charm as a listener. - -Lucilla was not surprised to see that the Canon’s face relaxed as he -looked down at the small up-gazing figure. - -She left them, in response to an imperious glance directed upon her -from the other end of the room. - -“I particularly want the old man to get to know Olga,” said Adrian with -agitation. “It’d do him all the good in the world to have some of his -ideas about the modern girl put straight, and if anyone can do it, she -can. Wasn’t it priceless of her to make straight for him like that?” - -“Perhaps she likes to talk to a distinguished man.” - -“My dear old thing, don’t be absurd. Why, Olga has half London at her -feet.” - -Lucilla felt unable to make any display of enthusiasm at the -announcement, although she saw no reason to doubt that a substratum of -fact underlay Adrian’s hyperbole. - -“I suppose Father thought the whole show utter tripe?” - -“He didn’t say so,” Lucilla observed drily. - -“Well, for goodness sake get him away as soon as Olga’s had her talk -with him. The Admastons are determined to turn the whole thing into -a glorious rag, and it’ll go on till all hours. Father would be -wretched, and besides I should have him on my mind the whole time. I -daresay I shan’t have many more opportunities of enjoying myself, so -I may as well make the most of this,” said Adrian in a voice charged -with meaning, that Lucilla understood to be an allusion to his recent -ecclesiastical ambitions. - -When she found herself beside her father again, he was in conversation -with a short, fat, dark man whom he made known to his daughter with a -somewhat abstracted air. - -“Mr. Duffle, Lucilla.” - -She was rather amused at the ease with which Olga’s parentage could -be traced, although in her, a _retroussé_ nose replaced the wide and -upturned pug of her father, and her dark, intelligent gaze was an -unmistakably improved edition of his shrewd black eyes. From both faces -shone the same ardent, restless, and essentially animal, vitality. - -Mr. Duffle, however, had none of Olga’s claims to social charms and -talents. Lucilla knew him to be a successful building contractor, who -had amassed a fortune during the war, and decided that he looked the -part. - -“I’ll come along one morning then, Canon, and have a little chat with -you,” Mr. Duffle was declaring with a breezy assurance that could -hardly have been derived from the Canon’s expression. - -“You’re kept pretty hard at it, I daresay?” - -“The man who wants me is the man I want,” quoted the Canon, with his -grave smile. - -“Capital. I’ll blow along then, and give you a call. My big car is -in London, but we’ve got a little Daimler down here that does very -well for country lanes. My daughter, of course, runs her own little -two-seater. These young people, nowadays, there’s no end to what they -expect. Not that I grudge Olga anything in reason, you understand. -She’s our only one, and naturally her mother and I think the world of -her.” - -A very simple pride beamed in his face as he spoke of Olga, and Lucilla -congratulated him upon her acting. - -“She’s pretty good, isn’t she? I believe she could take her place -amongst professionals any day, so she tells me. But of course we -shouldn’t hear of anything like that for her. In fact, her mother and I -look very high for our little girl, very high indeed, I may say, after -all that Nature’s done for her, and the advantages we’ve given her as -well.” - -He laughed heartily, and then leaning confidentially towards Lucilla he -said in a semi-whisper: - -“Whoever gets our little Olga, young lady, will be a very lucky fellow. -There’ll be a little bit of--” he tapped his forehead knowingly “and -a little bit of--” the tap was repeated, against his coat pocket this -time. Lucilla required no very acute powers of intuition to refer these -demonstrations to her brother’s intention. - -She wondered whether the Canon had made a similar deduction. - -He was silent during their long drive home, but it was the silence of -thoughtfulness rather than that of depression. The Canon’s intimates -could generally interpret without difficulty the nature of his -silences. - -On the morning following he called Lucilla into the study. - -“I had no word with Adrian last night,” he said wistfully. “I saw you -talking to him, my dear. Did he tell you what day he is coming home -again?” - -“No, Father.” - -“I confess that I am perturbed. Are these new friends of his -gentlefolk, are they church people, are they even Christians?” said the -Canon, walking up and down. “If only the boy would be more unreserved -with me! One is so terribly anxious.” - -“I don’t think he wants to be reserved. He really has no serious -suggestion to offer, as to the future.” - -“My poor lad! He is not sufficiently in earnest. I have blinded myself -to it long enough. His early piety and simplicity were so beautiful -that perhaps I dwelt upon them as tokens of future growth more than I -should have done. But there was a levity of tone about these intimates -of his that displeased me greatly. It must cease, Lucilla--this -intercourse must cease.” - -Lucilla dreaded few things more than such resolutions, from which she -knew that her father, at whatever cost to himself or to anybody else, -never swerved. - -“The Admastons are neighbours,” she pointed out. - -“All the more reason for Adrian to be content to meet them in the -ordinary course of events, without treating their house as an hotel. -But there is a further attraction, Lucilla, I am convinced of it.” - -The Canon dropped his voice to impart his piece of penetration. - -“That little Miss Duffle is undoubtedly attractive, but can the boy -have the incredible folly to be paying his addresses to her?” - -It did not seem to Lucilla that any such formal term could possibly be -applied to Adrian’s highly modern methods of displaying his admiration -for Olga, and she informed her father so with decision. - -“He must at all events be aware that he is in no position to render -any young lady conspicuous by his attentions,” said the Canon. “I am -displeased with Adrian, Lucilla.” - -Canon Morchard was not alone in his displeasure. Two days after the -theatricals, Olga Duffle’s father appeared at St. Gwenllian, and was -shown into the study. - -The Canon greeted him, his habitual rather stately courtesy in strong -contrast to his visitor’s bluff curtness of manner. - -“Sit you down, my dear sir.” - -The Canon took his own place on the revolving chair before the -writing-table, and the tips of his fingers were lightly joined together -as he bent his gaze, benignant, and yet serious, upon the little -building contractor. - -“You’ve got a nice little old place here. Needs a lot of seeing to, -though, I daresay. I see you haven’t the electric light.” - -The Canon glanced round him as though he had hardly noticed, as indeed -he had not, the absence of this modern advantage. - -“It wouldn’t cost you more than a couple of hundred to put it in,” said -Mr. Duffle negligently. - -The Canon was not in the least interested in the problematical expense -to be thus incurred, but he replied gently that perhaps one of these -days his successor might wish to improve St. Gwenllian, and be in a -position to do so. - -“Ah,” said Mr. Duffle. “That brings me to my point, in a roundabout -sort of way. Your young man, Canon, has no particular inheritance to -look forward to, if I understand rightly?” - -“My young man?” - -“Your boy Adrian. Not even your eldest son, is he?” - -“Adrian is the youngest of my five children,” said the Canon with -peculiar distinctness. “I have two sons and three daughters. May I -enquire the reason of this interest in my family?” - -“No offense, I hope, Canon. I thought you’d have guessed the reason -fast enough--my girl Olga. Now mind you, I know very well that boys -will be boys, and girls girls, for the matter of that. I’m not even -saying that the little monkey hasn’t led him on a bit--she leads -’em all on, come to that! But Master Adrian has been talking of an -engagement, it seems, and that won’t do at all, you know. So I thought -you and me, Canon----” - -“Stop!” The Canon’s face was rigid. “Am I to understand that your -daughter has reason to complain that my son presses undesired -attentions upon her, or causes their names to be coupled together in a -manner displeasing to her?” - -The builder’s stare was one of honest bewilderment. - -“Coupled together!” he repeated derisively. “Why, the lad follows her -about like a little dog. I should think old Matthew Admaston is as easy -going as they make ’em, but even he thought it a bit thick to have -your young moon-calf, if you’ll excuse the expression, on his doorstep -morning, noon and night, while my girl was in the house, till they had -to ask him to stay, to save the front-door bell coming off in his hand.” - -Mr. Duffle’s humourous extravagance of imagery awoke no response in -Canon Morchard. - -“My son’s impertinent folly shall be put a stop to immediately,” he -said, through closely compressed lips. - -“Bless me! there’s nothing that needs a rumpus made about it, you -understand. Only when it comes to prating about being engaged, and -promising to marry him in goodness knows how many years, and goodness -knows what on--why, then it’s time us older folk stepped in, I think, -and I’m sure you’ll agree with me.” - -“Do I understand that my son--without reference to me, I may add--has -asked Miss Duffle to do him the honour of becoming his wife?” - -Mr. Duffle stared at the Canon blankly. - -“Ill though he seems to have behaved, you will hardly expect me to -accept, on his behalf, an entire rejection of his suit, without -reference to the young lady herself.” - -A resounding blow from Mr. Duffle’s open palm onto his knee startled -the Canon and made him jump in his chair. - -“Good God!” roared the builder, causing Canon Morchard to wince a -second time, “is this talk out of a novel? How in the name of all -that’s reasonable can the boy marry without a profession or an income? -I’ll do him the justice to say that I’ve never thought him a fortune -hunter. (He’s not got the guts for that, if you’ll excuse me being so -plain-spoken.) He’s besotted about the girl, and not the first one -either, though I do say it myself. But my Olga is our only child, and -will get every penny I have to leave, and the fact of the matter is -that she’ll be a rich woman one of these days, in a manner of speaking. -Therefore, Canon, you’ll understand me when I say that Olga can look -high--very high, she can look.” - -The Canon’s countenance did, indeed, show the most complete -comprehension of the case so stated. His face, in its stern pallor, -became more cameo-like than ever. - -“Sir, do you accuse my son of trifling, of the unutterable meanness of -endeavouring to engage a young lady’s affections without any reasonable -prospect of asking her in marriage like an honourable man?” - -“Bless me, Canon, I don’t accuse the young fellow of anything, except -of being a bit of an ass,” said the builder. “I daresay it’s been six -of one and half a dozen of the other. He’s a nice-looking boy, and -all this play-acting has thrown them together, like; but that’s over -now, and Olga comes back to London with us next week. But I thought -I’d throw you a hint,” said Mr. Duffle delicately, “so that there’s -no nonsense about following us to town, or anything of that sort. Her -mother’s going to speak to Olga about it, too. Bless me, it’s not the -first time we’ve had to nip a little affair of this sort in the bud. -The fellows are round our little girl like flies round a honey-pot. We -give her a loose rein, too, in a manner of speaking, but as the wife -pointed out to me last night, it only keeps off better chances if a -girl is always seen about with lads who don’t mean business.” - -The Canon groaned deeply, and Mr. Duffle, fearing himself -misunderstood, hastily interposed: - -“Don’t run away with the idea that I’ve anything against the boy, now, -Canon. I’m sure if he was only a year or two older, in a good job, and -with a little something to look to later on, I’d be only too glad of -the connection. But as things are, I’m sure as a family man yourself -you see my point.” - -He looked almost pleadingly at the Canon as he spoke. - -“You did perfectly right to come to me, Mr. Duffle; you did perfectly -right. Unspeakably painful though this conversation has been to me, I -fully recognize the necessity for it.” - -If Mr. Duffle still looked perplexed, he also looked relieved. - -“That’s right, Canon. I felt you and me would understand one another. -After all, we’ve been young ourselves, haven’t we, and I daresay -we’ve chased a pretty pair of ankles or said more than we meant on a -moonlight night, both of us, once upon a time.” - -So far did Canon Morchard appear to be from endorsing this view of a -joint past that his visitor added an extenuation. - -“Of course, before you turned parson, naturally, I mean. I know you -take your job seriously, if you’ll excuse me passing a personal remark, -and that’s not more than’s needed nowadays. There’s no idea of young -Adrian going in for the clerical line, I suppose?” - -“What I have heard today would be enough to convince me that it is out -of the question,” said the Canon bitterly. “But my son has evinced no -such desire.” - -“H’m. There was some nonsense talked amongst the young people about a -fat living at Stear being ready for him if he chose to step into it. -I daresay there was nothing in it but a leg-pull, as they say. In any -case, my girl wouldn’t look at a country parson. No offence to you, -Canon, but it’s best to have these things out in plain English.” - -“Enough,” said the Canon with decision. “You may rest assured that my -son will cease this insensate persecution of----” - -“Excuse me interrupting, but why make a mountain out of a molehill? -There’s been no persecution or any of that talk out of books, in the -case. Why, my Olga can’t help making eyes at a good-looking lad, and -letting him squeeze her hand every now and then.” - -The Canon gave utterance, irrepressibly, to yet another groan. - -Mr. Duffle looked at him with compassion. - -“Why make a mountain out of a molehill, as I said before?” he repeated. -“There’s been no harm done, except maybe a little gossiping among the -Admaston lot, and if you tip the wink to your lad, and mother and I -trot Olga back to London again, we needn’t hear any more of it. We’re -old-fashioned people, and brought up the child old-fashioned, and she’s -not one of these modern young women who can’t live at home. I give her -the best of everything, and a pretty long rope, but she knows that as -long as she’s living under my roof and spending my money she’s got to -obey me and her mother when we _do_ give an order.” - -The builder’s face, momentarily dogged, relaxed again and he laughed -jovially. - -“Though I’m not saying the little puss can’t get most things out of us -by coaxing! But we’re set on a good marriage for her, that I tell you -straight.” - -“There is only one foundation for the sacrament of marriage,” said the -Canon sombrely, “and that is mutual love, trust and esteem.” - -“Quite, quite; the wife always takes that line herself. ‘When the -heart is given, let the hand follow,’ she always says, and Olga knows -well enough that she’ll have a free choice, within reason. But love in -a cottage isn’t her style, and things being as they are, there’s no -reason, as I said before, why she shouldn’t look high. She’s a sensible -girl, too, and if there is a bit of the flirt about her, she doesn’t -lose her head. I will say that for her.” - -“I wish that I could say the same of my son,” bitterly rejoined the -Canon. - -“Well, well, don’t be too hard on the lad. Human nature is human -nature all the world over, is what I always say. All the parsons in -Christendom can’t alter that, if you’ll excuse the saying. It’s natural -enough your son should lose his head over a pretty girl like my Olga,” -said Miss Duffle’s parent indulgently. “All I mean is, that it must -stop there, and no nonsense about being engaged, or anything of that -kind.” - -“Do these unhappy young people consider themselves bound to one -another, as far as you know?” - -“Bless me, Canon, they’re not unhappy. At least, my Olga certainly -isn’t, and if your lad throws off a few heroics, he’ll soon get over -it. Why, I remember threatening to blow out my brains--as I chose to -call them--when I was no older than he is, and all for the sake of a -lady ten years older than myself, and married and the mother of three, -into the bargain!” - -Mr. Duffle was moved to hearty laughter at this reminiscence, although -it failed signally to produce the same exhilarating effect upon Canon -Morchard. - -Perhaps in consequence of this, his mirth died away spasmodically, with -a rather apologetic effect. - -“Well, well, Canon, take a tip from me, if I may suggest such a thing, -and don’t take this business too seriously. He’ll be head over ears in -love with somebody else before you can look round, and it’ll all be to -do over again.” - -Before this luminous vista of future amatory escapades, the builder -appeared to feel that the interview had better be brought to its -conclusion, and he rose. - -An evident desire to console and reassure his host possessed him. - -“Get the young fellow a job of work, if I may advise. It’s wonderful -how it steadies them down. He’ll have no time to run after the -petticoats when he’s tied by the leg to an office, or roughing it in -one of the Colonies.” - -“The choice of a career lies in my son’s own hands,” said the Canon -stiffly. “But you may rest assured, Mr. Duffle, that he will be allowed -no further occasion for misusing his time and abusing other people’s -hospitality as he appears to have been doing. I am obliged to you, -painful though this conversation has been to us both, for treating me -with so much frankness in the matter.” - -“Don’t mention it,” said Mr. Duffle. - -The Canon bowed slightly and escorted his visitor to the door. - -The Daimler car was in waiting, but the builder paused with one foot on -the step. - -“I’ll tell you one thing, Canon,” he remarked confidentially. - -The Canon, with extreme reluctance in his demeanour, signified -attention. - -“If you _should_ think of having that little improvement made to the -place that I suggested--you know, the electric light put in--I can tell -you the very people to go to--Blapton & Co. They’ve done a lot of work -for our firm, and they’ll do it as reasonable as you can hope for. -Don’t hesitate to mention my name.” - -He nodded, and got into the car. - -The Canon stood upon the front doorstep, his face pale and furrowed, -his lips compressed. - -“Stop!” shouted Mr. Duffle, suddenly thrusting his head from the window -of the slowly moving car. - -The Daimler stopped. - -Mr. Duffle descended from it nimbly and once more approached the Canon. - -He looked, for the first time, heated and confused. - -“It slipped my memory that I wanted to give you this trifle. Perhaps -you’ll see to some of those poor fellows who are out of work through -no fault of their own, having the handling of it for the wives and -kiddies. I’ve been lucky myself, and I never like to leave a place -without what I may call some sort of thanksgiving. Not a word, please. -Ta-ta.” - -The Daimler made another _sortie_, and the Canon was left, still -standing motionless on the doorstep, with the builder’s cheque for -twenty-five pounds in his hand. - - -(iii) - - “DEAR LUCILLA, - - “I think you’d better not expect me till you see me, if that’ll be - all right. I may be going up to London for a day or two when the - party breaks up here tomorrow, as I really must see about a job of - some kind. I’m sure Father will approve of this, so mind you tell - him it’s the reason. I hope he wasn’t frightfully sick at the way we - all played the fool the night of the show, but really it was his own - fault for coming, and if he didn’t like it, he must just do the other - thing. - - “Cheerio. - - “Yours, - “ADRIAN.” - - “MY DEAR ADRIAN, - - “It would be better if you could come back here before deciding to go - to London. Father is writing to you, and you will probably see from - his letter that he particularly wants you at home. I hope you are - not in trouble, but Father is certainly upset about something, and - you will only make matters worse by going off in a hurry. Besides, I - think he would quite likely follow you. - - “Your affectionate sister, - “LUCILLA MORCHARD.” - - “DEAR LUCILLA, - - “If you hear of me doing something _desperate_, you may tell Father - that he has only himself to thank! I now know what he and old Duffle - have been up to, between them, and I may tell you that I do not - intend to put up with this sort of thing any longer. Father doesn’t - seem to realize that I am a _man_, and in grim earnest over _some_ - things, and he and old Duffle have now utterly scotched my chances of - happiness for life, although I daresay without realizing what they - were doing. Olga is the only girl I shall ever love, and if I have - lost her I do not care what I do or what becomes of me, and you may - tell Father so. If this is what _religion_ leads to, you can also - tell him that I am utterly off it for life. That is what they have - done, by their interference with my affairs, because I am almost - sure Olga would at least have become engaged to me, if she had been - let alone, and not bullied by her father and mother, and threatened - with _poverty_ if she married me. As you know, it needn’t have been - anything of the sort, if my plans had worked out all right, and we - could have had Stear, but I am _completely_ off the Church, in any - shape or form, so that is what Father has done, whether he knows it - or not!!! - - “You will, I suppose, be upset at this letter being so bitter - in tone, but I may say that my faith in human nature is utterly - shattered for good and all, and this has been done by my own father!! - I am coming home on Monday and _not before_, so it’s no use father - dictating to me. - - “Yours, - “ADRIAN.” - - “MY DEAREST ADRIAN, - - “I don’t understand why Lucilla tells me that you are returning home - on Monday, when you know it is my wish, distinctly expressed in my - letter to you two days ago, that you should be here on Saturday, so - that we may spend the Sunday together. Unless you have a very valid - reason for disregarding my wishes, I must insist, for your own sake, - upon your complying with them. I do so want you to be _considerate_, - quite apart from the question of _dutifulness_--for instance, it is - quite a little thing, but you don’t say what time you are arriving - here, and yet you surely know that this makes a difference with - regard to questions of meals, etc., in a small household such as - ours. It is only want of thought, dear lad, but do try and correct - this fault. I have so often had to reprove myself for the like small - negligences that it makes me anxious to see the same tendency in you. - This is not a lecture, my dear boy, but only a _reminder_, from one - who has had to be both mother and father to you. - - “I have other, and very much more serious, matters to talk over with - you when we meet, but all shall be done in the spirit of love and - confidence, I do trust, and if I am obliged to inflict pain upon you, - you must remember that it is multiplied ten-fold upon my own head. - - “I shall expect a line, sent either to myself or to Lucilla, - announcing the hour of your arrival on _Saturday_. God by you, - dearest of lads, until we meet. - - “Your devoted - “FATHER.” - - “DEAR LUCILLA, - - “On second thoughts, I shall come home on Saturday, in time for - dinner. Most likely I shall go straight off to London on Monday - morning, but you needn’t say anything to Father about this. If you - can, persuade him to have up the port on Sunday night. - - “Yours, - “ADRIAN.” - -“Dear lad! He is all anxiety to do right, at bottom,” said the Canon -tenderly to Lucilla, when a censored version of this communication had -been passed on to him. “You see how readily he submits to returning on -Saturday, in order to please me.” - -If Lucilla thought this act of submission inspired by fear, rather than -by a desire to please, she did not say so. - -The Canon had said nothing to her of his interview with Mr. Duffle, and -made only one remark which might be held to refer to his visitor: - -“We are all of us apt to set a false value on appearances, I suspect. -Aye, my daughters, in spite of his ‘forty years in the wilderness,’ -it is so with your father. Trivial vulgarities, or mere superficial -coarseness, have blinded one time and again, till some sudden, -beautiful impulse or flash of generous delicacy comes to rebuke one. -Well, well--each mistake can be used as a rung of the ladder. Always -remember that.” - -That trivial vulgarities and superficial coarseness were -characteristics of Mr. Duffle was undeniable, but Lucilla deduced that -these had been redeemed in the manner suggested, since the builder’s -prolonged visit to her father had left him, though grave, singularly -calm. He had, indeed, summoned Adrian to St. Gwenllian, but his manner -showed none of the peculiar restrained suffering that was always to -be discerned when the Canon felt one of his children to be in serious -fault. - -“It is more than time that Adrian found his vocation,” said the Canon. -“I have been to blame in allowing him to drift, but it has been an -unutterable joy to have him with us, after these terrible war years. -However, there is no further excuse for delay. He and I must have a -long talk.” - -Lucilla could surmise only too well the effect of a long talk upon -Adrian, if his frame of mind might be judged correctly from his -impassioned letter to her. - -As usual, however, she said nothing. - -The Canon’s mood of mellow forbearance continued to wax as the day went -on, and he met his favourite son with a benign affectionateness that -contrasted strangely with Adrian’s dramatically-restrained demeanour. - -Flora, as a rule utterly incurious, asked Lucilla what was the matter. - -“I don’t quite know. Something to do with Olga Duffle, I imagine. -Probably Adrian has proposed to her, or something foolish of the kind, -and the Duffles want it stopped.” - -“Has he said anything more about his idea of taking Orders?” - -“I hope not,” said Lucilla rather grimly. - -She preferred not to imagine the Canon’s probable reception of an -ambition thus inspired. - -The long talk projected by Canon Morchard was impracticable on a -Sunday, always his busiest day, until evening. - -As the Canon rose from the late, and scrupulously cold, evening meal, -he said: - -“Daughters, you will not sit up beyond your usual hour. Adrian, my -dear--come.” - -The door of the study shut, and Lucilla and Flora remained in the -drawing-room. - -Lucilla occupied herself with note-books and works of reference, and -Flora, in the exquisite copper-plate handwriting that the Canon had -insisted upon for all his children, in close imitation of his own, -wrote out an abstract of her father’s sermon, as she had done almost -every Sunday evening ever since she could remember. - -The silence was unbroken till nearly an hour later, when Lucilla -observed: - -“Do you know, Flossie, that Father’s book is very nearly finished? -There are only two more chapters to revise.” - -“‘Leonidas of Alexandria,’” said Flora thoughtfully. - -The subject of the Canon’s exhaustive researches and patient -compilations was known to the household. - -“He’ll publish it, of course?” - -“He hopes to. But Owen told me that there isn’t a very great demand for -that kind of work, nowadays.” - -Flora looked inquiringly at her sister. - -“I hope Father isn’t going to be disappointed,” she said, half -interrogatively. - -“I’m very much afraid that he is.” - -On this encouraging supposition of Miss Morchard’s, the conversation -ended. - -In accordance with their father’s desire, both sisters had gone -upstairs before the conference in the study came to an end. - -There came a knock at Lucilla’s door. - -She opened it. - -“Come in, Adrian.” - -“It’s all up,” said Adrian, in the eloquent idiom of his generation, -and made a melodramatic gesture of desperation. - -Lucilla closed the door and sat down, seeming undisturbed by so -cataclysmic an announcement of finality. - -“I’m off on my own, after this. Father has utterly mucked up my entire -life, as I think I told you in my letter, and he can’t see what he has -done!” - -Lucilla wondered whether Adrian had spent two and a half hours in -endeavouring to open his parent’s eyes to his own work of destruction. - -“Would you mind telling me exactly what has happened?” - -Adrian embarked upon a tone of gloomy narrative. - -“Well, I don’t know whether you had any idea that I am--was--well, -frightfully hard hit by that girl Olga. Not just thinking her pretty -and clever, and all that sort of thing, you know, though of course -she was--_is_, I mean. But simply knowing that she was the one and -only person I should ever care for. Of course, I know now that I was -mistaken in her, to a certain extent, and I can tell you, Lucilla, that -it’s very hard on a man to be as thoroughly disillusioned as I’ve -been. It’s enough to shatter one’s faith in women for life.” - -“But what did Father do?” said Lucilla, as her brother seemed inclined -to lose himself in the contemplation of his own future mysogyny. - -“What did he _do_?” echoed Adrian bitterly. “He and old Duffle had -the--the audacity to meet together and discuss my private affairs, and -take upon themselves to decide that anything between me and Olga ought -to be put an end to. I must say, I thought that kind of thing had gone -out with the Middle Ages, when people walled up their daughters alive, -and all that kind of tosh. And how Olga, of all people, put up with it -I can’t imagine; but they seemed to have pitched some yarn about my not -being able to afford to marry, and frightened her with the idea of my -being after her money, I suppose.” - -“But Adrian, had you asked her to marry you?” - -“No, of course not. But I did think we might have been engaged. Then I -wouldn’t have had to put up with seeing a lot of other fellows after -her,” said Adrian naïvely. - -“And did you explain that to Father?” Lucilla inquired, not without -a certain dismay in picturing the Canon’s reception of these strange -ideals. - -“More or less; but you know what he is. He always does most of the -talking himself. I can quite understand why we were so frightened of -him as kids, you know. He seems to work himself up about things, and -then he always has such a frightfully high-faluting point of view. We -might really have been talking at cross-purposes, half the time.” - -“I can quite believe it.” - -“Of course, I’m not exactly afraid of him now, but it does make it a -bit difficult to say what’s in one’s mind.” - -“That’s just the pity of it, Adrian. He always says that he does so -wish you were more unreserved with him. He does very much want you to -say what’s in your mind.” - -“But he wouldn’t like it if I did--in fact, he probably wouldn’t -understand it.” - -Few things could be more incontrovertible. - -“The fact is that father has quite a wrong idea of me. He seems to -expect me to have all the notions that _he_ had, when he was a young -high-brow at Oxford, about ninety years ago. As I told him, things have -gone ahead a bit since then.” - -Lucilla, for her consolation, reflected that few people are capable -of distinguishing accurately between what they actually say, and what -they subsequently wish themselves to have said, when reporting a -conversation. It was highly probable that Adrian had been a good deal -less eloquent than he represented himself to have been. - -“You didn’t say anything, did you, about your idea of taking Orders?” - -“No,” said Adrian rather curtly. “I did begin something about it, just -to show that I hadn’t been the unpractical ass he seemed to think I -was, but he went off at the deep end almost directly. I said something -about going into the Church, you see, and he didn’t wait for me to -finish, but started away about our all being ‘in the Church’ from the -day of our baptism, and so on--splitting hairs, I call it. As if -everyone didn’t know what is generally meant by going into the Church.” - -“Well, in this case, I really hope he didn’t know. Flossie and I always -told you that Father would be very much shocked at your way of looking -at the priesthood.” - -“Anyhow, it’s all off now,” said Adrian gloomily. “There wouldn’t be -the slightest object in it, and besides I’m thoroughly off religion at -the moment, as I think I told you. No, I shall go to London.” - -Lucilla looked further inquiry. - -“No, I’m not going after Olga; you can be quite easy about that. In -fact, I may say I don’t ever want to set eyes on her again, after the -way she’s let me down. No, I’m going to try journalism, or something -like that. Anyhow, I mean to be a free lance for a bit.” - -The first note of real resolution that Lucilla had heard there, crept -into Adrian’s young voice. - -“Father really can’t go on running the show for me like this. It’s me -that’s got to decide what to do with my life, and I’m going to get a -bit of experience on my own. I know I had six months in France, but -that isn’t going to be the whole of my life. In fact, Lucilla, I’ve -decided, though I’m sorry in a way, to say such a thing, that Father -has got to be taught a lesson, and it’s me that’s going to do the -teaching.” - -Iron firmness, denoted by a closely compressed mouth and a rather -defiant eye fixed glassily upon Lucilla’s, characterized Adrian’s -announcement. - -“Listen,” said Lucilla. - -They heard a heavy footfall, eloquent of weariness, outside the door. -It was followed by the sound of an imperative tap. - -Adrian’s face relaxed and a more normal expression succeeded to the -compelling one that had petrified his gaze. - -“Adrian, my son, are you there?” - -“Yes, father.” - -“Dear lad, how thoughtless you are! Your sister is tired, and it is -already very late. Finish your talk tomorrow, my dear ones.” - -There was a pause. - -Then Adrian said: - -“Well, I suppose Time _is_ on the wing, as usual. Good-night, Lucilla.” - -He went out. - -Lucilla heard the Canon bid him good-night, and his voice held profound -sadness, rather than the vexation that she had feared. - -She moved swiftly to the door. - -“Father, I have found that reference in Origen.” - -The Canon’s face, drawn and tired, lightened on the instant. - -“My indefatigable searcher after truth! Lucilla indeed casts light -into dark places--you were well named, my daughter. That is good news -indeed--good news indeed.” - -“Should you like me to come down again, or are you too tired?” - -“Nay, Lucilla, you heard me bid Adrian to his room. Would you have me -transgress my own regulations? That would be inconsistent indeed. We -will investigate our Origen tomorrow.” - -“You are so near the end of it now, Father.” - -“Aye, the work has progressed wonderfully these last few months. And I -have been wonderfully blessed in your help, my child--my right hand! It -has been a labour of love indeed.” - -Lucilla hoped that he would go to his room still cheered by the thought -of the book. But the Canon lingered, to enquire sadly: - -“You have talked with Adrian?” - -“A little.” - -“Dear fellow, one must make all allowance for his disappointment of -his first fancy, but there is a want of stability--what I can only -call a levity of spirit--that distresses one beyond words. He was all -submission and deference, but there was not the spontaneous calling of -deep unto deep that one somehow looked for.... And yet Adrian is the -one of you all from whom I had hoped for the greatest unreserve, the -most ideal companionship....” - -Lucilla knew it, had always known it, only too well. - -Not one of his other children had been treated with the indulgence that -the Canon had always displayed towards his youngest-born. - -The Canon’s next words chimed in oddly with her thoughts. - -“Perhaps I have condoned too much in Adrian. It is not a strong -character--but the strongest are not always the most lovable. He talks -now of going to London.” - -“So he told me.” - -“One can only trust,” said the Canon with a heavy sigh. “I must bid you -good-night, dear daughter. It is not right that you should be kept up -in this fashion.” - -Lucilla was left to seek what repose she might. - -The next day at St. Gwenllian was one of constraint. - -Adrian was silent in his father’s presence, and full of adamantine -resolution in his absence. At meal times, the subjects to be -avoided--which now included the Admastons, their theatricals, and the -Duffle family, as well as Valeria’s marriage--seemed unduly numerous. -In the evening, the Canon made a great and evident effort, that struck -Lucilla as infinitely pathetic, to readjust matters. - -His show of laboured brightness could deceive no one, but Lucilla -and Mr. Clover seconded his attempts at general conversation with -determination, and Flora was not more silent than was her wont. -Adrian, manifestly sulky at first, awoke presently to a change in the -atmosphere, and thereupon erred rather upon the side of garrulity than -on that of restraint. - -His face darkened, however, when the Canon after dinner suddenly said -with pseudo-heartiness: - -“I am about to call one of our old-time family councils, young people. -What say you, Adrian, to a little friendly discussion of your future -plans? Time was, perhaps, when these things were settled rather in a -long, heart-to-heart talk between father and son; but times change, and -we must move with them--we must move with them.” - -It was impossible to doubt that the Canon was, or supposed himself to -be, moving with the times rather in the hope of pleasing Adrian, than -from any personal liking for the direction in which they appeared to -be taking him. - -“Perhaps some of these wiseacres may make a helpful suggestion as to -the future. Clover, you have been guide, philosopher and friend to us -all this many a year. And Lucilla--Lucilla is gifted with a very level -head, as I sometimes tell her--a very level head. As for my little -Flora, whose head is sometimes in the clouds, at least those who say -least see most, eh Flora? Let us to the with-drawing-room, children.” - -Seated in the lamp light, with Lucilla and Flora both occupied with -needlework--the Canon had long ago decreed that no discussion need -entail idle hands--Canon Morchard looked wistfully at Adrian, leaning -against the marble mantelpiece with an air of embarrassment. - -“What are your wishes, dear lad--your hopes, your plans?” - -To this singularly comprehensive enquiry, Adrian seemed to find some -difficulty in making an immediate reply. - -“Your father is very anxious--we’re all anxious,” said Mr. Clover -pleadingly. - -“Why should you be?” Adrian demanded fretfully, turning sharply towards -the curate. “I’m quite old enough to settle for myself what I’m going -to do.” - -“But you haven’t settled it, Adrian,” said Lucilla mildly. - -“That is why we all want to help you, if possible,” the Canon observed. -“Perhaps you may remember some words that I am very fond of, and that -have found their way now and again into our pleasant confabulations on -life and letters in general: - - There comes a tide in the affairs of men - That, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune. - -“There is, indeed, a higher Leading that I trust, and indeed know, -you would none of you disregard, but opportunity may very often serve -us as an indication--an indication. It seems to me, dear Adrian, that -some such ‘tide’ has come in your affairs now, and it would be pleasant -indeed to feel that, taken at the flood, it would lead on to fortune, -in the best and highest sense of the word.” - -There was a pause, and then Mr. Clover said: - -“Or at least independence.” - -“That’s what I want,” said Adrian ungraciously. “Only never having been -brought up to anything special, it’s a bit hard to know what to go in -for.” - -“You said something about journalism,” Lucilla reminded him, aware that -the word, which would certainly be distasteful to the Canon, must be -uttered sooner or later. - -Adrian looked at his sister, and not at his father, as he replied: - -“I think that’s really what I shall do.” - -“But who is going to employ you, Adrian?” Flora enquired with -simplicity. - -The boy frowned. - -“You don’t understand these things. I shall just get up one or two -things, and show them to the right people, and if they’re any good at -all I shall get taken on somewhere.” - -“The Press is a great force for good as, alas, for evil, my son, but I -confess that such a course would be a disappointment to me. Have you no -other ambition?” asked the Canon wistfully. - -“I can’t think of anything else, Father.” - -“I thought--” breathed Flora to Lucilla. - -Lucilla shook her head, in repudiation of Adrian’s erstwhile schemes of -clerical life, and she heard from Flora a sigh that probably denoted -relief. - -“Then, my dearest fellow, so be it. You know that we wish nothing -but your highest good, and your happiness here and hereafter. I will -increase your present allowance as far as I can do so without robbing -others, and that should enable you to maintain yourself in London until -you are earning enough to dispense with it. Have you any definite -starting point in your mind?” - -“Not yet, but I can write to a fellow I know. I say, Father--this is -very good of you.” - -There was both surprise and genuine gratitude in Adrian’s voice. - -The Canon, entirely regardless of anyone else as he always was when -deeply in earnest, rose and placed his hand on the young man’s shoulder. - -“I have no wish but your truest and highest good, dear lad, as I said -before. If I have been weak enough to indulge in plans and fancies -of my own, they shall not come between us now. I believe I may say -that I have learnt at last that whatever _is_, is best. Let us go on, -believing all things, hoping all things.... If there has been weakness -in the past, dear Adrian, I _know_ that you will justify my confidence -in the future, God helping you.” - -The Canon’s voice had grown husky over the last few words. He bent his -head and gently and solemnly kissed Adrian’s forehead. - -Then he went out of the room. - - -(iv) - -For many months after Adrian’s departure, the monotonous round of life -at St. Gwenllian remained undisturbed. - -News came from Canada of the birth of a son to Valeria, and the Canon’s -last resentment vanished, although he still spoke of “our poor Valeria.” - -He derived unmistakable satisfaction from Owen Quentillian’s presence -at Stear, and the young man received frequent invitations to the -Vicarage, after a first visit during which the host suffered infinitely -more than the guest, in the fear of reviving past associations. - -Adrian wrote occasionally, giving no very encouraging accounts of -his progress in journalism, and continued to receive the increased -allowance that his father sent him with scrupulous regularity. He did -not come home again, even in the summer. - -Then one day the Canon, at his writing-table, laid down his pen and -said to Lucilla: - -“_Nunc dimittis_.... My book is done, Lucilla; I can add no more to it. -It has been a long task, and at times a heavy one, for the flesh is -weak--for all that the spirit is willing, the flesh is weak. But it is -over now.” - -His rapt, smiling gaze held Lucilla’s for a long while, as she smiled -back her congratulation. - -“And now, my dear one, to give our work to the world!” He rubbed his -hands together exultantly. “For it is yours, Lucilla, almost as much as -mine.” - -She shook her head, still smiling. The Canon’s generosity, any more -than his occasional injustice, did not blind his daughter to the bald -facts of a case as she saw it. - -A shadow was across her genuine participation in his joy, now. - -“What shall you do with it, Father?” - -“There is no more to be done,” repeated the Canon. “All is copied, all -is corrected. Your typescript is admirable, Lucilla, and I trust that -my few emendations have not defaced it.” - -“Then is it going to the publishers?” - -“My practical Lucilla! Is your mind already in search of an adequate -supply of brown paper and sealing wax? These things are not done -so hastily as impetuous youth would wish, however. There will be a -preliminary correspondence, my dear, even when I have definitely -decided which of the publishing houses to approach. A work such as this -one, which has taken years of labour, is not sent lightly forth to take -its chance, as might be a work of fiction.” - -The Canon laid his hand lovingly upon the immense pile of typescript -before him. It represented, as he had said, the labour of years. - -“Owen is in touch with several publishers, I believe.” - -“Possibly so, Lucilla.” The Canon’s tone was not altogether pleased. -“But such a work--on such a subject--requires no casual introduction.” - -Lucilla wondered, not without foreboding, what it did require. Owen -Quentillian, who shared her own inability to take optimistic views on -principle, had spoken discouragingly of the modern market for such -works as the Canon’s on “Leonidas of Alexandria.” - -The Canon himself appeared to entertain no misgivings, until a few -weeks later, when he handed a letter silently to Lucilla. - -It was a courteously worded assurance from the most eminent of -theological publishing firms that the probable sales of such a work -as “Leonidas of Alexandria” would not, in their opinion, justify the -expenses of publication. - -The Canon seemed more bewildered than dismayed. - -“I shall approach the Oxbridge Press,” he declared. “I had decided -against them, but this very unexpected attitude leaves me no -alternative.” - -The reply of the Oxbridge Press, although longer delayed, was almost -identical in substance with that of its predecessors. - -“I do not understand it,” the Canon repeated, and wrote to another -publishing house. - -He still spoke as though the ultimate appearance of the book were a -certainty; even when confronted with a third refusal, but he allowed -Lucilla to consult Owen Quentillian. - -As the result of a letter to Quentillian’s own publishers, an offer -came from them to produce “Leonidas of Alexandria” if the author would -advance a substantial sum towards the cost of bringing out the book. - -“It’s more than I dared to hope for,” Owen told Lucilla candidly, in -private. “Only I’m afraid he’ll still be disappointed, if the book -appears and makes no stir.” - -“He has thought of it for so many years,” said Lucilla. - -“And always as a _magnum opus_--something that the world would -recognize?” - -“Yes, I think so. But even so, I’m not certain whether he’ll accept -these terms.” - -“He won’t get better ones,” said Owen with conviction. - -They awaited the Canon’s reply. It came, calm and very decided. - -“It cannot be. It is not within my power to accept the terms suggested. -Thank you, Owen, my dear--and you Lucilla--but my work must await -better days--better days.” - -For the first time, Owen was struck by the singular sweetness of the -Canon’s smile, as he stood with his hand resting on the great bulk of -papers that stood to him for the loving preoccupation of many years. No -faintest touch of bitterness accompanied his deep disappointment. - -“I have had the great pleasure of the work, and it has brought me into -close association with many writers, both living and dead. We have -derived great benefit from our toil, Lucilla, and if the fruits of -reward are to be denied us yet awhile, so be it. You remember the old -story of the dying man who bade his sons dig for a treasure beneath the -apple-tree. They did so, and the natural yield of the fertile earth -was their reward--their own industry proved to be their treasure. If it -is to be so with my book, I am content.” - -Quentillian’s stern sense of the futility of false hopes kept him -silent, but Lucilla said: - -“Is it any use to try another publisher?” - -The Canon shook his grey head. - -“This is neither our first attempt nor our second. No doubt times -have changed, and there is no longer the same interest taken in these -researches. The wheel will come round in due course, young people, and -I make no doubt that Leonidas will yet be given to the world, in God’s -good time whether in my day or not. I am very well content.” - -He put the heavy package into a drawer, of which he turned the key. - -“You remember, Lucilla, the words inscribed upon my front page--‘_Ad -majorem Dei gloriam_’? Surely we can trust the fulfilment of those -words to Him, and as surely He can justify them in obscurity as in the -notoriety of a day. We will say no more about this, children.” - -He turned towards Quentillian, and smiled again. - -“Nay, dear fellow, there is nothing to look so blank about. I will not -deny a natural disappointment, but it is no more than that--no more -than that. These things pass....” - -Even to Lucilla, in private, the Canon scarcely said more. The one -revelation that he did make, hardly surprised her. - -“All else apart, I could not have paid the money to that publishing -firm. The dear Adrian must be my first consideration at present, and -with the increased amount that he is receiving, the drain upon my purse -is too heavy to admit of a personal gratification. Some day the dear -fellow will pay it all back, I make no doubt, though even were it not -so--but it _will_ be so. And now, Lucilla, we will drop the subject. -What I have told you is between ourselves, and we need not refer to it -again.” - -A very little while later, the Canon began to make minute and elaborate -notes for a Commentary on the Epistle to the Philippians. - -Lucilla, according to her wont, acted as his secretary without comment. - -It was more difficult, however, to pursue this course when the -Canon, with a look of distress and perplexity, handed to her several -closely-written sheets of paper, and observed: - -“As you know, I hold very strongly to the sacredness of personal -correspondence. It was, indeed, at least partly on that account that -I have said nothing to you of a letter from Adrian that has caused me -some anxiety. He seems to me to be getting amongst a set of people -whom I can only call undesirable. They may be leading him into -foolish extravagance--I fear it must be so. It seems to me my clear -duty to write to the boy very frankly, but God knows how carefully I -have weighed every word, for fear of saying too much. I believe I am -justified in letting you read it. A sister’s influence can do much, -more especially when she has been obliged to enact the part of mother, -and it may even be that Adrian will listen to you more readily than to -me.” - -The Canon sighed heavily. - -Although his sudden, sharp outbursts of anger had, at one time or -another, included each and every one of his children, his tolerance was -always longest where Adrian was concerned. So, too, was his profound -distress when the shortcomings of his youngest-born were made only too -manifest. - -Lucilla read the letter with considerable inward disquiet. - - “MY DEAREST ADRIAN, - - “First and foremost, I enclose a cheque, with which you must _at - once_ discharge outstanding liabilities. You must not, however, - take this as an easy method of getting out of difficulties into - which you have placed yourself. I shall stop this money out of your - allowance, in justice both to yourself and to me, in quarterly - instalments. And now, my son, you must bear with me while I write - of several things that seem to me to be much amiss in your present - way of life. Your letters are so far from explicit (how I wish it - were otherwise!) that one can only guess at much which is left - unsaid, but your request for money, however veiled, is an admission - in itself. You write of ‘others,’ but can you not see that it is - absolute _dishonesty_ to give presents, stand host at various small - outings, and the like, when this implies the spending of money that - I give you for one purpose, on quite another? No one knows better - than myself the pleasure to be derived from such little attentions to - those whose kindness calls for recognition, or to whom we feel drawn - by sympathy, and before whom we perhaps like to pose in the light - of a benefactor. Such gratifications are harmless, and may even be - beneficial, in themselves, but they are at present amongst the things - which you _must_ learn to deny yourself. How I wish I could _say_ - this, instead of writing it! Could you not come to us for a few days, - and we would thrash all these matters out together as one can only - do in a long, tête-à-tête evening talk over the fire, or perhaps a - ten-mile tramp far out into the country. Let me know what hope there - is of your getting down here, and when. - - “In regard to the question of returning hospitality, it does seem - to me a most moot point how far such obligations should bind us. - Certainly they should not do so _if entailing interference with work - or prayer_. You say nothing on these points, so do consider this - question next time you write. It is so disappointing to receive - short notes, written in haste, telling one nothing of yourself, and - with questions in home letters left unanswered. _Do_ write more - fully of yourself--I am so much disturbed about you, and cannot - understand why you should say that you have ‘nothing to write about.’ - _All_ is of the deepest interest to those who love you so, and you - tell us so little! You give no account of your Sundays, spiritual - experiences, private readings and the like, but if this does not come - spontaneously, it is of no use to try and force it. - - “I should like to hear something, however, of your friends. With whom - do you work, spend your Sundays, evening leisure hours, etc.? All - these details would be of the greatest interest, and, although one - has no wish to press on that particular aspect of the case, they are - points upon which your father has every right to information. - - “Why did you not tell me of your little sketch in the _Athene_? Owen - Quentillian brought it to my notice, supposing me, naturally, to be - aware of its authorship. It seemed to me to be well and brightly - written, though perhaps a little trivial in conception, but you have - a slip in the first paragraph, line 4, where you make ‘etomology’ - do duty for ‘_en_tomology.’ If this is a printer’s error, and you - did not correct the proofs yourself, draw your editor’s attention - to it _at once_. The final quotation from de Musset, is, I _think_, - incorrect, but I am not sure of this, and cannot verify at present. - He is not a writer about whom I care. Do you read much of him?” - -At this point Lucilla laid down the letter and said emphatically: - -“No, he doesn’t. Read de Musset, I mean. Probably he got the verse he -quotes out of a book of quotations.” - -The Canon looked surprised. - -“I am aware that modern methods are slip-shod, but Adrian’s knowledge -of French is much above the average. Our evening readings-aloud have -seen to that.” - -Lucilla picked up the sheets of paper again, wondering if there was -very much more of the letter to come--a wonder not infrequently felt by -those with whom Canon Morchard was in correspondence. - - “Do eschew the use of slang _absolutely_, at least in writing! - I quite consider that ‘stunt’ comes under this heading, in your - article. It is an Americanism, and so ugly! These criticisms, if - such they be, are only the outcome, need I tell you, of my really - intense desire that you should do full justice to yourself, and to - the talent that I feel sure is in you. And let me repeat again, - my dearest lad, that this applies _doubly_ to the more serious - fault-finding that I have been obliged, as your father, to put into - this letter. You must write to me fully and freely if it seems to you - that anything which I have said is unjust, but I believe that your - own conscience, and the candour that I know is yours, will endorse - all that I have written. In that case, you will know well where to - seek for the _unfailing_ strength necessary to a fresh beginning and - a full confession of error. - - “I cannot tell you with what anxiety I shall await your answer, and - do make it a really open-hearted one, as I well know that you _can_. - There shall be no cloud upon our meeting when we do meet, once things - have been made clear between us by letter, but I do feel that for - your own sake, far more than for mine, this strange reticence on your - part must not continue. - - “Look upon me as your best earthly friend, dear lad, as well as your - father, for no one can be more eager to sympathize with you on every - point than I am--and have always been. It has always seemed to me - that the relationship of father and son could--and should--be an - utterly _ideal_ one. - - “My love to you, as always, and do write _at once_. I must not end - this without reminding you that business-like habits, which I am so - anxious that you should acquire, make it _obligatory_ to acknowledge - a cheque by return of post, even were there not other reasons for - writing without delay. Anything that you wish treated as confidential - will of course be sacred--but that you know already. - - “In all lovingness, dear Adrian, I remain your most devoted father, - - “F. L. M.” - -“Can I say more?” the Canon enquired sadly and anxiously, as Lucilla -laid down the letter. To which Lucilla, with restraint, replied by a -bald negative. - -“I have weighed every word,” her father repeated, with, as she knew, -only too much truth. - -“Perhaps Adrian may feel that you are taking him too seriously -altogether. He sometimes seems----” - -“Whom, and what, should I take seriously if not my son, and his earthly -and eternal welfare?” the Canon interrupted her rather sternly. “You -take a great deal upon yourself, Lucilla, in speaking so. No doubt you -say to yourself: ‘I am young, I am of the period, it is for me to act -as interpreter between the parent, who is of another generation, and -the youth, who belongs to mine.’ But if I read your thought correctly, -my child--and I have no doubt that I do--it is an arrogant one, and -altogether unworthy of you.” - -Lucilla did not explain that no such determination had crossed her -mind as the self-sufficient one ascribed to her. She was aware, in -common with all the Canon’s children, that he was prone to attribute to -them occasionally motives and attitudes of mind strangely and almost -incredibly alien to anything to which they could ever reasonably -lay claim. Far more often, did he credit them with aspirations and -intentions of a quite undeserved sublimity. - -Her inward fear, that Adrian would probably leave the major part of his -father’s letter unread, she did not put into words. - -“Owen tells me that he is shortly going to London, and I shall make a -point of asking him to see our dear fellow and bring me a full report,” -said the Canon. - -He proffered his request shortly afterwards to Quentillian, by whom it -was received with no enthusiasm whatever. - -“Will Adrian like it?” he enquired, although fully conscious that -Adrian would not. - -“Aye, that he will,” said the Canon with emphasis. “It is just because -we feel you to be so thoroughly one of ourselves, dear Owen, that I am -asking you to act the elder brother’s part that would be David’s, were -he at home.” - -Lucilla could sympathize in the entire absence of elation with which -Quentillian took his departure, under the new honour thus thrust upon -him. - -There was a certain rueful amusement under his discomfiture when he -left St. Gwenllian. - -On his return, Lucilla discovered instantly that any lurking amusement -had been stifled under a perfectly real anxiety. - -“What is it?” she almost involuntarily asked, as she mechanically made -her preparations at the tea-table for the Canon’s entrance. - -“I’m afraid I have news that will distress you all, about Adrian.” - -“Is he ill?” said Flora. - -“No. I’m sorry if I frightened you. He has taken up some work that I’m -afraid the Canon will disapprove of--on the staff of Hale’s paper.” - -“What is that?” Flora asked, with grave, innocent eyes. - -But Lucilla said at once: “That’s the new review that has been so very -much criticized for its attitude towards the Church, isn’t it?” - -He nodded. - -“Oh!” Flora caught her breath, and her delicate face expressed the -violent and instinctive recoil of her spirit. - -Owen looked at Lucilla. - -Her indignation took a line that was not altogether what he had -expected. - -“Well, surely Adrian need not have found a way of asserting his -independence that must run counter to everything Father has ever -taught!” - -“He isn’t exactly doing it out of the spirit of opposition. Hale has -taken a fancy to him, and it’s the first chance Adrian has had of -regular, paid work. From a worldly point of view, he’d be a fool not to -have accepted it.” - -“A worldly point of view!” echoed Flora. “One doesn’t expect that in -Father’s son, somehow.” - -Theoretically, Quentillian felt, one didn’t. - -“Surely Adrian isn’t capable of controversial writing?” Flora added, -with a severity that saw apparently nothing humourous in the suggestion. - -“Nothing of that sort will be required of him. He will only write light -articles, like that thing you saw in the _Athene_. The point is that -he is working for a man like Hale, whose reputation--which is fairly -considerable in its own way--rests entirely upon his very anticlerical -attitude.” - -“But how can Adrian reconcile that with his duty as a Church member?” -said Flora tersely. - -“I didn’t ask him,” was Quentillian’s equally terse reply. - -They all three remained silent. - -“Is Adrian going to write to Father, or has he written already?” Flora -asked at last. - -“He hasn’t written.” - -Lucilla’s short-sighted gaze, with the rather intent look -characteristic of a difficulty in focussing, rested for a moment upon -Quentillian’s face. Then she asked quietly: - -“Did he ask you to tell Father for him?” - -“He did.” - -“How like Adrian,” said Lucilla. - -She made the statement very matter-of-factly, but Quentillian knew it -to be none the less a condemnation. - -“There was--is--no chance of making Adrian give it up?” Flora asked. - -“None, I should think, at present. Hale is a man of great personality, -and Adrian is a good deal flattered, naturally enough, at being taken -up by him. Of course he knows as well as you or I that it’s the thing -of all others to distress the Canon most. He’s genuinely upset about -it, in a way, but he struck me as being rather childishly bent on -showing that he can strike out a line of his own.” - -“Poor, poor Father! He has had so much to bear lately. Must he be -told?” said Flora. - -“Of course he must. But I don’t think Owen is the person to do the -telling. Adrian should do it himself.” - -“So I told him,” Quentillian observed rather grimly. “The utmost I -could get out of him was a very short note, that I am to give to the -Canon when he knows the facts.” - -No comment followed the announcement of so slender an achievement, and -they were sitting in silence when Canon Morchard came in. - -He greeted Owen Quentillian affectionately, as he always did, but said -quickly: - -“I am afraid that you bear no very glad tidings, dear fellow. No -matter. We will have our talk later. Let us forget grave subjects, and -partake of ‘the cup that cheers,’ which I can see that Lucilla there -has ready for us. What think you of this political crisis?” - -In the ensuing conversation the Canon, if not merry, was at least -gravely cheerful. - -Afterwards he took Owen into the garden, his arm laid across the young -man’s shoulders in the fashion that he so often adopted. - -They remained out for a long while. - -Lucilla did not see her father again until evening, when it was evident -that a weight of unhappiness had descended upon him. - -He read Prayers as usual, and the servants left the room. - -“One moment, my daughters. It is right that you should know the very -grievous news I have learnt today. Adrian has definitely adopted a -career which must cut him off from those of us who are living members -of the Church. He has cast in his lot with an enemy of the Church--a -man who makes his living, and has acquired a disgraceful notoriety, by -attacking the Church. Your brother has been seduced into a friendship -with this man--he is working for him, writing for his paper.” - -The Canon’s voice broke. - -“I am going up to seek him tomorrow, and plead with him, but I have -little hope. He does not answer the letters that I write with such -yearning anxiety and love--I have lost my influence over him. If it is, -as I fear, then--‘if thy right hand offend thee, cut it off.’ My dear -children, I ask you to join with me here and now in intercession for -our erring one.” - -He broke down, and the tears ran down his face. - -It was as though Adrian’s defection cost him a double pang: that to his -own fatherhood, and that to the ministry of the Church which he felt to -be such a living reality. - - - - -III - -DAVID AND FLORA - - -(i) - -“It cannot be, my dear,” the Canon repeated. So inexorable was his -voice, in all its kindness, that his daughter Flora felt that it could -not, indeed be. - -But it was Lucilla who had launched the “it” in question, and it was to -Lucilla that the parental negative had been already addressed no less -than three times. - -“If I am thus patient with this strange persistence of yours, Lucilla,” -said the Canon, his voice deepening after a fashion which indicated -not at all obscurely that he might not continue to be patient very -much longer, “if I am thus patient, it is because I do you the justice -to believe that it is sisterly affection for our poor Valeria and -her little one, and not a mere restless desire for change, that has -induced you to put forward this astonishing proposal. But consider the -folly and selfishness of this scheme, my child. You propose to spend -money--which we can ill afford, any of us--and sacrifice time and -strength in a wild rush overseas, an insensate dash through an unknown -country, in search of your sister’s new home. No doubt you say to -yourself ‘I am the winged Messenger of the Gods. I fly to take help and -comfort to our erring one. I will assist this new little life that is -coming into the world.’ You picture to yourself a triumphal progress--a -rapturous welcome--the acclamations of a New World. But you deceive -yourself, Lucilla. You deceive yourself grossly.” - -Flora felt herself colouring as she bent over her needlework. A -display of violent emotion as that into which Canon Morchard was now -working himself by force of his own eloquence, was always distasteful -to her, and she felt a vicarious shame for Lucilla, convicted of such -presumptuous flights of fancy. - -Flora was astonished at the calm of her sister’s reply, when it came. - -“But I don’t, Father. I hadn’t any idea of doing anything but -travelling to Canada in the ordinary way, and being with Val when her -new baby arrives. You know, it is dreadfully soon after her first one, -and she really isn’t----” - -“Have a care, Lucilla! Who are you to question the time and seasons -appointed by the All-seeing Wisdom for the bestowal of the infinite -blessing of children?” - -If Lucilla represented an infinite blessing to Canon Morchard, the fact -was not over evident at the moment. His brow was thunderous as he gazed -at her. - -“It is Valeria’s own choice that has sent her into a far country. She -might have been at our very gates, had she but willed it so.” - -“Well,” said Lucilla reasonably. “I don’t think if Val had been so near -us as all that, she would have written and begged one of us to come to -her. It’s just because she’s out there, such a long way off, and with -no one to help her, that she’s frightened. Why, she may not even be -able to get a servant.” - -“Poor child!” The Canon’s voice softened. “The way of transgressors is -hard. But two wrongs never yet made a right, Lucilla. I recognize the -generous impulse that moves you--if I spoke sharply just now, it was -only from my intense wish to see you do justice to your own _really_ -noble character, my child. Believe me, your duty lies here, in the -state to which it has pleased God to call you.” - -Lucilla’s brows contracted slightly, after her short-sighted fashion, -but it was not at all with an effect of vexation, but rather of some -slight perplexity. - -At last she said: - -“Could Flora go?” - -Flora, startled, looked at her father. For a moment it occurred to her -that perhaps he would be willing to spare her. Her heart leapt at the -thought of seeing Val, and Val’s babies. A vista of new experiences, of -hitherto undreamed-of independence, startled even whilst it pleasantly -excited her. - -Then her father said: “My dear, of what are you thinking? Your zealous -desire to befriend one sister makes you strangely inconsiderate of the -other. Flora is neither accustomed to responsibility, nor is she very -robust in health. Certainly, were it a clear question of duty, one -could put all that aside--but the call would have to be unmistakable, -the leading beyond all question. I can see no such indications here.” - -Flora, quietly bent over her needlework once more, was ashamed of the -realization that she was disappointed. - -Inwardly, she offered instant expiation for the rebellious moment, -consciously addressing herself to the personal Divinity by whom, she -had always been taught, every hair of her head was numbered. - -The reflection came, in immediate consolation, that she was not without -her spiritual glory, by this very act of resignation. - -“They also serve who only stand and wait,” she thought. - -The Canon had often quoted this to Flora, and indeed to any of his -children who showed a desire for alien activities. - -Flora might be said to have stood and waited for some time now. It -occurred to her that if Lucilla went to Canada, responsibilities at -home, other than passive ones, would become her own portion. The -thought did not displease her. Flora, too, though far less consciously -than Valeria, had sometimes glimpsed the sterility of her days. - -“Lucilla, you know where to seek counsel, I believe,” said Canon -Morchard gravely. “I make all due allowance for your natural, loving -impulse towards our poor Valeria--all due allowance. If your heart -bleeds for her, how much more does not mine? But there are times when -we must do violence to our natural feelings and I believe that some -such necessity is upon you now. Deny yourself, my daughter, and He will -bless the sacrifice both to you and to our dear one far away.” - -“But who will look after her when her baby is born?” said Lucilla -reflectively. - -“Lucilla, where is your trust?” - -“Mostly in myself, I think,” said Lucilla gently. “I really shouldn’t -feel it right not to go to Val, Father. I hope you will forgive me.” -She spoke so gently, with so simple a note of sincere regret in her -quiet voice, that the Canon, to Flora’s perceptions, appeared to -overlook the slightly blasphemous implication in the first words of her -sentence. - -“No man is more averse than myself from tampering with another’s -conscience,” he said, with gravity and displeasure. “You are no longer -a child, Lucilla, but have a care lest self-will should blind you. I -have long since warned you of the danger of self-complacency. I lay -no commands upon you, but I do most earnestly beg, my child, that you -will submit your own judgment to a higher Tribunal than any earthly -one, before coming to any decision. Commune with your own heart, -Lucilla, and be sure that self-seeking is not lurking under the guise -of loving-kindness.” - -The Canon went out of the room and Flora and Lucilla were left together. - -It was evident that Lucilla saw no urgent necessity for complying with -her father’s advice and communing with her own heart. She sat down at -her writing-table, wrote for a few moments, and read over what she had -written. Then she handed the half-sheet of notepaper to Flora. - -It bore the announcement that a lady wishing shortly to travel to -Canada, would give her services on the journey in return for part -passage. - -“But you mean to go, then?” - -“Oh, yes.” - -“I thought Father advised you to think it over?” - -“I did think it over. Didn’t you hear me say just now that I should -think it wrong _not_ to go to Val?” - -“You are setting your own judgment up above Father’s,” Flora pointed -out coldly. - -“I suppose so,” Lucilla assented, seeming rather surprised, as though -such an aspect of the case had not hitherto presented itself to her. - -Flora softened. - -“I can’t help being glad you’re going to be with poor Val when she -wants you. And oh, Lucilla! You’ll see little Georgie!” - -“I know. I wish you could, too.” - -“So do I.” She suddenly caught her breath. “Not that I should do what -you’re doing, for a moment. I don’t see how you _can_, in direct -opposition to Father’s advice.” - -“I’m sorry you see it like that,” said Lucilla gently. “Now, Flora, as -I may have to take my passage when I can get it, without much notice, -I’d like to arrange one or two things with you. Would you like me to -give Ethel a month’s notice? She’s a bad housemaid, but if you’d rather -she stayed on till----” - -“Lucilla, you talk as though it were all settled!” - -“My dear, it _is_ all settled. I told you that my mind was made up.” - -“You know that Father will miss you most terribly? And, though he never -speaks about it, he still grieves dreadfully over Adrian.” - -“I know. That hasn’t really got anything to do with it, though, has it? -If you keep on Ethel, you will have to make certain that she----” - -“I can’t talk about Ethel now, Lucilla. I’ll do the best I can, if you -really do go. Don’t think I’m unkind, please. I do understand that it -must be a great temptation, after poor Val’s letter saying how much she -wants you. I daresay if she’d written like that to me,” said Flora with -an effort, “that I might have felt it dreadfully difficult to refuse to -go to her.” - -Lucilla paused on her way to the door, and looked at her sister with -friendly, reflective interest. - -“But you would have refused?” - -“Isn’t it always safest,” said Flora diffidently, and yet with the -implacable certainty of rightness, too, “isn’t it always safest, when -there’s a choice--or what looks like a choice--to do whatever one likes -least?” - -“Lucilla!” called the Canon’s voice. - -She opened the door. - -“No, I shouldn’t call that a very good rule, myself. You’ll let me know -about Ethel as soon as you can, won’t you? Her month’s trial will be up -next Wednesday.” - -“_Lucilla!_” - -“I’m coming, Father.” - -She went. - -Flora let her work drop into her lap and folded her hands, allowing her -thoughts to wander. - -Could it be right to feel that the wrong-doing of another might prove -to be one’s own opportunity, come at last? She felt herself to have -striven for so long with the endeavour to prove faithful in that -which was least, all the time stifling resentment that no greater, -more heroic task should be set her. She had always felt herself to be -“little Flora” to her father, a child, to be petted and sheltered, and -in the minute introspection of a nightly examination of conscience, -she had frequently to reproach herself bitterly for an ungrateful -longing to emerge sometimes from the shielded into the shielding. If -Lucilla went away, their father would be alone, deserted except for -Flora. David was in India. He wrote very seldom, and then never of -coming home. Even his letters to Flora herself, always his favourite -sister, were neither confidential nor frequent. Val was married, in -Canada, and was claiming Lucilla’s presence almost as a right. Adrian, -in London, was the subject of daily intercession at St. Gwenllian but -it was known to all his children that the Canon would not again receive -Adrian at home until he should have severed all connection with the -atheist, Hale. - -How they had failed their father, all of them! Flora resolved -passionately that she herself would never fail him. Prayer was the -form of self-expression most natural to her, and she made ardent -inward supplication that if Lucilla were permitted to follow her own -way, good might come of it, and she herself prove worthy of her sacred -filial charge. No such exaltation of spirit could be indulged in when -Lucilla’s decision had been openly accepted, and her preparations begun. - -She preserved all her usual even cheerfulness, and her conversation was -rather more severely practical than before. - -“Don’t let the key of the storeroom out of your own possession, -Flossie, please. I’m sure both the maids are trustworthy, but it’s no -use breaking rules.” - -And: - -“Remember _not_ to order anything eggy when Mr. Clover comes to a meal. -He can’t eat eggs.” - -“I mean to do my very best for everyone while you’re away. But of -course it won’t be the same for Father.” - -“I expect it will, if you’re careful,” said Lucilla kindly. “Don’t let -her put flavourings into everything, though--he can’t bear them.” - -She seemed not at all preoccupied with less material considerations. - -Even at the last, she bade them good-bye without any of that aspect of -remorse which Flora privately considered that she ought to have worn. - -The Canon was very kind and forbearing, and said at the last moment: - -“I hope and believe that you children understand what is meant by -large-mindedness, and that I myself am the last man in the world to -deny to each individual the right of an independent judgment. You -are acting according to your lights, Lucilla, and I am willing--nay, -eager--to believe in the sincerity of your motives. God bless you, my -dearest one, and prosper your mission.” - -Lucilla’s farewell was affectionate, but not at all emotional, Flora -was always undemonstrative by instinct, and it was only the Canon whose -eyes were moist, and whose voice shook. - -Nevertheless, he turned to his remaining child after a moment and spoke -very firmly. - -“You may wonder, little Flora, that I have no reproach for Lucilla. She -is leaving home against my advice, against my wishes. I believe that -she deceives herself. But Lucilla means well--she means well. As we go -through life, we learn to be very tolerant, very patient, to understand -better what is meant by forgiveness ‘unto seventy times seven’.” - -He smiled at her. - -“You and I must have some pleasant tête-à-tête evenings, Flora, now -that we are left to bear one another company. I should like to rub -up some of my old Italian lore. Shall we undertake some such task as -Dante’s _Paradiso_ for our leisure time?” - -Flora assented, gratified. - -Their days fell into a routine that suited her well, and although -in her daily and nightly prayers Flora mentioned the names of both -Adrian and Lucilla as candidates for Divine Mercy, she was not really -conscious of any very earnest personal wish for the return of either to -St. Gwenllian. - - -(ii) - -“On the 18th November, suddenly, at Bombay, David, beloved elder son of -Canon Morchard of St. Gwenllian Vicarage....” - -Owen Quentillian was away from Stear when he read the announcement, -with a strong sense of shock. - -Why should David Morchard die? - -He wrote to the Canon, and also, after a little hesitation, to Flora -Morchard. - -As he half expected, Flora’s reply told him more than the Canon’s -numerous pages. - - “MY DEAR OWEN: - - “Thank you for your letter. We knew that you would be sorry, and - would understand what this must be to my father, and all of us. He - is so brave and good, and everyone is kindness itself. We do not - know anything at all except the bare fact, which was cabled from the - Regimental headquarters, and it will probably be another three weeks - before letters can reach us. If you like, I will write again when - they do. We shall want to see you very much when you get back to - Stear. Father speaks of you so often, as though it would be a comfort - to him to see you again. - - “Yours sincerely, - “FLORA MORCHARD.” - -The Canon’s minute legible handwriting covered several pages, and he, -like Flora, but at far greater length, emphasized the kindness shown to -him. - - “My people here have shown feeling such as I dare hardly dwell upon, - lest I overset altogether such composure as I may have won. Some of - them, of course, remember our dear, dear fellow well, young though - he was when he left us. But even those who never knew him speak such - words as well-nigh break one’s heart with gratitude and pity and - tenderness. I tell myself that whatever is, must be best, and yet, - Owen, the longing, that I can only trust may not be repining, to have - had but one day--one hour--together, before this blow fell! It was - so long since we had spoken together! And sometimes I reproached him - for his long silences, for the absence of the details that one longed - for, in his letters home. How could I, ah, how could I, I now ask - myself sadly, who will receive no more letters from him again. How - one learns to be gentle, as the years go on, but the day comes when - each unloving word, each selfish thought, comes back to break one’s - heart! And yet, Owen, who could have thought that _I_ should be left, - who have seen nigh on three-score years, and that strong, gallant lad - taken in the very strength of his manhood. Truly, God’s ways are not - our ways. - - “It does not bear writing of. We must have many long talks together, - when you are with us again. What a contrast to that first visit of - yours, Owen, when our numbers were yet unbroken, save indeed that - first, great gap that only Lucilla and the dear lad who is gone, - could realize. At least, their mother has one with her! - - “When you first came to us after the war, it was to give us direct - news of our beloved boy. I seem to remember some merry gatherings - then, with Lucilla and Flora ‘making musik,’ and Valeria all fun and - brightness--I can write of her freely, dear Owen, can I not--the old - wound is healed now?--and Adrian still the veriest boy, the light and - sunshine of the house. - - “You will find change and stillness and emptiness about the old - place, now. All are scattered, only Flora left in the empty nest. - I can find no words to tell you what she has been, Owen. Friend, - companion, daughter, comforter! Of all my children, Flora and Lucilla - are the two who have never failed me, never failed their own higher - selves. And Lucilla, as you know, is away from us at present. Poor - child! What a punishment for her self-will in leaving us. - - “Flora and poor Clover have spared me in every possible way these - days, and whilst I have them, I can indeed never think myself wholly - desolate. Letters will not reach us yet awhile from India, and one - longs, and yet dreads, to receive them. There may be one from our - poor lad himself--yet why do I call him ‘poor,’ when he is so far - more blest than we who are left? We can only conjecture that cholera - or fever struck him down, he said nothing of sickness in his last - letter, and whatever it was must have come upon him with fearful - suddenness. One can only hope and pray that the Infinite Mercy - allowed him time to meet the dread King of Terrors as one knows that - he would have wished to do, but all, all is in other hands than ours. - - “I have said nothing of your letter, dear Owen, my heart is too full. - Let me answer it in person. Both Flora and I look for your return - with eagerness and hope to persuade you to come to us at least for - a day or two. You knew our loved one, and it is not so long since - you and he met. How I envy you that meeting now! We have heard of - it all in detail, I know, but you will have patience, and go over - it all once more with us. The only thing that gives one courage to - face the present (saving always that far-reaching Comfort which one - _knows_ to be there, but which poor humanity cannot always _feel_) is - a mournful, tender lingering over the past. Nor must you fear that - I always weep, dear Owen--there is often absolute rest and joy in - dwelling on the past happiness that one knows to be only a shadow and - faint forecasting of the Joy that is to come. - - “Bless you, dear fellow, and though I have said so little of thanks - for all the sympathy and understanding in your dear letter, do not - think of me as anything but profoundly touched and grateful. - - “Sorrowfully and ever affectionately yours, - - “FENWICK MORCHARD.” - -Quentillian folded the letter and put it away. - -He mentally visualized the silent and grief-stricken house, and his -heart contracted strangely. - -Valeria had gone, and would come back no more. Her heart was given to -her new life, to her new country. Lucilla was with her. Adrian--the -Adrian of the Canon’s tender love and pride--had never been. David, who -had not wanted to come home, who had left “long intervals” between his -scanty letters--David was dead. - -There was only Flora left at St. Gwenllian. - -He thought that he could see her, remote and austere, either devoid -of capability for human emotion, or regarding emotional display as -rebellion against Heaven. He had never known which. Flora would move -about the cold, silent house, and write the letters, and give the -orders, and remember the sane, everyday things that must be done. She -would be helped by the eager, anxious curate. Mr. Clover would remember -things, too, but he would not, like Flora, accomplish them in silence. -He would suggest, and remind, and humbly and timidly deprecate his own -efforts. - -Quentillian could see the Canon, too. - -The Canon would spare himself nothing, but he would break down, with -gusts of overwhelming sorrow and bitter remorse for his own want of -resignation. He would write, and write, and write, in the lonely -study, often blinded with tears, yet deriving his realest comfort from -the outward expression of his grief. - -Quentillian could accept that, now, could realize it as the -interpretation of a sincerity at least as complete as his own. - -Within the fortnight, he went to St. Gwenllian. It was all very much as -he had pictured it to himself. Only Flora was a little, a very little, -less remote than he had expected to find her. - -He thought that she dreaded the arrival of the letters from India, and -feared their effect upon her father. - -When the mail did arrive, the letters were brief, and said that David -Morchard had died in hospital of dysentery after three days’ illness. -The colonel of the regiment wrote in praise of a career interrupted -abruptly, and a parcel of effects was promised. - -There was no more. - -“Such letters have become so sadly common in the last few years,” said -the Canon wistfully. “How can one hope that in each individual case the -writer will realize the yearning with which one looks for one personal -touch--one word to show that all was well.” - -“Perhaps they will write from the hospital--the chaplain or the -matron,--when they send the things,” Quentillian suggested. - -He, too, was faintly disappointed and puzzled at the reticence of the -letters. - -Flora’s face, set in its sad composure, told him nothing of her -feelings. - -But the day following brought him enlightenment from Flora herself. - -They were sent out for a walk together. - -“Take her for a walk, dear Owen,” said the Canon solicitously. “Flora -is pale, and cold. She has shut herself up too much of late. Go, my -child, I shall do very well, and can find only too much to occupy me. -Enjoy the fresh air.” - -Flora made no protestations of inability to enjoy herself, nor any -assumption of indispensability at home. It was the Canon, again, who -suggested an errand to a distant cottage, and she acquiesced without -comment. - -It was a cold, grey day, with swiftly moving masses of cloud and a -chill in the wind. Flora and Owen walked quickly, and at first neither -spoke. Then Flora said: - -“How much, exactly, were you a friend of David’s?” - -His own surprise made Quentillian realize afresh how very seldom it was -that Flora initiated any topic of a personal nature. - -“We were not intimate,” he replied. - -“It was more the time that you spent with us here, when you were a -little boy, than anything else, that established a relationship between -you?” - -“I suppose it was.” - -“I think you are very much interested in people, and Lucilla says that -you are very observant,” said Flora, smiling a little. “Would you mind -telling me, quite dispassionately, if David was popular with other -men--the officers in his regiment, for instance?” - -He did not understand at what her question aimed, but replied with -unhesitating candour. - -“I should say he was very popular. He was a good sportsman, and -everyone liked him, although as far as I know he wasn’t a man of -intimate friendships. That type isn’t.” - -“No. You see, Owen, there have been no letters from people who were in -India with him, although you say he was popular. Only just those few -lines from the Colonel. And I was afraid before--and I’m afraid now--” -She stopped. - -“Of what?” - -“That it wasn’t dysentery, or anything like that. That they’re keeping -the truth from us out of pity, or to save some scandal. I--I can’t get -it out of my mind, Owen.” - -He heard her with something that was not altogether surprise. -Subconsciously, he felt that his own uneasiness had been only dormant. - -“Have you anything beyond intuition, to go upon?” - -“No.” - -“Why have you told me?” - -He felt certain that she had not spoken merely in order to be -reassured, nor in order to find relief. Speaking was no relief to -Flora, so far as Owen could see. - -“I want you to try and find out definitely.” - -“Yes. And supposing I do, supposing that what you fear is true--” he -hesitated. - -“That David took his own life?” said Flora, shuddering. “Then, don’t -you see, Owen, I shall have to tell Father--or else to make it -absolutely certain that no one will ever tell him.” - -“You can’t,” said Owen gently. - -“But I must,” she told him, with the same intensity. “He’s had a great -deal to bear already, and this would be worse than anything. Suicide -is a mortal sin. Bodily separation, one can resign oneself to--he _is_ -resigning himself, poor Father, to separation from nearly all those -whom he loves,--but suicide would mean eternal separation. It would be -worse than anything--the loss of David’s soul.” - -“I see.” - -Quentillian did indeed see. - -“Val, and Adrian, and David--they’ve all gone away from him,” said -Flora. “Only he knows there is another life, so much more real and -enduring than this one, to which he looks. It means everything to him. -If David did do--that--then the hope of meeting him again, in eternity, -is gone.” - -Quentillian felt the force of her low-spoken, anguished statement. - -“You are taking it for granted that a suspicion--which after all, rests -on very little indeed--is true.” - -“You see, if I am to safeguard my father from this thing, I can’t very -well afford to wait and do nothing, just because there’s quite a big -chance that it isn’t true at all. The chance that it _is_ true, may be -infinitesimal--the hundredth chance, if you like--but it’s that which -I’ve got to think about, not the other. Optimism doesn’t carry one far -enough, in preparing a line of defence.” - -“I agree with you.” - -“I don’t think that either you or I are optimists, Owen,” said Flora, -faintly smiling. - -“No.” - -“That’s why I want you to help me. Can you make enquiries at any of the -headquarter places in London where they might know something?” - -“I can try.” - -“Thank you very much,” said Flora, as though his unenthusiastic assent -had closed the subject. - -They went along the muddy road in silence. - -It was from no sense that it was necessary to break it, that -Quentillian spoke again at last. - -“Will Lucilla come back to England at once?” - -“I don’t think so. She promised to stay till the spring. You know Val -has another little boy? I wish we could see them, but Father will never -really be happy about Val, I’m afraid. He forgave her, long ago, but he -doesn’t forget things, ever, I don’t think.” - -“I don’t consider that the Canon had anything to forgive,” said -Quentillian in tones of finality. - -“But _he_ does.” - -If Quentillian had expected a certain meed of recognition for the -magnanimity of his point of view, he was not destined to be gratified. -Flora spoke rather as one giving utterance to an obvious platitude. - -“Is Val happy?” - -“Very. She has exactly what she always really wanted. Sometimes they -have a servant, but most of the time she does everything herself, and -has occasional help. She is so happy with the two little boys, too, all -her letters are about them, and about the house, and all they’re doing -to improve it. She’s got the life that she was really meant for, and -after all, isn’t that what makes happiness?” - -“I suppose it is. She was meant for the primitive things, you think?” - -“Lucilla always said so. There is the cottage, Owen. Will you wait -outside, or come in?” - -“I should like to come in with you.” - -Life was inartistic, Quentillian reflected whimsically, while Flora -delivered her father’s message to a middle-aged woman in an apron. - -To accord with all literary conventions, there should have been a sick -child in the cottage, and Flora’s tender soothing of its fretfulness -should have proved a revelation of the unfulfilled maternal instinct -within her. - -But there was no sick child to provide a _clou_ for Quentillian’s -observations in psychology, and he was by no means assured of Flora’s -powers of soothing. Rather would she urge the silence of resignation. - -He was convinced that never in her life had Flora Morchard been the -centre of a pretty picture. That her personality seldom dominated -any scene was not, he felt, from any conscious effacement, but from -an innate and instinctive withdrawal of her forces to some unseen -objective, to her infinitely worth while. He reflected with dismay on -his own undertaking to make enquiries concerning the death of David -Morchard. But he did not think that Flora, whatever the result of the -enquiries, would be dismayed. Dismay implied mental disarray, a quality -of taken-abackness. Flora, as she would herself have told him, was -strong in a strength not her own. - -They walked back together almost in silence. - -“Your little expedition did Flora good,” the Canon told Quentillian -that evening. “I am grateful to you, dear fellow, very grateful. Let -us see something of you still, from Stear. It means a great deal to us -both. There must not be ‘good-bye’ between us, save for the beautiful -old meaning of the word, ‘God by you.’ God by you always, dear Owen.” - -Quentillian went to London, made no discoveries at all, and wrote to -Flora. - -She replied, thanking him, in the briefest of notes. A week later he -received another letter from her. - - “MY DEAR OWEN: - - “The Indian mail came in yesterday, and brought me a letter from - David, written a week before he died. He asked me to break it to - my father that a Major Carey, in his regiment, was on his way home - to take divorce proceedings against his wife, citing David as - co-respondent. David asked me in the letter to do anything I could - for Mrs. Carey, as she is by herself, with no relations in England. - The case was to be undefended, and David had decided to leave the - Army and come to England as soon as possible to marry Mrs. Carey. I - gather that he was very unhappy, especially at having to leave the - regiment. I still do not know whether he found a dreadful solution to - the whole question, in taking his own life. - - “Mrs. Carey has written to Father, a strange note, which he showed - me. She says nothing of the divorce proceedings, but only writes - as a great friend of David’s, imploring to be allowed to see us. - Naturally, Father is only too anxious to see her, and as she says - that she is on her way to Scotland at once, we are coming to London - on the 10th so as to meet her. - - “I have told Father nothing whatever of David’s letter to me. I - cannot imagine that Mrs. Carey will want to make the facts known to - him, but I shall be able to judge better when I have seen her, which - I have decided to do, by myself, before the appointment with Father. - - “I can arrange this a great deal better with your help than - without it, therefore will you come and see us on the evening we - arrive--Thursday the 10th, at about six o’clock, Carrowby’s Hotel? - - “Please destroy this letter. - - “Yours sincerely, - “FLORA MORCHARD.” - -Quentillian, as he read Flora’s unvarnished statements, felt a -sensation as of being appalled. - -He could not believe that Flora, fanatically single-minded as her -determination to shield her father from the knowledge of the truth -might be, had any conception of the difficulties that probably lay -before her, and he asked himself also whether she had in any degree -realized what the consequences must be to the Canon, far more than to -herself, of a deception that should break down half way. - -His absolute conviction of Flora’s inflexibility, and his own strong -sense of the impertinence, in both the proper and the colloquial sense -of the word, of offering unasked advice, were not enough to restrain -him from the mental composition of several eloquent and elaborate -expositions of opinion. But they sufficed to restrain him from -transferring the eloquence to a sheet of notepaper. - -He went to Carrowby’s Hotel, to keep the appointment summarily made by -Flora. - -“You dear man!” - -The Canon’s exclamation of pleasure rang through the dingy hotel -sitting-room in which Quentillian found them. He always showed the -same pleasure in seeing Owen, and Owen’s old sense of inadequacy had -insensibly given place to a rather remorseful gratitude. - -“Is this the doing of Flora? She told me that she should notify you of -our coming, but it is good to meet with a friend’s face so early. Our -stay is to be a very brief one. I have to return home for the Sunday. I -cannot leave all in Clover’s hands. Besides, I trust there will be no -need. You know the errand on which we are come?” - -“I told him in my letter,” said Flora. - -“This lady, this Mrs. Carey, had seen much of our dear fellow in India -and her letter is full of feeling--full of feeling. She heard nothing -of our tragedy until she landed in England. It seems that she had been -in ill-health for some time, she writes of complete prostration, and is -on her way to Scotland now. So you will understand our hasty journey -hither. Has it not indeed been with us, ‘Ask and ye shall receive’? -Flora, here, knows what my yearning has been for one word with those -who knew him, who had been with him recently. And behold! it has been -given unto me, ‘full measure, heaped up, pressed down and running -over’.” - -The Canon leant back. He looked very tired and old. - -“Do you see her tomorrow morning, sir?” - -“We go to her, Owen. She is good enough to receive us on Saturday -morning, and I understand that she leaves that evening. Tomorrow I have -a conference in the afternoon, but the morning is our own.” - -He gazed wistfully at Owen. - -“I had thought of a memorial window to the beloved David, and this is -an opportunity which may not come again. I have the name of a place -to which I half thought of going, if it be not too trying for little -Flora.” - -“Let me accompany you,” said Quentillian. - -It was evidently what the Canon wished. - -“Will you, dear lad? I own that I should be glad of your arm, aye, and -your presence. Flora is overwrought and overtired.” - -She did indeed look very ill, not at all to Quentillian’s surprise. - -“She has been taking too much thought for me, dear child,” said the -Canon, Quentillian could not help thinking with more truth than he -realized. “I wish Flora to take some rest. Let the expedition tomorrow -be yours and mine, Owen. Tell me, my daughter, what time am I free?” - -“Tomorrow morning, till twelve o’clock. Your conference is at two.” - -“Flora is my deputy secretary,” said the Canon smiling. “I trust it all -to her, and her memory is unfailing. She is indeed my right hand.” - -“Will you come at ten o’clock tomorrow, Owen, and start from here?” -said Flora abruptly. - -He assented, determined to obtain an opportunity of speaking to her -alone. If he was to assist Flora in a scheme of concealment against -which he inwardly revolted strongly, he must at least know of what that -scheme consisted. His indignation waxed in proportion to his anxiety, -until Flora said to him with deliberation: - -“Ought we to keep you any longer, Owen? I’ll ring for the lift.” The -suggestion took them both out of the room, and she closed the door -after her. - -“What is it you’re doing?” said Quentillian, his urgency too great for -a choice of words. - -She leant against the passage wall, white and rather breathless, but -spoke low and very distinctly, as though to impress her facts upon him. - -“Listen--I want you to be quite clear about it. The appointment with -Mrs. Carey is for tomorrow--Friday morning. I’m going to her house. -I’m certain from her letter, that she’s not a woman to be trusted. -I don’t know why she wants to see us, but I think it’s to tell us -things--things about David. I shall know when I’ve seen her.” - -“But your father thinks the appointment is for Saturday?” - -“I told him it was. I wrote the letter to arrange it.” - -“And how are you to prevent his going there on Saturday?” - -“She leaves for Scotland on Friday night.” - -“You know that for certain?” - -“Of course I do, Owen. One doesn’t leave these things to chance. But I -shall telephone on Saturday and find out if she’s really left.” - -“I still don’t understand altogether. How can you explain to the Canon -that this lady isn’t there, when he goes by appointment to see her?” - -“I shall have made a mistake. I’m keeping his engagements written down -for him. And I shall have written down this engagement for Saturday, -instead of for Friday. He will go exactly one day too late.” - -“Flora, you can’t do it.” - -She lifted tired eyes to his face, overwrought to the point of -fanaticism. - -“Don’t waste time. Only tell me if I can count on you. All I want you -to do is to keep Father out, with you, tomorrow morning. I shall be at -Mrs. Carey’s at half-past ten and I promise to be back here before one -o’clock.” - -“Suppose this lady is not what you think her, and you find that she -will be--discreet--is your father to be disappointed of his hopes of -seeing her?” - -“I may be able to arrange something. Perhaps she’d put off going to -Scotland, and see him on Saturday after all. It would be all right -then, wouldn’t it? Or I might even be able to tell her the whole -thing,” said Flora wistfully. “It isn’t very likely, though.” - -He did not think that it was. - -“You see, you didn’t see her original letter, and I did. It was the -letter of a very hysterical person. She might say almost anything, I -imagine and--well, there’s a good deal that mustn’t be said, isn’t -there?” - -It was incontrovertible, but Quentillian said roughly: - -“I detest maneuvering, it’s utterly unworthy of you. All this juggling -with dates and letters----” - -“It’s no use doing things by halves,” said Flora stubbornly. “Yes or -no, Owen, are you going to back me up if necessary?” - -“If I say no, will it deter you from going through with this insane -performance?” - -“Of course it won’t.” She actually smiled. “What would be the sense -of making up one’s mind if it’s to be unmade again just because one’s -friends don’t agree with one?” - -“Very well.” He shrugged his shoulders as one in desperation. - -She evidently accepted it as the assent, however ungracious, that he -meant it to be. - -“Thank you very much,” said Flora with brief finality. - - -(iii) - -Flora followed Mrs. Carey’s maid upstairs, feeling as though the -beating of her heart were causing each breath she drew to crowd thickly -upon the next one. - -Mrs. Carey’s house--she supposed it was Mrs. Carey’s house--was a very -tiny one indeed, and looked tinier by reason of the number of pictures, -draperies, and flowers that covered every available corner of the steep -staircase and the small landing. - -The drawing-room was small, too, and so dark that the maid turned on -the rose-shaded electric lights as she ushered Flora into the empty -room. - -“Mrs. Carey isn’t down yet. I’ll tell her you’re here, m’m.” - -“Mrs. Carey is expecting me. Please say that it is Miss Morchard.” - -The maid went away. - -“Unpunctual,” reflected Flora. “She said half-past ten.” - -She gazed round the room, which confirmed the impression of Mrs. -Carey’s personality that Flora had already received from her pale mauve -notepaper, her methods of expressing herself in writing, and that which -she knew of her relations with David Morchard. - -Nearly everything in the room was rose-colour, except the walls, which -were grey, and laden with sketches, brackets, and a shelf on which -stood innumerable framed and unframed photographs, nearly all of them -of men. - -A minute writing-table, set corner ways, overflowed with papers, and -more photographs, including one that Flora recognized instantly, -although it had never been sent to St. Gwenllian. - -The chair in front of the table supported a number of illustrated -papers. - -“Untidy,” was Flora’s next verdict. - -She had resolutely closed the avenues of her mind to emotion and -speculation alike. The habits of observation, which she mentioned in -private spiritual consultation with her father as her own tendency -towards a lack of charity, she knew subconsciously to possess a -steadying effect. - -A quantity of cigarette ash in a small receptacle, presumably placed -there on the previous evening, and a general atmosphere of unopened -windows, did not serve to modify Flora’s already unenthusiastic -judgments. - -Neither did Mrs. Carey’s delay in making her appearance. - -When she at last came in, it was difficult to see what could possibly -have delayed her, since she had apparently only stepped out of bed into -a wadded silk kimono, a lace boudoir cap, and fur-bordered bedroom -slippers. - -She looked younger than Flora had expected her to be, and her little -pallid face was pretty enough, with violet semi-circles under big, -light blue eyes and a general air of fragility. Although nearly as -tall as Flora herself, she was slight enough to produce an effect of -daintiness, the adjective that Flora immediately felt certain would -appeal to her most. - -A short, thick plait of fair hair fell over her shoulders, and a -certain babyish plaintiveness of utterance made Flora think of Olga -Duffle. - -“I’m sure you’re David’s sister,” said Mrs. Carey, to which proof of -intuition her visitor offered no reply, thinking the fact sufficiently -self-evident. - -“Oh, do sit down. You must forgive me coming in like this, but I’m not -strong, and I arrived worn out after an awful voyage--and then to get -this news! Do you smoke?” - -“No, thank you.” - -“Do you mind if I do? I smoke too much, but my nerves are in an awful -state. A doctor friend of mine--the dearest thing--made me promise -faithfully never to inhale, but I’m afraid I do. It was the ship’s -doctor, on the way home, as a matter of fact. There were one or two -nice men on board, but the women were dreadful. Miss Morchard, I should -think other women generally confide in you, don’t they, and like you -most awfully. Now, I’m _not_ enormously popular with other women. -I don’t mean that I haven’t got women-friends, devoted ones, who’d -do anything in the world for me--but most of my very best pals have -been men. It’s funny, isn’t it? Your brother was one of my _dearest_ -friends.” - -The blue eyes looked warily at Flora. - -“That’s why I felt I had to see you, and oh! you are so like him! It’s -hardly like talking to a stranger at all!” - -It certainly was not, Flora reflected. - -“I feel I’m so dreadfully in the dark--I know nothing. Only the awful, -awful fact. When I got the cable--it was cabled to me, by a dear friend -at Government House--when I read it, I simply didn’t believe it. I -said, ‘It can’t be true.’ But it was.” - -Flora did not feel it incumbent upon her to reply. - -“When your father got my letter, I daresay he was astonished, but I’m -frightfully impulsive, Miss Morchard, and I felt I _must_ know more -or I should go mad. That’s why I begged you to let me see you. I’m a -thoroughly unconventional woman, as you may perhaps have guessed, and I -always act on impulse.” - -Flora looked at the frightened, furtive little face, and wondered what -purpose and what concealment lay behind the flood of words. - -“I’m going to be perfectly frank with you, because I feel I can trust -you. May I call you Flora? My name is Maisie--a silly little name, -isn’t it, but my friends all say it suits me. I don’t know why. Tell -me, did David write to you about me? He said he was going to, but it -was such a--such a short time before----” - -Mrs. Carey’s tongue moistened her lips as though they were dry. - -“I don’t know whether you’ve ever lived abroad, but if you haven’t, you -don’t know what the East is like for people who have to live there. -There’s a frightful amount of slander and gossip going on, and people -put a wicked construction on all sorts of innocent things. It’s awful. -It used to make me simply miserable. You see, live and let live has -always been my motto. I like to go my own way, and have my own friends, -and not do any harm to anybody, but simply be happy in my own little -way. After all, it’s what God meant for all of us, isn’t it? But in -India one can’t do that. My dear, you wouldn’t believe what it’s like. -I went out when I was awfully young--I was married at twenty--and I -know for a fact that the most beastly things have been said about me. -You see, I feel I can tell you this quite frankly, Flora, because of -your being David’s favourite sister. I know you’ll understand, and that -I can trust you.” - -Again that anxious, furtive glance was shot at her from under Mrs. -Carey’s long lashes. - -“I’ve had heaps of men friends, of course--especially in the Regiment. -I’m going to be _perfectly_ honest with you, and own up that one or -two of them got rather silly, and fancied themselves in love with -me. That wasn’t my fault, was it? I just wanted to be friends, you -know. A nice woman can do such a lot for young men. I couldn’t help -it--possibly--if they went and fancied themselves in love with me. Now -could I? But would you believe it, people--it was mostly women, I must -say, and some of them actually called themselves my friends--went and -invented the most disgusting lies about me. Out of jealousy, you know. -I was a good ten years younger than any of them, as it happened, and -you’d have thought the Colonel’s wife, or anyone like that, might have -wanted to mother me a little bit. (I lost my own mother when I was only -fourteen, and had a rotten time at home.) But instead of that, my dear, -_instead_ of that, they simply spread these filthy stories about me -and all my best friends. However, I don’t want to go into all that. It -was soon after I first went out, and of course nobody who really knew -me believed for an instant that there was anything in it. They heard -something about it at Government House, you know, and the Governor was -simply furious, I believe. My friend in the Secretariat told me about -it. The Governor said that Mrs. Carey was the only real lady in the -place, as well as being the prettiest woman in India. Of course, that -may have been nonsense, because I happen to know that he did like me -most awfully--personally, I mean--but I know I was most awfully touched -at his taking up the cudgels for me like that. It showed what the -people who really _mattered_ thought of me, didn’t it, and after all, -the Governor of a place does represent the King, doesn’t he?” - -“Yes,” said Flora. - -It was the first appeal to which she had felt able to give any assent. - -“You said that so like David!” cried Mrs. Carey clasping her hands -together. “We were the greatest friends, and he used to come to me -about everything. I used to tell him to marry....” - -Another pause, and another look. - -“I always want my young-men friends to marry. That just shows, doesn’t -it, what nonsense it is for anyone to talk as though there were -anything wrong about it? I don’t know whether your brother ever hinted -anything to you, in his letters, about any horrid gossip. Between -ourselves, he used to get angry, I know, at the things that were -sometimes said, and of course he knew that I wasn’t--well, very happy. -You’re not married, I know, so perhaps you won’t understand what it -means to a woman, especially a very sensitive one, which I am, to have -a husband who is jealous. I’m not blaming Fred, exactly, I suppose he -can’t help it, and he was madly in love with me when we married. Of -course, I was much too young and ignorant of life to marry, but I had -an awfully unhappy home, and if it hadn’t been Fred, it would have been -somebody else--men were always pestering me, somehow. Besides, people -made mischief between us. How people can be wicked enough to come -between husband and wife, I can’t think! I’ve been through hell once or -twice in my life, I can tell you!” - -Looking at the fear and the craftiness and the sensuality written on -Maisie Carey’s small, ravaged face, Flora could believe it without -difficulty. - -“I don’t really know why I’m telling you all this, exactly. It’s -not like me. I’m terribly reserved, really. But you’ve got such an -awfully nice face, somehow, and you’re David’s sister. I can’t tell you -how fond I was of David--we were just tremendous chums. It upset me -awfully, that he should die in that sudden way.” - -She began to cry in a convulsive, spasmodic way. - -Flora still remained silent. - -“I wish you’d tell me if he ever wrote anything to you about me,” -sobbed Mrs. Carey. - -In the midst of the tears which seemed to be really beyond her own -control, Flora caught a glimpse as of a terrible anxiety. She suddenly -knew that in the answer to that last, sobbed-out question lay, for Mrs. -Carey, the crux of their interview. - -“He did write,” said Flora. “But what he wrote is safe with me. It will -never go any further.” - -The figure in the gay silk kimono seemed to cower further back into the -armchair, but there was no self-betraying exclamation. - -“I suppose he told you about Fred and me?” - -“And about himself too,” said Flora. - -“Men are all alike! Why did he want to tell you?” - -“So that I could tell my father and sister. David was afraid of Father.” - -“Your father knows?” This time the note of alarm was undisguised. - -“No. The letter was only found and posted after the ones that told us -of David’s death. And I have told my father nothing.” - -Mrs. Carey broke into vehement, hysterical speech. - -“There’s nothing to tell! You people at home make such mountains out -of molehills. I swear to you that there was nothing between us, that I -never----” - -Flora interrupted her. - -“He told me everything,” she repeated. “He told me that the case would -be undefended, and that he was coming home to marry you. So you see I -know.” - -“You! What can you, who’ve never married, never seen anything of -life, know of things? You see evil where none exists--you’re like all -these good and holy people ... intolerant....” Tears poured unchecked -down her face, making streaks across the white powder. “You don’t -even _begin_ to know what I’ve gone through. My husband is a beast--a -_beast_. You don’t know what that means.” - -She flung herself backwards, almost prone, and wept hysterically. - -“What are you going to do?” said Flora. - -“Kill myself!” - -The rhetorical answer came almost automatically. - -Flora waited for a moment and then said very gently: - -“As you say, I don’t know anything about these things, but perhaps -you would tell me what you want. We might think of some way of making -things better. And you can see for yourself that your secret--and -David’s--is safe with me. I’ve deceived my father, sooner than let him -guess. I don’t think he need ever know, now.” - -“Why don’t you want him to know?” said Mrs. Carey with sudden curiosity -that seemed to check her crying. - -“It would make him very unhappy. He was proud of David and he thinks -that David had a career before him. Perhaps you’ve read in books,” said -Flora, speaking as though to a child, “about people thinking death is -better than dishonour. Well, my father is like that.” - -“He’s a parson, isn’t he?” - -“Yes.” - -Mrs. Carey shrugged her shoulders. - -“Where is your husband now?” Flora enquired. She felt that she could -ask this woman questions without fear or rebuff, but she thought that -it would be for her to disentangle the truth from the false in Mrs. -Carey’s replies. - -“Fred’s in Scotland. He’s staying with his mother. She’s a beastly old -woman and I hate her. If she’d been a decent sort, you’d think she’d -have used her influence to put things right between us, now wouldn’t -you? But she’s never let Fred alone ever since we married. Always -telling him tales about me, and saying I’m extravagant, and a flirt, -and wanting to know why I’ve never had a baby. It’s not my fault if -I’ve got rotten health, now is it? I’ve always been delicate. I’m sure -I only wish I had got a child. It might have made Fred nicer to me, and -I should have had something to care for.” - -She began to cry again. - -“I’m sure I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. Perhaps you think -I’m mad.” - -“I’m dreadfully sorry for you,” said Flora truthfully. - -“You’re a dear.” Mrs. Carey dropped the hostility out of her voice -abruptly. “No one knows what I’ve gone through. And now about -David--it’s simply awful!” - -“Did you really mean to marry David, after your divorce?” - -“I’d better tell you the whole story, I suppose,” said Mrs. Carey. She -dried her eyes and her voice insensibly hardened from self-pity into -tones of satisfaction. - -“I suppose I’ve always been attractive to men. I can’t help it, after -all. And I daresay I’ve played the fool, in my time--in fact I don’t -deny it. But David and I were simply tremendous friends, to begin -with. He was frightfully sorry for me, too. Everybody knew that Fred -was simply hateful to me, and made a scene if I so much as went out -riding with another man. He quite liked your brother, though, at first, -I will say that for him. We used to have him to dinner pretty often, -and one of the subalterns to make a fourth, and play Bridge. Well, I -never guessed that your brother did more than just like me as a great -friend, as heaps of men did--how could I? I used to advise him to -marry, often and often. Some nice girl at home, who’d come out and -look after him. Those boys all drink more than is good for them, out -there, if they’ve no wife to look after them. And David used to talk -nonsense about having no use for girls, and having met his ideal too -late, but of course I never took it seriously. Heaps of men say things -like that to one, now don’t they? We used to go out riding together a -good deal, and of course I danced with him. (That’s another of the ways -in which Fred is so frightfully selfish. He can’t dance himself ever -since he was wounded in the war, so he hates me to.) Then people began -to say the usual horrid things. The women out there are all cats, and -besides, a good many of them wanted David for themselves. I didn’t -take any notice. I think it’s so much more dignified not to, don’t -you? As I said to the Colonel’s wife, when she had the impertinence -to speak to me about it, I never _have_ taken any notice of gossip, -and I’m not going to begin now. I simply go my own way, and let people -say what they choose. It doesn’t matter to me if they’ve got horrible -minds. It’s themselves that are hurt by it, I always think, not me. -But I think women are much braver and more unconventional than men, -don’t you? David minded ever so much more than I did, when he found -people were talking about us. Well, things were going from bad to worse -between Fred and me, and one night he was so perfectly hateful to me -that I got frightened. He was--not drunk, but not altogether sober. -And I ran into the compound and down the road to David’s bungalow. He -shared it with another man, but the other man was away shooting. You -see, I was so frightened and upset that I didn’t know what I was doing, -and I just felt I must go to someone who’d take care of me.” - -Mrs. Carey swallowed, as though something in her throat were hurting -her, and lit another cigarette with a hand that trembled. - -“It was a frightfully imprudent thing to do, I suppose, but I’ve never -pretended to be a particularly prudent woman. I daresay I should have -been much happier if I’d been less impulsive, all my life, but after -all, one can’t change one’s nature, can one? Besides, I was nearly out -of my mind. Fred came to find me next morning. I was far too miserable -and terrified to go back to him that night. We had scene after scene, -after that, and he threatened me with divorce proceedings.” - -She glanced at her motionless auditor. - -“I may have been a careless fool, and I’ll go as far as to say that -I’ve flirted with other men, but it was wicked of Fred to think of such -a thing as divorce--to ruin my reputation, and spoil David’s career.” - -“Why was the case to be undefended?” said Flora steadily. - -“Why--why, don’t you see, when it all came to a crisis, I told David -how utterly wretched my whole life was, and how I couldn’t bear it and -should kill myself, and we had to talk things over, and see what could -be done with Fred, who was like a madman. And then it all came out--I -mean David said I was the only woman he could ever care for, and if I -was free, wouldn’t I marry him, and let him try to make up to me for -everything.” - -“Why was the case to be undefended?” - -“It would make less of a scandal if it was all done quietly. I--I -didn’t feel I could face the other.” - -In the truth of that last assertion, Flora could believe absolutely. - -“I think I know the rest,” she said. “David was going to send in his -papers, and come home to England as soon as possible after you and -Major Carey, and you’d promised to marry him when the decree had been -made absolute.” - -“How do you know those legal terms?” said Mrs. Carey, pouting like a -child that is trying to show displeasure. - -Flora did not pursue the irrelevance. She was following a chain of -thought in her own mind. - -“David _was_ in love with this woman. Otherwise he wouldn’t have -written and asked me to do anything I could for her. As for leaving the -case undefended--well, they probably hadn’t got a defence to put up. -He meant to marry her--probably wanted to marry her. Besides he’d have -felt that he owed it to her. And though he was afraid of Father, and -very unhappy about sending in his papers, and though he may have had -glimpses of what she really is--David wasn’t the sort to let her down. -_He didn’t kill himself._” - -The certainty came to Flora with a rush of relief so profound that she -could almost have thanked little Mrs. Carey for unwittingly bringing -her to it. - -It was characteristic of her that, instead, she glanced at her watch -and said: - -“I can only stay another twenty minutes, and we shall probably not meet -again. Are you going to Scotland tonight?” - -“Indeed I am. Fred is there now, at his mother’s, telling her all sorts -of horrible things about me, I suppose. They’ve both written to me.” - -“What is your husband going to do?” - -“I don’t know.” She began to cry again. “His mother, for once in her -life, wants to patch things up between us. She’s one of your religious -people, and she thinks divorce is awful.” - -“I don’t know whether a divorce is still possible, now that David----” - -Mrs. Carey broke into a sort of howl that, in its reminiscence of a -beaten animal, made Flora feel sick. - -“That’s just it--Fred _is_ a beast! He thinks there were other -people--other men--as well.” - -“Oh,” said Flora, and shuddered violently. - -“You’ve been rather a dear, so I don’t mind telling you that your -brother is out of it now, whatever happened. Oh, I don’t know what’ll -happen. I never cared for anybody like I did for David--never. I was -ready to go through anything for him, and we could have started fresh -somewhere, and no one would have thought anything of it. People aren’t -so narrow-minded as they used to be. He’s the only man I’ve ever loved!” - -Flora felt no inclination to point out to the unhappy woman the -inconsistency of her various statements. - -She even found it easy enough to believe that Maisie Carey for the -moment thought herself to be speaking the truth when she said that -David was the only man she had ever loved. - -“I’m sorry for you,” she said gently. “And I’m grateful to you, because -you’ve taken a great weight off my mind. My brother asked me to do -anything I could for you. Is there anything?” - -“I don’t know what _you_ could do, I’m sure. It isn’t even as though -you were married. Not that you haven’t been sweet to me, listening like -this. You do believe in me, don’t you? Even if you hear beastly stories -about me, ever, you’ll know they aren’t true, won’t you?” - -She put out a hand that still trembled, to Flora, but she went on -speaking rapidly, as though not daring to wait for an assent that might -not come. - -“You’re awfully like David, in some ways, you know. It’s been a comfort -to see you. Don’t tell your father about my troubles. Just say I was a -friend of David’s, you know. I’m glad he didn’t come with you. I hate -parsons, if you’ll excuse me for saying so, and I’m so frightfully -nervous and upset that I might have said anything. I wish you could -have seen Fred--he always says I haven’t got any decent women-friends. -Perhaps you could have made him give me another chance.” - -“Don’t you think he will?” - -“How do I know? He’s written me a horrid letter, and pages and pages of -cant from my mother-in-law. I believe if I promised to live at their -hateful place, right away in Scotland, and keep within my allowance, -and never have any fun at all, Fred would chuck the army and manage the -estate for his mother. Can you see me in thick boots and a billycock -hat, trudging up and down those hills to go and carry tracts to some -wretched old woman in a cottage?” - -She laughed melodramatically. - -“No,” said Flora, “I can’t see you doing that. But I shouldn’t think -you’d have to. Couldn’t you come here, for part of the year?” - -“I suppose I could. I don’t know. Fred got this house to please me, -when we were first married. He’d have done anything for me, then. I -little knew what a life he was going to lead me later on!” - -Flora rose. - -“I’ve got to go. I will burn the letter that David wrote me, about you. -Only one person knows what was in it, besides myself, and he will -never repeat it.” - -“Was that your father?” - -“No, oh, no. My father _mustn’t_ know, ever.” - -Flora paused for a moment, then judged that it would be useless to make -any appeal to Mrs. Carey’s discretion. For her own sake, she might -keep silence as to her relationship with David Morchard, and a fresh -emotional disturbance would eventually displace the episode--to her, it -could be no more--from her mind. - -Mrs. Carey looked at her curiously. - -“Of course, I remember you told me that your father didn’t know. Then -are you engaged?” - -“No,” said Flora, colouring slightly. - -“All men are beasts--you’re quite right to have nothing to do with -them. I’ve had such a rotten time, what with Fred’s jealousy, and other -men never letting me alone, that I sometimes wish I’d stayed an old -maid, like you,” said Mrs. Carey. - -Flora recognized the impulse that sought to inflict a scratch, where -Mrs. Carey’s self-revelation had left her vanity disturbed with the -instinctive fear that she had not been taken at her own valuation. - -She said good-bye to her. - -“I’ll let you know what happens,” Mrs. Carey promised. “I feel you -really _do_ care, you know. I shall think of you when I’m taking that -horrid journey tonight all the way to Scotland. Perhaps I really will -settle down there, if Fred is willing to make it up, and if he lets me -have a decent allowance, and part of the year over here.” - -She no longer looked desperate, and she bent over the banisters and -waved to Flora with the little handkerchief that was still drenched by -the tears she had been shedding. - -Flora did not suppose that she should ever hear from her. Impressions -made upon Mrs. Carey seemed to be transient affairs. - -She was conscious of nothing so much as of extreme physical fatigue, -and the intense relief of her new certainty that David had not, after -all, sought the last desperate remedy. She could be certain of that, -now. - -“Perhaps Owen won’t understand why I’m so positive of that now,” -she reflected. “But after all, I knew David. She counted on him, -and he’d promised to marry her. David would never have failed her -deliberately--it wasn’t in him. And he was taken away from committing a -frightful sin. Besides, who knows how much he repented, poor boy?” - -Within a few yards of the hotel, Flora met Quentillian. - -He turned and accompanied her to the door. - -“David didn’t take his own life, Owen. It was what they said--he must -have been taken ill suddenly.” - -“You know for certain?” - -“For certain.” - -He told her that he understood her relief, but his next words were: - -“And do you still think you were right, about going alone to this -woman?” - -“Whether I was right or not, I’m thankful I did. She would have broken -my father’s heart. She was a sort of--emotion-monger. She’d have spared -him nothing.” - -“She spared you nothing, then, Flora?” - -“It’s different, for me. I would do anything in the world, for my -father’s sake. That’s my only excuse, possibly, for deceiving him.” - -“Do you want excuses?” - -“No, I don’t. You’re right,” she said gravely. “I’ve planned it all -deliberately, and I’ve got to see it through.” - -“I think you’re wrong, all along the line, and I want to talk it over -with you. It will be a bitter disappointment to the Canon to be told -that he has missed seeing Mrs. Carey.” - -“Yes.” - -“But you’re going to leave it at that?” - -“Yes, more than ever. Owen, when do you go to Stear?” - -“As soon as possible.” - -“Then could you travel down with us tomorrow? We go by the three -o’clock train. I think it may do him good, to have you, and you see, -he’ll be thinking that the whole expedition has been a failure. It will -be easier for both of us, if you’re there.” - -“Very well, I’ll come.” - -They parted, and Flora went to seek her father. Except from a certain -curiosity, it could not be said that Quentillian looked forward to an -agreeable journey. - -By the time that he joined Canon Morchard and his daughter at the -railway station, he was beginning to feel as though the whole of the -involved deception perpetrated with such a conviction of righteousness -by Flora, must have been a figment of imagination. One glance at the -Canon’s sombre and pallid face dispelled the illusion. - -Flora looked pallid also, but her expression was one of rapt intensity, -as though only her own strange vision, that Quentillian felt to be so -singularly perverted, were before her. She had, undeniably, shielded -her father from knowledge that must have appalled him, and in that -security, remained calm. - -The Canon, out of his lesser awareness, had not, however, remained calm -at all. - -“I have been angry, Owen,” he admitted, as they paced the platform -together, at the Canon’s own invitation. “My disappointment has been -very bitter. This lady, this Mrs. Carey, the friend of my dear boy -David, left for Scotland last night. I went to her house this morning, -only to find her gone. Flora, whom I trusted, had made a mistake of -incredible carelessness. I could not have believed it, in a matter -which _must_ touch us all so nearly, which lay so close to my own -heart. Poor child, she has been highly tried of late, and I have -thought her looking ill. I should not have trusted to her accuracy. -Lucilla, who has been my right hand, my secretary ever since her -childhood, could never have failed me thus. I forgot that her sister -was younger, unaccustomed to the task, less to be relied upon. But it -has been a cruel disappointment, and I vented my first grief upon the -culprit. Is there _no_ stage of the journey, Owen, when one can see the -undisciplined impulse driven underfoot, the hasty word bridled? I, who -have striven all my life, I have again shown anger and violence--to my -own child!” - -The Canon’s peculiar predilection for making an amateur confessor of -Quentillian, was by force of repetition ceasing to seem anything but -natural. - -Quentillian said: “Flora looks overwrought, sir,” and inwardly hoped -that the train would arrive shortly. - -“Aye, poor Flora! She was David’s especial favourite, his best -correspondent. This stroke has fallen heavily upon Flora, Owen. And I, -who should have made all allowance, I turned against her! In my sharp -disappointment, I uttered those strong expressions that come back to -one, when the moment’s passion has cooled, as they must have sounded to -the unhappy sinner by whom they were provoked.” - -It was the same piteous round of self-reproach, remorse and profound -depression to which Owen had so frequently listened. He hoped that he -might be of some assistance, however, incomprehensibly to himself, in -listening yet once again. - -“I have written to Mrs. Carey. She must indeed have thought my -behaviour strange, ungrateful, unnatural even. That matters little -enough, yet it adds its feather weight to the burden--its feather -weight to the burden. That I should have appeared careless, -indifferent, where news of David was concerned! I, who would have given -my heart’s blood, for one hour’s intercourse with him since he left us -for the last time! Ah, well, it does not bear dwelling upon.” - -Nevertheless, the Canon dwelt upon it until it became necessary to -rejoin Flora and enter the train. - -During the journey he remained silent, with a profound and unhappy -silence. His manner towards his daughter was peculiarly gentle and -melancholy. - -Presently he leant back in the corner, the sad lines of his face -relaxing, and slept. - -Flora spoke to Quentillian in a low voice. - -“I’m so glad he’s asleep. Last night I heard him walking up and down -his room for such a long while.” - -“He is very much distressed,” said Quentillian severely. - -“I know.” She acquiesced apathetically in the truth of the statement. - -“Do you know that he has written to Mrs. Carey?” - -“Yes.” - -“How are you going to prevent her replying, and exposing the fact that -you have seen her?” - -Flora whitened perceptibly, but she answered him with sudden spirit. - -“You have no right to question me, Owen, or to demand explanations from -me in that tone.” - -“I have this right, that you have made me a passive partner in your -extraordinary schemes.” - -Owen, too, was conscious of a rising anger. - -“I feel like a traitor to your father, Flora. What are you going to do -next?” - -“I am going to see it through,” said Flora doggedly. “At least you will -admit that to do a thing like this by halves, is a great deal worse -than useless. I have saved my father from what must have broken his -heart.” - -“You have done evil that good may come,” he quoted grimly. - -“If you like to put it so.” Flora was inexorable. - -“He has suffered too much already.” - -“You mock your own God,” said Quentillian, with sudden, low vehemence. -“You profess to believe in Him, to trust Him, and yet you deceive and -manoeuvre and plot, sooner than leave your father to his dealings. -I have small belief in a personal God, Flora, but I can see no -justification in endeavouring madly to stand between another soul, and -life.” - -She gazed at him piteously. - -“Do you think I am not unhappy--that I have not been torn in two? -He was angry, Owen, when he thought I had made a mistake about the -appointment, and oh, the relief of it! I should have welcomed it if -he had hit me--I deserved it all, and far more besides. If I am doing -wrong, I am suffering for it.” - -Quentillian, looking at her haggard, tragic face, felt sure that she -spoke literal truth. - -“When does Lucilla come home?” he suddenly asked. - -“I don’t know. Soon, I hope.” - -Quentillian hoped so too. It seemed to him that only Lucilla’s -normality could adjust to any sort of balance the mental atmosphere of -St. Gwenllian. - -Flora gazed at her father. - -“Think what it would have been to him to know, now, that David had -sinned, even that he contemplated going through the form of marriage, -with that poor thing! The world’s standards of honour are not those of -my father.” - -“Nor yours either,” Quentillian had almost said, but he checked the -cheap retort as it rose. - -An impulse made him say instead: - -“Promise me at least, Flora, that if this becomes too much for you, if -it all breaks down, you will let me share it with you. You owe it to -me, I think, having let me be partly responsible. Will you promise?” - -“You are very good,” said Flora, her mouth quivering for the first -time. “But I don’t mean to fail.” - -It was evident enough that her whole being was strung up to the -accomplishment of her purpose, and that she was incapable of seeing -beyond it. - -Quentillian, at his own station, parted from Canon Morchard and his -daughter with the direst forebodings. Insensibly, he, too, had almost -come to feel that anxious preoccupation with the Canon’s peace of mind -that exercised the Canon’s daughters. - -Within a fortnight of his return he went over to St. Gwenllian and -found there no trace of catastrophe such as he had half expected, but -the usual atmosphere of calm melancholy. - -He had no conversation with Flora, but she told him briefly that there -would be no correspondence between her father and Mrs. Carey, and -Quentillian was left to surmise by what peculiar methods Flora had -achieved her ends. - -On the whole, he preferred not to dwell upon the subject. He had a -certain unwilling respect for Flora, even if none for her casuistries, -and he had no wish to dwell either upon her astonishing machinations or -his own complicity. - - -(iv) - -In the spring Lucilla came back to St. Gwenllian. - -The first time that Owen saw her was in the presence of the Canon. - -In his relief at her return, Canon Morchard had evidently forgotten -that he had thought it undutiful of her to go. - -“You see I have my right hand once more,” he said fondly. “Owen here -can tell you that you have been sadly missed, my daughter. Little Flora -did her best, but she is not my housekeeper, my experienced secretary. -Neither she nor our poor Valeria can equal Lucilla there.” - -Quentillian took his advantage and asked Lucilla for news of Valeria. -The Canon, habitually, seemed only too much inclined to view any -mention of Valeria and her husband as a rank indecency in the presence -of her quondam betrothed. - -“Val is very well and very busy,” said Lucilla. “George is doing well, -on the whole, though it’s a struggle, but the land there is wonderful. -I should like to show you the photographs of their little farm, and the -children.” - -“Lucilla is our photographer,” said the Canon forbearingly, as though -in extenuation of what Quentillian felt certain that he regarded as -Lucilla’s indiscretion. - -Not for the first time, Quentillian suspected that Lucilla was the only -one of the Canon’s children able to contemplate the Canon by the light -of a sense of humour, that detracted not at all from her affection and -respect. - -“They are not thinking of a visit to England, I suppose?” - -“No. Expense is a consideration, and there are the children.” - -“My grandsons!” said the Canon. “I should like a sight of my grandsons, -but there could not be unalloyed joy in the meeting. Nay, I ask -myself sometimes if there can be any unalloyed joy here below. Are -not the warp and woof intermingled even in the nearest and dearest -relationships? And the manner of poor Valeria’s leaving home was such -as to make one’s heart ache, both for her and with her. But enough of -reminiscences, my children. I am in no mood for them tonight. I wish to -rest, and perhaps read. You may some of you remember a very favourite -old story of mine,” said Canon Morchard genially. “That of the famous -saying, ‘We are none of us infallible, _not even the youngest_.’” - -This terrible pronouncement, however historical, seldom amused the -juniors of its _raconteur_, and Flora and Lucilla only accorded to it -the most perfunctory of smiles. Owen Quentillian remained entirely -grave. - -“No one has more admiration than myself for the quality of -infallibility,” the Canon continued, humourously “(always provided -that it is not that which is claimed by the Pope of Rome), but I -must confess that I am not amongst those who take the modern craze -for youthful intellectuals very seriously. This being so, dear Owen, -you will forgive me in that I have not yet read anything of yours. -Tonight I have a free hour--a rare treat--and I am going to rectify the -omission. Will you read aloud to us of your work, or is that too much -to ask?” - -It was indeed too much to ask, Owen felt. - -He could have read his own work aloud with comparative complacency -to any critic capable of taking it seriously, but to Canon Morchard -the slight, cynical epigrams, the terse, essentially unsentimental -rationalism of Owen’s views upon God and man, must come either as -wanton impertinence, or as meaningless folly. - -It was impossible to suppose that the Canon would keep either opinion -to himself, and Quentillian felt it unlikely that he would either -find himself capable of listening to him tolerantly, or be given an -opportunity for demolishing his views. - -“I think I had rather not inflict my trivialities upon you at all, -sir,” he remarked, with truth, and yet with an absence of sincerity of -which he felt that Lucilla, at all events, was quite as well aware as -he was himself. - -“I assure you that I’m not worth reading.” - -“I shall judge of that for myself,” said the Canon kindly. “Was there -not something in that Review that was sent to you, Flora?” - -“Yes,” said Flora unwillingly. - -“Fetch it, my dear.” - -Quentillian cast his mind over his more recent productions, and was -invaded by a grim dismay. - -His opinion of the Canon’s literary judgment, where writings not -directly connected with Church matters were concerned, was of the -slightest, but he disliked the thought both of the pain that the elder -man would feel in reading that which would offend his taste, and of the -remonstrance that he would certainly believe it his duty to make. - -It was a relief to him when Flora returned without the Review, and -said: - -“There is someone who wants to speak to you in the hall, Father. I’m so -sorry.” - -The Canon rose at once. - -“‘The man who wants me is the man I want’,” he quoted, and left the -room. - -When the door had closed behind him, Flora said to her sister, with -a certain ruthless disregard of Quentillian’s presence that at least -established the earnestness of her concern: - -“What shall we do?” - -“Nothing,” said Lucilla laconically. - -“But we can’t let him see that Review. Adrian sent it to me--it’s got -something in it by that man Hale. Father would hate the whole thing.” - -Lucilla looked at Quentillian. - -“He won’t like my article, and I should very much prefer him not to -read it,” said the author candidly. - -She smiled slightly. - -“It’s the one on the Myth of Self-Sacrifice?” - -Owen nodded. - -“It might have been worse,” said Lucilla. “It might have been the one -in which you said that the parental instinct was only another name for -the possessive instinct. And now I come to think of it, that one was -called The Sanctification of Domestic Tyranny, wasn’t it?” - -“It was,” said Quentillian, in a tone which struck himself as being -rather that of a defiant child to its nurse. - -“Well, Father would have liked that even less than the Myth of -Self-Sacrifice, I imagine.” - -She spoke without acrimony, without, in fact, any effect at all of -personal bias, but Quentillian said dispassionately: - -“You dislike the modern school of thought of which my writings are a -feeble example. May I ask why you read them?” - -“But I don’t dislike it, Owen,” she returned with a calm at least equal -to his own. “As for what you write, I think you’re very often mistaken, -but that doesn’t prevent my being interested.” - -Quentillian was slightly taken aback at being considered mistaken, and -still more at being told so. He had always respected Lucilla, both -morally and intellectually, and he would have preferred to suppose the -admiration mutual. - -“Owen, haven’t you got anything else that he could have to read?” broke -in Flora. - -“Nothing that he would--care for,” answered Quentillian, who had very -nearly said “Nothing that he would understand.” - -“Father has asked for the Review, Flossie, and you’d better get it. You -needn’t work yourself up about it. He knows its general character quite -as well as you do.” - -“I don’t think he ought to be allowed to make himself needlessly -unhappy,” said Flora obstinately. - -“You can’t prevent it.” - -“I suppose it would be wrong to say that I don’t know where the Review -is?” - -“It would be foolish, which is worse,” said Lucilla curtly. Her -un-moral pronouncement closed the discussion. - -Flora, looking grave and unhappy, left the room, and presently -returned with the instrument of destruction, as she evidently regarded -the production. - -“Let us hope that Canon Morchard will continue to be detained,” said -Quentillian, not altogether ironically. - -Flora made no reply. - -In less than a quarter of an hour’s time, the Canon came back again, -picked up the Review and made a careful scrutiny of the table of -contents. - -“The _Myth_ of Self-Sacrifice?” he enunciated, with a -strongly-enquiring inflexion in his tone, as though prepared to receive -the writer’s instant assurance that he was not responsible for so -strange a heading. - -Owen desired to leave the room, but was mysteriously compelled to -remain in it, glancing at intervals at the all-too expressive face of -his reader. - -The Canon read very attentively, pausing every now and then to turn -back a page or two, as though comparing inconsistencies of text, and -sometimes also turning on a page or two ahead, as if desirous of -establishing the certainty that a conclusion was eventually to be -attained. His eyebrows worked as he read, after a fashion habitual with -him. - -There had been evenings when Flora had made the slightest of pencil -sketches, hardly caricaturing, but embodying, this peculiarity, for -her father’s subsequent indulgent amusement. But no such artistic -pleasantry was undertaken tonight. The atmosphere did not lend itself -to pleasantry of any kind. - -At last the Canon closed the volume, laid it down, and removed his -glasses with some deliberation. - -“Dear lad, I am disappointed.” - -“I was afraid you would be.” - -“Is this quite worthy of you?” - -Owen felt that a reply either in the affirmative or in the negative, -would be equally unsatisfactory, and made none. - -“You have adopted the tone of the day to an extent for which I was -by no means prepared,” the Canon said gently. “I am sorry for it, -Owen--very sorry. I think you have heard me speak before of my dislike -for the modern note, that emphasises the material aspect, that miscalls -ugliness realism, and coarseness strength. Forgive me, dear Owen, if I -hurt you, but this--this trivial flippancy of yours, has hurt _me_.” - -Owen had no doubt that Canon Morchard spoke the truth. - -“How emphatically he belongs to the generation that took the errors of -other people to heart,” Quentillian reflected. - -He felt no great sympathy with such vicarious distresses. - -“There is so much that is sad and bad in life, that one longs to read -of happiness, and hope, and beauty,” said the Canon. “Why not, dear -Owen, seek out and write of the ‘something afar from the sphere of our -sorrow’?” - -“Because to my way of thinking, only first-hand impressions are of any -value. The only value that any point of view of mine can lay claim to, -must lie in its sincerity.” - -“Words, words! You delude yourself with many words,” said the Canon -sadly, rousing in Quentillian a strong desire to retort with the -obvious _tu quoque_. - -“Do not misunderstand me, dear fellow--there is talent -there--perversely exercised, if you will, but talent. I cannot but -believe that life has many lessons in store for you, and when you have -learnt them, then you will write more kindly of human nature, more -reverently of Divine.” - -Hope was once more discernible in the Canon’s voice and on his face, -and as he rose he laid his hand affectionately upon the young man’s -arm. “Hoping all things--believing all things,” he murmured, as he left -the room. - -Quentillian was left to the certainty that his brief exposition of -his literary _credo_ had entirely failed to convey any meaning to the -Canon, and that the long list of the Canon’s optimistic articles of -faith now included his own regeneration. - - -(v) - -“Father, I think Flora looks ill.” - -Canon Morchard gazed with concern at Lucilla as she made the -announcement, and at once devoted himself to the anxious analysis that -he always accorded to any problem affecting one of his children. - -“I have thought her altered myself, by the great grief of last year. -Spiritually, it has developed her, I believe. But there is a sustained -melancholy about her, an absence of all hopeful reaction such as one -looks for from youth, that is certainly not wholly natural. You, too, -have observed it?” - -“Yes.” - -Lucilla had observed a great deal more besides, and she was at a loss -for a definition of her secret, latent fears. - -“Flossie has become very irritable,” she said at last, voicing the -least of her anxieties. - -“My dear, is that perfectly kind? Flora has had much to try her, -and your own absence in Canada threw a great deal for which she is -scarcely fitted, upon her shoulders. I do so want you to overcome that -_critical_ spirit of yours, dear Lucilla. It has very often disturbed -me.” - -Lucilla thought for a moment, and decided, without resentment -as without surprise, that it would be of no use to say that her -observation had not contained any of the spirit of criticism at all. -She said instead: - -“She doesn’t sleep well, and she is always up very early.” - -“She is always at the early Celebration, dear child,” said the Canon -tenderly. “Our Flora’s religion is a very living reality to her--more -so than ever, of late, I think.” - -“It’s a pity that it should make her unhappy, instead of happy.” - -“What are you saying, Lucilla?” the Canon enquired in highly-displeased -accents. - -“It is perfectly true. She is very restless, and very unhappy, and the -more she goes to church, the less it seems to satisfy her.” - -“And who are you, to judge thus of another’s spiritual experiences? You -mean well, Lucilla, but there is a materialism about your point of view -that has long made me uneasy--exceedingly uneasy. You were encumbered -with household cares very young, and it has given you the spirit of -Martha, rather than the spirit of Mary. Leave Flora to my direction, if -you please.” - -“I should like her to see the doctor.” - -“Has she complained of ill-health?” - -“No, not at all. She resents being asked if she is well.” - -“Most naturally. She is not a child. You take too much upon yourself, -Lucilla, as I have told you before. Leave Flora’s welfare in Higher -hands than ours, and remember that it is not the part of a Christian to -anticipate trouble. Where is your faith?” - -Lucilla was not unaccustomed to this enquiry, and did not deem any -specific reply to be necessary. Whatever the whereabouts of that which -the Canon termed her faith, it did not serve in any way to allay her -anxiety. - -She watched Flora day by day. - -She saw her increasing pallor, her gradual loss of weight, the black -lines that deepened beneath her eyes. Above all, she saw the mysterious -sense of grievance, that most salient characteristic of the neurotic, -gather round her sister’s spirit. - -After a little while, she ceased to talk of her visit to Canada, of -Valeria, and Valeria’s children, because she saw that Flora could not -bear these subjects. - -“She’s _jealous_,” thought Lucilla, with a sick pang of pity. - -“I’m sorry for poor Val, living right away from civilization, and -absorbed by commonplace things all the time,” said Flora. - -She went to church more frequently than ever. - -Lucilla wondered very often if anything had happened while she was away. - -One day she asked Owen Quentillian. - -“There was the shock of David’s death,” he said rather lamely. - -“Yes. Father says it affected Flora terribly for a long while.” - -“Do you find her much changed, then?” - -“I find her very unbalanced,” said Lucilla with her usual directness. - -“I think she _is_ an unbalanced person,” Quentillian assented, levelly. - -“I wish she could leave home for a time.” - -But Flora, when this was suggested to her, said that she did not wish -to leave home. Her manner implied that the suggestion hurt her. - -At first the Canon was pleased, assuring Lucilla that the pleasant -home-life at St. Gwenllian, even if robbed of its old-time joyousness, -would best restore Flora to herself. But after a time, he, too, watched -her with anxiety. - -“Little Flora is not herself,” he began to say. - -“Let me send for the doctor, Father,” Lucilla urged. - -“We will see, my dear, later on. The unsettled weather is trying to us -all just now--no doubt things will right themselves in a day or two, -and we shall smile at our own foolish, faithless fears.” - -Meanwhile, however, no one at St. Gwenllian evinced any desire to smile -at anything, and Flora became subject to violent fits of crying. - -Her dignity and her delicate reticence seemed alike to have deserted -her. She cried in church, and sometimes she cried at home, regardless -of the presence of her father and sister. - -“My dear, what is it?” the Canon enquired at last, long after Lucilla -had given up asking the same question in despair. - -“Nothing,” said Flora. - -“It is not right to prolong your sorrow for your dear one in this -fashion,” said the Canon. “Can we not trust dear David to the -Everlasting Arms, and fulfil our own appointed days here below?” - -His daughter made no reply. - -“This is reaction, Flora,” said Canon Morchard decisively. “When -this heavy blow first fell upon us, you were my courageous daughter, -my comforter--so far as that was humanly possible. Do not falter -now--remember that whom He loveth, He chastizeth.” - -“I do remember,” she said, her face a mask of misery. - -“You are not well,” said the Canon tenderly. “I shall no longer allow -you to exert yourself as you have been doing. Lucilla here will -arrange that your class shall be temporarily given over to other -management, and no doubt she can herself arrange to replace you at the -choir-practices.” - -“I can arrange it,” Lucilla said, “but----” - -She looked at her sister. - -Flora broke into a tempest of tears. - -“Don’t take away what work I _can_ do,” she sobbed out. “My life is -useless enough, in all conscience.” - -“Flora!” the Canon thundered. “Have a care! Such a thought is -perilously near to being a blasphemous one.” - -She hid her face in her hands. - -“You are unstrung, my poor child,” said her father. He took to treating -her almost as an invalid, and failed to perceive that his watchful and -incessant solicitude produced upon Flora’s nerves an effect that was -the very reverse of soothing. - -“She ought to go right away from home,” said Lucilla to Quentillian. -“But it’s difficult to suggest it again, she was so much upset when I -spoke of it before. Will you try what you can do, Owen? She is a great -deal more likely to listen to someone who is not one of the family. -It’s one of the symptoms.” - -“Symptoms of what?” - -“Of hysteria,” said Lucilla succinctly, facing the word as she had -already faced the fact. - -Quentillian admired her directness, but it did not breed in him any -desire to adopt the measure suggested, and speak to Flora. - -At last, however, he did so. They had scarcely been alone together -since the day when she had told him of her visit to Mrs. Carey. - -“Is that business on your mind, Flora?” - -He had thought for some time that it might be. - -“What?” - -“Mrs. Carey, I mean.” - -She coloured deeply. - -“I did what I thought right at the time, Owen. Is there any necessity -to discuss it again?” - -“Not if you don’t wish to, certainly. I had an idea that it might be a -relief. I suppose no one knows besides ourselves?” - -“No one. She never wrote to me, you know, and I feel sure she never -will. She was the sort of person to be thoroughly absorbed by her -impressions of the moment. I sometimes wonder what happened to her, in -Scotland.” - -“It is not very difficult to guess what _will_ happen, sooner or later, -from what you told me. People like Mrs. Carey live from one emotional -crisis to another.” - -She gave him a curious look. - -“At least it’s living--not stagnation. That interview with Mrs. Carey -seems like a dream, almost, nowadays--something quite apart from the -rest of my life. I suppose it’s because it’s the only thing I’ve ever -done entirely by myself, without any of the family knowing about -it. I’ve never even seen anyone else at all like Mrs. Carey--it was -impossible to get into touch with her, really. She was like a painted -cardboard figure, with no back to it--nothing solid.” - -“But you’ve turned down that page, now--it’s finished with?” - -“Yes,” she said, looking down. - -He had wondered whether that which he sometimes thought of as Flora’s -Jesuitical plotting had come to prey upon her mind. - -Evidently, if it did, he was not to be told so. - -In the end he could think of no more subtle enquiry than: - -“Why are you unhappy?” - -“I don’t know,” she said with a trembling lip. - -“I feel I’m of no use in the world. Wouldn’t you be unhappy, if you -felt like that--that nobody really needed you in any way, and you had -nothing to do?” - -“Not in the least,” said Quentillian reflectively. “I am quite sure -that nobody does need me, and it doesn’t distress me. As for having -nothing to do, I imagine--if you will forgive me for saying so--that -one can always find something if one looks far enough.” - -“It’s different for a man.” - -“Perhaps.” - -Quentillian went away still undetermined whether Flora’s conduct of the -_affaire_ Carey was the cause or the result of her present deplorable -condition. - -That she had all the makings of a fanatic, he had long suspected, and -the Canon’s determination to treat her as an invalid, in need of rest -and complete inaction, seemed to him to be a singularly ill-advised one. - -In spite of his disapproval of her methods, Quentillian had come -to feel a certain affection for Flora, and he could not avoid a -sense of complicity that drew him to her, even while it chafed his -self-righteousness. - -With an entire lack of originality, he informed Lucilla that he thought -her sister would be better away from home. - -“Well, so do I. But even to go away for a few weeks would only be a -half-measure. Owen, I’m frightened about Flora--far more than I’ve ever -been about anyone before.” - -He could partly apprehend her meaning. - -“Don’t you think that perhaps this--phase--is only another -manifestation of the same spirit that made Val want to go and work -somewhere?” - -“In a sense, yes. You see, all the intellectual interests, and -the mental appreciations, to which we were brought up, although -those things did fill our days--at least before the war--were only -superimposed on what Val and Flossie and Adrian really were, in -themselves. Not essentials, I mean, to either of them.” - -Quentillian wondered what Lucilla’s own essentials might be. She had -given him no hint of them, ever, and yet he suspected her of an almost -aggressive neutrality with regard to the imposed interests of which she -had spoken. - -The odd contradiction in terms seemed to him expressive of the -difference that he felt certain existed between Lucilla’s daily life, -and the personal, intimate standpoint from which she all the time -regarded that life. - -Something of the same ruthlessness of purpose that had once -characterized Flora, he had always discerned in Lucilla, but he felt -very certain that her essential sanity and humour would have kept -her forever from the strange and tortuous means adopted by Flora to -safeguard those interests of which she apparently felt herself to be a -better judge than her Creator. - -Lucilla would neither juggle with fate, nor see any justification for -tampering with other people’s correspondence. - -“Flora thinks, now, that she doesn’t want to go away from home.” - -“It’s a pity, perhaps, that she didn’t go to Canada instead of you.” - -“Yes, but you see Father didn’t really want either of us to go, and -Flossie wouldn’t have disobeyed him.” - -Flora’s conscience! Owen felt as impatient at the thought of it, as -he had frequently felt before. He had, however, long ago sufficiently -assimilated the atmosphere of St. Gwenllian to refrain from pointing -out that Flora had been for some years of an age to act for herself, -independently of the parental sanction. He did not, indeed, suppose -that Lucilla needed to have anything so self-evident put before her. - -“Do you think Flora would consent to see a doctor?” - -“No.” - -Miss Morchard’s unvarnished No-es and Yes-es always took him slightly -by surprise, especially after any time spent with the Canon. - -“The fact is,” said Lucilla vigorously, “that Flora needs something -to occupy her mind. She is preying on herself, and unless something -happens to take her out of herself, Owen, I think she will go mad.” - -He instinctively paid the homage due to her habitual precision of -expression, by taking the startling phrase literally. - -“Have you told anyone?” - -“Not yet.” - -“But you must. If you really think that, you must tell the Canon so.” - -“I know.” Her voice was rather faint, but she repeated, more strongly -and with entire acceptance in her voice, “I know I must.” - -It reminded him of the long past days when one of the St. Gwenllian -children had been naughty, and the task of taking the culprit before -the Canon had invariably, and as a matter of course, devolved upon -Lucilla. - - -(vi) - -“Flora is treading the thorny way that saints have trodden. If your own -spirituality, which is in its infancy--in its cradle, I may say--does -not enable you to understand that _via dolorosa_, at least refrain from -trivial interpolations and misrepresentations, Lucilla, I beg.” - -Canon Morchard’s tone rather suggested commanding, than begging, and -his large eyes seemed to flash with indignation as they looked, from -beneath corrugated brows, at Lucilla. - -She was rather paler than her usually colourless wont. - -“I am afraid that Flora is suffering from a very common form of -hysteria, father, and I thoroughly distrust any inspiration of hers in -her present state of health.” - -“She has told me herself that she is in her usual health, and that she -positively objects to the idea of seeing a medical man. I see no reason -for disbelieving her own statement.” - -“Well, I do.” - -“Lucilla, you forget yourself.” - -Lucilla and the Canon looked at one another, each seeming momentarily -to despair of the other. - -At last Lucilla said: - -“A little time ago, you thought she was ill, too.” - -“Mind and body react upon one another, no doubt, and our little Flora -is highly strung. I do not recognize it as being in any way incumbent -upon me to explain to you my treatment of any soul in my charge, -Lucilla, but I may say that I have now come to the conclusion that -Flora’s malady was of the soul. With that, you must rest content.” - -Lucilla did not rest content at all. - -A philosophical acceptance of the inevitable had long been part of Miss -Morchard’s life, but in the weeks that followed she came nearer to the -futility of the spoken protest than ever before. - -From seemingly eternal weeping, however, Flora presently passed to a -tense exaltation of spirit that found its culmination in long hours -spent upon her knees. - -Lucilla made only one appeal to her. - -“Flossie, won’t you tell me what’s happening? I can’t help knowing that -you’ve been very unhappy.” - -“I’m not unhappy now,” said Flora quickly. “At least, not like I was -before. You know I’ve put myself absolutely under father’s direction, -Lucilla? How wonderful he is!” - -“He has made you happier?” - -“Not he himself. He has shown me where to find peace, at last.” - -“If you mean Church, I should have thought you’d known about it ever -since you were born, very nearly.” - -If the faint hint of impatient derision latent in her sister’s tone was -perceptible to Flora, she showed no resentment at it. - -She flushed deeply and looked earnestly at Lucilla. - -“I wish I could make you understand. But some things are too sacred to -be described, even if one could. The only thing I can say is that I was -unhappy, I felt I was wasting my life, and that nobody cared. And I was -full of remorse for a wrong I had done. I can’t tell you what it was, -Lucilla, nor anyone else, ever, and I can’t undo it, now, but at least -I can expiate it, and all my other failings.” - -“Expiation?” Lucilla spoke the word unenthusiastically. “But if you -can’t undo whatever it was you did--and really, Flossie, I can’t -believe it was anything so very desperate--will it be a good plan to -go on being miserable about it for the rest of your life, all to no -purpose?” - -“‘The heart knoweth its own bitterness,’” Flora replied gently. - -Lucilla was left to apply the truth of the adage to her own condition -of mind. - -She was very unhappy about her sister. - -Nevertheless, Flora had ceased to weep, and although she ate less than -ever and rose early for the purpose of going to church, she looked -rather less ill. Only the strained look in her eyes remained, ever -increasing, to justify Lucilla’s feeling of sick dismay. - -That it was entirely unshared by Canon Morchard, she knew already, but -she was not altogether prepared for the announcement that he presently -made. - -“I am very happy about dear Flora--peculiarly and wonderfully so. What -think you, Lucilla, of this? Flora is turning her thoughts towards the -Sisterhood at St. Marychurch.” - -It was never Miss Morchard’s way to respond over-emphatically to an -invitation from her father to state her thoughts freely, experience -having long since taught her what a tangled web we weave when first we -practice speaking the truth inopportunely. - -“Has she only just started the idea?” - -“Nay, she tells me--and I can readily believe it--that the grace of -God, according to its mysterious wont, has been working within her -for a long while now. There has been a period of darkness for Flora, -undoubtedly, but she is emerging more and more into the light--that -light that shineth into the Perfect Day!” - -The Canon seemed rather inclined to forget himself in profound musings. - -“It implies losing her,” said Lucilla. - -“Humanly speaking, yes, and it is hard to eradicate the human element. -But once that is done--and done it _shall_ be--what remains is -altogether joyful. I shall see her go, if go she does, with feelings -far other than those with which I saw our poor Valeria leave home!” - -Lucilla thought so, too, and would emphatically have given the -preference to Valeria’s method of inaugurating an independent career. - -“I _cannot_ be anything but glad that one of mine should be dedicated!” -the Canon exclaimed, as though the exclamation broke from him almost -irrepressibly. - -“But does Flora mean to go away at once?” - -“She wishes it greatly, and I should hardly feel justified in -restraining her. Flora is not a child, and her own desire, as she -says herself, is to feel that wayward, wayless will of hers at safe -anchorage at last. Dear child, her one regret is for me.” - -Tears stood in the Canon’s eyes. - -“The grief of last winter greatly developed Flora, I believe. There has -been a tendency to dreaminess, to a too great absorption in her music, -that I confess has made me anxious in the past. But she speaks most -rightly and nobly of her certainty that a call has come to her, and -if so, it is indeed a vocation that must not be gainsayed. She is all -ardour and anxiety to begin, and if all is well, she and I go to St. -Marychurch to view the establishment there next week, and enter into -the necessary arrangements.” - -“What sort of life will it mean for her?” - -“One of direct service, dear Lucilla, of shelter from the temptations -of this world, of close personal union with Christ Himself, I trust. -All indeed are not called to such union, but I believe with all my -heart that our Flora is amongst the chosen few, and grievous though -it be to lose her from our sadly diminished home-circle, I cannot but -rejoice for her, and with her.” - -The Canon’s voice trembled very much as he spoke, but his smile was one -of single-hearted sincerity. - -“But _does_ she rejoice?” said Lucilla rather faintly. - -“Indeed she does. I confess that Flora’s earnest desire for -self-immolation, her ardent spirit, have taken me by surprise. She -is of the stuff of which the martyrs were made. No austerity has any -terrors for her--she is already far advanced upon the way of the -mystic.” - -Lucilla wrung her hands together. - -“What is it, my dear one?” said her father gently. - -She could not tell him. She felt unable to voice the terror and -the profound distrust that possessed her at the thought of Flora, -fanatically eager for discipline of her own seeking, finding in -religious emotionalism an outlet for instincts that she had not dared, -so far as Lucilla could judge, to call by their right name. - -“One can only let other people go their own way, then?” she murmured, -more to herself than to the Canon. - -“Say, rather, the way appointed for them, dear Lucilla. Yours and mine -may lie together yet awhile longer, I trust, but I am no longer young, -and these repeated partings tell upon me. It is a sacrifice for you, -too, to make, but let us do so cheerfully--aye, and right thankfully, -too. Our little one has been chosen for the Bride of Heaven, as the -beautiful old devotional phrase has it.” - -Lucilla was only too conscious that the beautiful old devotional phrase -awoke nothing in herself but a shuddering distaste. - -She could not doubt, however, that its effect upon Flora was far -otherwise. - -Although she saw, as time went by, that no outside influence would have -power to shatter the vision so clearly before the Canon’s eyes and to -which he so unfalteringly directed Flora’s gaze, it brought to her a -slight sense of personal relief when the Canon, after inditing a letter -of his usual unbridled length and meticulous candour, informed her that -he had besought Quentillian to spend at St. Gwenllian that which he -emphasized as Flora’s last evening at home. - -“It will make it easier for us all, to have that dearest of dear -fellows amongst us. He is so truly one of ourselves, and yet the mere -presence of someone who does not always form part of our familiar -little circle, will prevent overmuch dwelling upon the tender -associations of the past that are well-nigh beyond bearing, at such a -time as this.” - - * * * * * - -Owen, laconic as Lucilla herself, made no attempt to conceal either -his personal dislike of the solution to Flora’s problem, or his innate -conviction of her complete right to any form of self-slaughter that -she might select. - -They exchanged no opinions, but he found occasion to say to her in -private: - -“One thing, Flora. Will you leave me to deal with the Mrs. Carey -equation, if it ever comes to be necessary?” - -“I hope it never will.” - -“So do I. But make it your legacy to me, so that if ever it has to be -thought of again, I may do as seems best to me.” - -Flora smiled, her shadowy, tremulous smile. - -“Wouldn’t you do that anyway?” - -“Perhaps I should. But I would rather have your permission. And after -all, you know, Flora--you won’t be able to pull strings from your -Sisterhood.” - -It was the last, almost the only, reference that he would permit -himself, and both could smile at it faintly. - -“Very well, Owen. I don’t want to remember it ever again, and I shall -only think of Mrs. Carey now in one way.” - -She lacked the Canon’s capacity for outward expression, even now, and -her colour rose as she spoke. - -Only in earnest and uncondemnatory intercession would Mrs. Carey find -place again in Flora’s thoughts. - -Owen knew it as well as though she had told him so. - -The evening was mild and beautiful, and the Canon sat at the open -window, leaning back as though greatly fatigued, and asked Flora for -some music. - -“Shall I sing?” she asked. - -“Are you able to, my dear?” - -“Yes, indeed,” she said earnestly, and Quentillian could surmise that -she was instinctively eager for the form of self-expression most -natural to her, as a vent for her own mingled emotions. - -Her voice was more beautiful than ever, with a depth of feeling new to -it. - -Quentillian was indignant with himself when he found that this -perfectly traditional setting for a pathetic situation was unmistakably -affecting him. - -The only light round them was that of the summer’s evening, and -Flora’s voice came with strength and sweetness and purity from her -scarcely-seen figure at the far end of the room, in well-remembered and -intrinsically-exquisite melody. She was part of his childhood--she was -going away--they would none of them ever again see Flora, as they had -known her, any more.... - -Quentillian, in a violent endeavour to react from an emotion that he -unsparingly qualified as blatant, turned his eyes away from the singer. - -He looked at Lucilla, and saw that she sat very still. He reflected -that for a face so sensitive, and possessed of so much latent -humour, hers was singularly inexpressive of anything but acceptance. -Nevertheless it was an acceptance that had its origin, most -unmistakably, in a self-control acquired long since, rather than in an -absence of any capacity for strong feeling. - -He wondered, not for the first time, what her life had taught Lucilla. - -He looked at Canon Morchard. - -The Canon had closed his eyes and his face, on which the lines were -showing heavily at last, was white with the grey pallor of age. -Nevertheless he, too, showed the deep, essential placidity of a -conscious acceptance, and for the first time Quentillian perceived a -fundamental resemblance between the Canon and his eldest daughter. - -As though aware of the scrutiny fixed upon him, the Canon opened his -eyes, and smiled as they met Quentillian’s. - -“That harmony will be lost to us for a time, perhaps,” he said softly. -“But is it not a foretaste of that great Song of Praise that will have -no ending, and in which all, all, will be able to join together? I -think so, Owen.” - -He turned his head slightly, his finger-tips joined together in the -position habitual to him. - -“Flora, my child, my dear daughter, will it be too much if I ask for -‘Lead, Kindly Light,’ as you have so often given it to us on long-ago -Sundays when we have been all together--all together?” - -For answer, she struck the opening chords very gently. - - “Lead, kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom - “Lead thou me on - “The night is dark, and I am far from home - “Lead thou me on ... - .... “Till, the night is gone - “And with the morn those Angel faces smile - “Which I have loved long since and lost awhile.” - -Flora’s voice was rapt and unfaltering. - -Lucilla did not move, nor raise her eyes. - -It was Owen Quentillian, poignantly and unwillingly conscious of -pathos, who set his teeth in a profound and intense resentment at the -obvious emotional appeal that he found himself unable to ignore. - -He unspeakably dreaded the breakdown of the Canon’s composure that he -foresaw, when Flora’s last note had died away into silence. - -He could not look up. - -“Flora!” - -The Canon’s voice was steady and gentle. - -“Thank you, my child. Bid me good-night, and go, now. You must have -some rest, before your journey tomorrow.” - -She came to him and he blessed and kissed her as usual, only letting -his hand linger for a moment on her head as he repeated as though -speaking to himself: - - “And with the morn those Angel faces smile - “Which I have loved long since and lost awhile.” - -“Good-night, Owen. Goodbye,” said Flora. - -She left the room, and the Canon raised himself with difficulty from -his low chair and said: - -“I have some preparations to make for tomorrow. I will leave you for a -little while.” - -When he had gone, Owen felt the relaxation of his own mental tension. - -For the first time, and with a sincerity that left him amazed, he found -himself making use of the phrase that from others had so often aroused -rebellion in himself: - -“He is wonderful!” - -Lucilla raised her eyes now, and looked full and gravely at Quentillian. - -“Yes. I’m glad you see it at last, Owen.” - -“At last?” he stammered, replying to her voice rather than to her words. - -“He is very fond of you. He has always been very fond of you, ever -since you were a little boy. And it has--vexed me--very often, to -see that you gave him nothing in return, that, because he belongs to -another school, and another generation, you have almost despised him, I -think.” - -Owen was conscious of colouring deeply in his sudden surprise and -humiliation. - -“Although you are so clever, Owen,” she said in the same grave, -un-ironical tone, “it has seemed as though you are not able, at all, to -see beyond the surface. I know that my father’s religious sentiment, -sentimentality even, his constant outward expression of emotional -piety, his guileless optimism, have all jarred upon you. But you have -had no eyes for his pathetic courage, his constant striving for what he -sees as the highest.” - -“Lucilla--in justice to myself--although what you say may be true, -if I have judged your father it has been far more on account of his -children--of what I have seen of their lives.” - -“You were not called upon to constitute yourself the champion of his -children. Valeria, even, had no claim on your championship. It was not -you whom she loved, and you, too, tried to make Val what she was never -meant to be. When Val threw you over, if my father tried to force -upon you what you could only see as the conventional _beau geste_ of -renunciation, it was because he was incapable of believing that you -could have asked a woman to marry you without loving her, body and -soul. His forgiveness of Val, whether you thought him entitled to -forgive or not, lay between him and her. And when you speak of our -lives, Owen, can’t you see that Val and Adrian and I, and perhaps in a -way even Flora, too, have come to what we were meant for? No one can -stand between another soul, and life, really.” - -He was oddly struck by the echo of words that he had himself once used -to Flora. - -“You admit that he tried, to stand between you and life?” - -“I do,” she said instantly. “But if he had succeeded, the fault would -have been ours.” - -She suddenly smiled. - -“Isn’t it true that to face facts means freedom? That’s why I’m not an -optimist, Owen. I am willing to face all the facts you like. But you, I -think, in judging my father, have only faced half of them.” - -“You find me intolerant!” he exclaimed, half-ironically. Never before -had such an adjective been presented to his strong sense of his own -impartiality, his detached rationalism. - -“Not exactly. Only, I’m afraid--a little bit of a prig.” - -She uttered the strange, unimposing accusation, not rudely, not -unkindly, but almost mournfully. - -“Christianity has been accused of intolerance very often, and with only -too much reason, but those outside the Churches, who frankly claim -to be agnostic, often seem to me to be the most intolerant of all, of -what they look upon as superstition. Why should you despise my father -for beliefs that have led him to lead an honourable life, and that have -given him courage to bear his many sorrows?” - -“You have said, yourself, that the facing of facts means freedom. I can -see no freedom, and therefore no beauty, in living in illusion.” - -“Not for yourself, perhaps. Illusions could never be anything but -conscious, for you.” - -“Nor for yourself, Lucilla,” he retorted swiftly. - -“But how does that entitle us to despise another for holding them?” she -demanded, quite as swiftly. Nevertheless Owen detected a lessening of -severity, in so far as she had coupled them together in her speech. - -“Tonight,” he said gravely, “I admired your father with all my heart.” - -“I’m glad.” - -On the words, the same as those with which Lucilla had begun their -brief and rather amazing conversation, the Canon returned into the -room. - - - - -IV - -THE DEATH OF AN OPTIMIST - - -(i) - -Quentillian’s next and final summons to St. Gwenllian came some months -after Canon Morchard had taken Flora to her Sisterhood, and returned -alone. - -Owen was unprepared for the change in the Canon’s appearance, although -he knew him to be ill. - -“Aye, dear lad! It’s the last stage of the journey. I have thought that -it was so for some time, and they tell me now that there is no doubt -of it. This poor clay is worn out, and the spirit within is to be set -free. Verily, I can still repeat those favourite words of mine: ‘All -things work together for good, to those that love God.’ If you but knew -the number of times during these last few years that I have cried out -within myself ‘O for the wings of a dove, that I might fly away and be -at rest!’ And now it has come! and I hope to keep my Christmas feast -among the blest. They tell me that it cannot be long.” - -Quentillian looked the enquiry that he felt it difficult to put into -words. - -“I can take very little. Soon, they tell me that even that little will -have become impossible. See how even the crowning mercy of preparedness -is vouchsafed to me! I have put my house in order as well as may be, -and have no care save for my poor Lucilla. She will be alone indeed, -and it is for her sake, Owen, that I want you to do a great kindness to -a dying man.” - -“Anything, sir. Do you want me to stay?” - -“You have it, Owen.” The Canon laid his hand, thin now to emaciation, -upon Quentillian’s. - -“Stay with us now until the end comes. It cannot be far off. I have -outlived my brothers, and Lucilla’s remaining aunt is old and infirm. -It is not fit, even were it possible, that she should come here. She -will receive Lucilla most tenderly after I am gone--of that I am -assured. But there is no one to uphold her, to spare her needless -distress, when the time comes.” - -“I will do everything that I can to help her.” - -“I know it, dear fellow--I know it. Thank you from the bottom of my -heart. It seems natural to treat you as a son.” - -The Canon paused and looked wistfully at Quentillian upon the word. - -“Perhaps Adrian will come home. I have written to him--a long letter. -He need not be afraid of me. - -“I have written to my three absent children: To Valeria--my blessing -for her little sons--I would have given much to see them before -going--aye, and their mother, too, my merry Valeria, as I once called -her! I have missed Valeria’s laughter in this quiet house, that was -once full of merriment and children’s voices. - -“And I have written to Flora, my Flora, who chose the better part. May -she indeed be blessed in her choice--little Flora!” - -He sank back, looking exhausted. - -“I will stay as long as you wish me to stay, and I will do all that I -can for Lucilla,” repeated Quentillian. - -“I know it. The last anxiety has been allayed. Aye, Owen, I have ceased -to concern myself with these things now, I hope. If Adrian comes to me, -and if Lucilla can count upon you as upon a brother, then I am well -satisfied indeed. My affairs are in good order, I believe. My will is -with my solicitors--Lucilla knows the address. What there is, goes in -equal shares to Lucilla, Valeria, and Adrian. Flora has received her -portion already. My books, dear Owen, are yours. All else--personal -effects, manuscripts, and the rest--are Lucilla’s. She has been my -right hand. There are mementos to Clover, to one or two old friends and -servants--nothing else. I have thought it well to make Lucilla sole -executrix--she has helped in all my business for so long! - -“So you see that my temporal concerns are over and done with. In regard -to the spiritual, I have had the unutterable honour and pleasure of -a visit from the Bishop himself. He was all fatherly goodness and -kindness. The dear Clover is always at hand for reading, and I can -depend on him utterly for those last commendations that are to smooth -my way down the Valley of the Shadow. There is nothing wanting. And now -you have come!” - -The Canon’s wasted face was both radiant and serene. - -The grief that had so often shown there seemed to have passed away, and -Quentillian found it almost incredible that he had ever seen the Canon -angry, or weighed down by a leaden depression of spirits. - -“Is he really happy, all the time?” Quentillian asked Lucilla. - -“Yes, all the time. Even when he has pain. But they say there won’t be -any more pain, most likely, now. He will just sink, gradually. If you -knew how very little he is living on, even now, you would be surprised.” - -“Are you doing the nursing?” - -“He wants a trained nurse. One has been sent for. He thinks that it -will spare me,” said Lucilla, smiling a little. - -In the days that followed, Owen saw how difficult Lucilla found it to -be so spared. - -The nurse was an efficient and conscientious woman, and the Canon -quickly became dependent upon her. He begged Owen to spend as much time -as possible with Lucilla, who remained downstairs, replying to the -innumerable letters and the enquirers who came to the house. - -She was now only with her father for a brief morning visit, and the -hour in the afternoon when the nurse took her exercise out of doors. -Very often Quentillian, at the Canon’s request, was also with them then. - -“Lucilla and I have long ago said our last words, such as they are,” -the Canon told him with a smile. “We understand one another too well to -need to be left alone together.” - -Time slipped by with monotonous regularity, the changes in the Canon -almost imperceptible to the onlookers. - -Then, preceded only by a telegram, Adrian came home. - -“My father isn’t really dying, is he?” he asked piteously. - -“He can’t take anything at all, now. It’s a question almost of hours.” - -Lucilla took him upstairs to where his father lay, propped upon -pillows, and they were left alone together. - -“You know, it is very bad for Canon Morchard to have any agitation,” -the nurse anxiously pointed out to Lucilla, when the interview had -lasted a long while. - -“Can it make any real difference?” - -“It may reduce his strength more quickly.” - -“He would say that it was worth it. He has not seen this son for a long -while.” - -Lucilla kept the woman out of the room as long as it was possible to do -so. - -At last Adrian came downstairs. - -That evening the Canon said to Quentillian, with tears in his eyes: - -“Adrian has promised me to give up his work for that man. Is it not -wonderful, dear Owen? All, all added unto me. If this pain of mine -is to be the price of my boy’s awaking to his own better nature, how -gladly shall I not pay it!” - -It was the only time that Quentillian had ever heard him allude to -having suffered physical pain. - -“I have not been so much at rest about Adrian since he was a little -boy,” said the Canon. “He was always the most affectionate of them all. -And he cried like a little child, poor fellow, this afternoon, and -voluntarily passed me his promise to leave that man.” - -Quentillian’s own involuntary distrust of the promise given by a weak -nature, under strong emotional stress, was profound, but he gave no -sign of it. It no longer caused him any satisfaction to be aware of a -deeper insight in himself than in the Canon. He could not share that -guileless singleness of vision, and felt no envy of it, and yet he -paradoxically desired that it should remain unimpaired. - -He asked Lucilla if she knew of Adrian’s promise. - -“He told me. He was crying when he came down. He can’t believe even yet -that father is dying, poor Adrian! And yet he must believe it, really, -to have made that promise.” - -“The Canon is so thankful for it.” - -“I know. He wanted it more than anything in the world. Everything has -come to make it easy for him to go, Owen.” - -Something in her tone made him say gently: - -“Poor Lucilla!” - -“Even if the impression is only temporary with Adrian, it will be a -comfort to him afterwards. He is very unhappy now, that there should -have been any estrangement between them.” - -It was evident enough that Lucilla, also, had no great reliance upon -Adrian’s stability of purpose, although his present reaction had -brought such joy and comfort to the dying man. - -That night for the first time the Canon’s mind wandered. He spoke of -his children as though all were once more of nursery age, and at home -together. - -“Little Adrian can take my hand, and then he can keep up with the -others. Less noise, my love--a little less noise.... Valeria’s voice -is too often raised, too often raised--although I like its merry note, -in fit and proper season. My merry Valeria! Now are we ready? The -sketch-book, Flora, the sketch-book.... I want to see that pretty -attempt at the Church finished.” - -Then he said with an apologetic note in his voice: - -“Flora lacks perseverance, and is too easily discouraged, but we hope -that she may show great feeling for art, by and bye. Lucilla’s _forte_ -lies in more practical directions. She is my housekeeper--my right -hand, I often call her. Look, children, at that effect of sunlight -through the beech-leaves. Is it not wonderful? Come, Adrian, my man--no -lagging behind....” - -Presently a puzzled, distressed look came over his face and he asked: -“Is not one missing? Is David here?” - -Lucilla bent over him to say, “Yes, father,” but the distressed look -still lingered. - -“Where is David?” said the Canon. “Was there not some sadness--some -trouble between us? No--no--all a dream.” - -His face lightened again. “David is safe home. I shall see David -tonight.” - -By and by he asked to be told the time. - -It was nine o’clock. - -The Canon’s voice had become a weak whisper. - -“I thought it was morning, and that I had them all again--little -children. Such trustful little hands lying in mine ... and the children -have grown up and gone away.... No ... Lucilla, you are there, are you -not, my dear love? And Owen--Owen, that was like a third son to me. My -own sons are there, too--David is safe home ... only a very little way -on ... and Adrian, little Adrian--he promised ... ah, all things work -together for good....” - -His voice trailed thinly away into silence, his wan face was smiling. - -“He will sleep,” whispered the nurse, and her words were verified -almost instantly. - -Owen took Lucilla away. - -There was a strong sense upon him that the summons would not be long -delayed now. - -Lucilla went downstairs and quietly opened the outer door into the -garden. They walked up and down there, Owen watching the red spark -waxing and waning from his own cigar. The night was extraordinarily -still, the dark arch of the sky powdered with stars. - -Neither spoke directly of that which occupied their minds most, but -Quentillian said by and bye: - -“Where shall you go, eventually?” - -“Torquay, perhaps. There is an old aunt there--father’s sister. I shall -have just enough not to be dependent upon her, even if I make my home -with her.” - -“Will that be congenial?” - -Lucilla gave a little low, sad laugh. - -“I don’t think there’s much alternative, is there? This house, of -course, goes to the next incumbent. If Mr. Clover is appointed--and we -very much hope that he will be--he would probably buy a good deal of -the furniture (which is just as well, as it would certainly drop to -pieces if we tried to move it). I couldn’t possibly afford to set up -house for myself, in any case. And I must have something to do. Aunt -Mary would find plenty for me to do.” - -“I daresay,” said Quentillian without enthusiasm. - -“Perhaps you are thinking of my taking up an occupation or a profession -seriously, but you know, Owen, it isn’t really a practical proposition, -though one feels as though it ought to be. Just think for a minute, and -tell me what I’m fit for--except perhaps being someone’s housekeeper.” - -“My dear Lucilla, with your education and the literary training your -father has given you, surely anyone would be glad of your services.” - -“Not at all. I can’t write shorthand. My typing, which I taught myself, -isn’t nearly as good or as quick as that of any little girl of sixteen -who has learnt it properly, and can probably use half a dozen different -makes of machine. I’ve never learnt office routine--filing, indexing, -bookkeeping, the use of a dictaphone. I believe all those things are -necessary nowadays. I don’t suppose, if I did learn them all now, I -should ever be very good or very quick.” - -“I’m not suggesting that you should become a City clerk at forty -shillings a week.” - -“A private secretary, then? I can’t honestly see why anyone should -employ a woman with no experience, when there are so many experts -wanting work. Languages might be an asset, but most people know French. -German isn’t likely to be wanted now, and I don’t fancy there is any -great demand for Latin or Greek. Even for teaching, schools want -diplomas and certificates, besides proficiency in games.” - -“But the higher professions are all open to women of education -nowadays,” he protested. “You’re not restricted to the kitchen or the -nursery.” - -“Do you really think that I could work up, now, for a stiff legal or -medical examination, and pass it?” she demanded with a sort of gentle -irony. “You don’t realize, Owen, that I’m nearly forty.” - -He had not realized it, and it silenced him momentarily. - -“I think my chances went by a long time ago,” said Lucilla. “I’ve never -told anyone about it, but I think I’d like to tell you now, because I -don’t want you to think of me as a victim.” - -Quentillian registered a silent mental appreciation of a reason -diametrically opposite to the reason for which the majority of -confidences are bestowed. - -“Before Val and Flossie grew up, it was obvious that I should stay at -home and look after the house. Besides, I liked doing it. My father -was--and is--the whole world to me. But there was a time, just once, -when Val grew up, and David had gone away, when I wanted to go away, -too. Of course I’m talking of a good many years ago, and there weren’t -so many openings to choose from. But I wanted very much to go to -college. Father could just have managed it, without being unfair to any -of the others.” - -“You told him, then?” - -“Oh, yes; I told him.” - -“Would he not consent?” inquired Owen, as she paused. - -“He promised to consent if I still wished it, after thinking it over.” - -“But he persuaded you not to wish it any more?” - -“No, it wasn’t that. It’s a little bit difficult to explain. He did ask -me what I should gain by it, and whether it wasn’t just restlessness -and seeking a vocation to which I was not called. You remember hearing -him say that about Val, too?” - -“I remember.” - -“Well, that was all. He didn’t say anything more. Of course I knew he -wouldn’t like my going away from him, without being told. But it was -I who decided that it was an occasion for making what I’m afraid I -thought of as a sacrifice.” - -She surprised him by a little laugh. - -“You see, Owen, I think _now_ that I was quite wrong.” - -“Quite wrong,” he echoed gravely. - -“It was an odd, muddled sort of time for some years after that. I -suppose I was resenting my own decision, and yet trying to buoy myself -up all the time by thinking of my own self-abnegation and generosity. -It had seemed rather a beautiful thing to do at the time--to sacrifice -my own life to my widowed father and my motherless brothers and -sisters. At first, I remember thinking that there would be something -almost sacred about my everyday life at home.” - -“When people begin to think that things are sacred to them, it -generally means that they’re afraid of facing the truth about them.” - -“Exactly. It was a long time before I told myself the truth. But in -the end I did, when I saw that no one was likely to want to marry me, -and that my life was going to be exactly what I had decided to let it -be. And of course from the minute I faced it fair and square--after -the first--it all became a great deal easier. Besides, there were -compensations, really.” - -He made a sound of interrogation. - -“Well, it’s really a great thing to have a home. I’ve always felt -sorry for women who lived in their boxes, and had nowhere of their -own. And being mistress of the house all these years--I’ve liked that, -and been fairly interested in it. And I’ve got imagination enough to -see that books, and music, and a garden, to anyone brought up as we -were especially, are quite important items. You know, women who have a -career don’t generally get those other things thrown in as well, unless -they’re exceptionally fortunate.” - -“You set them against independence and your own freedom?” - -“I don’t say that, but they _do_ count,” she said steadily. “If it -comes to a question of relative values, of course they take second -place. But once I’d admitted to myself, quite honestly, that I’d -relinquished my chance of the best things of all, then I could quite -see those other things as being intrinsically worth something--a very -good second best. They’re really only unsatisfactory when one tries -to think of them as substitutes. Taken at their own value--well, I’ve -found them helpful, you know.” - -There was a silence before she spoke again. - -“Most of all, there was Father.” - -“That relationship has been the biggest factor in your life, of course.” - -“Yes.” She paused, and then in a tone resolutely matter-of-fact, said: -“I think perhaps I won’t talk about that now. But I know just as well -as you do that in the course of nature, those particular links can only -be expected to endure for a certain number of years. They’re breaking -now, for me, and it means that part of my life goes too.” - -He could not contradict her. - -“Is Adrian any use?” - -“Poor Adrian! He says now that he and I must keep together, and make a -home for one another. He wants to comfort me, and he knows Father would -be glad; but you can see for yourself that it wouldn’t be fair to take -him at his word. Perhaps we may be together for a little while--till -things have worn off a little bit, for him. Adrian is emotional, isn’t -he? I don’t know what he’ll do, eventually.” - -The recollection of Adrian’s promise to the Canon, that he would -relinquish his work, was evidently not a factor that Lucilla took into -serious consideration. By tacit agreement neither of them alluded to it. - -“Valeria will hardly be able to come home, I suppose?” - -“Oh, no. It’s out of the question. She couldn’t leave the two babies, -nor very well bring them with her.” - -“Flora?” - -Already, Owen realized with faint surprise, he had come to remember -Flora’s corporeal existence only by an effort. He could scarcely feel -her to be less separated from the realities of life than one who had -died in youth, and been long forgotten. - -Lucilla only shook her head. - -“They are all gone. Whatever anyone may say, Owen, they didn’t shirk -their chances. They said Yes to Life as they saw it.” - -“Can you be glad of that?” - -“Very glad. Even selfishly, I can be glad. Think of -three--unfulfilled--lives to be spent side by side, held together by -affection if you like, but fundamentally built on an artificial basis! -No, no”--her smile held humour, rather than conscious valour, though -Owen saw it as valiant too--“I’m glad to have faced my facts at last, -though it ought to have been done long ago, when I made my choice. I’m -not optimistic now, but I--I’m free.” - -As they turned, at the end of the garden path, a dark figure sped -across the grass towards them. Adrian’s voice reached them, low and -urgent: - -“Come!” - - -(ii) - -The Canon lay back against his pillows and it did not need the nurse’s -gesture to Lucilla to tell them that he was dying. His breath came loud -and fast and his eyes were closed. - -Adrian had flung himself on his knees at the bedside and was sobbing, -his face hidden in his arms. Quentillian stood beside Lucilla, who held -her father’s hand in hers. - -“Is he conscious?” Lucilla asked. - -The nurse shook her head. - -“Can anything be done to make it easier?” Lucilla said then. - -“No, my dear. I’ve sent messages for the doctor and Mr. Clover, but----” - -Her face completed the sentence. - -They remained motionless, Adrian’s irregular sobs and the Canon’s -heavy breathing alone cutting intermittently across the silence. - -Quentillian never knew how long it was before Canon Morchard opened his -eyes and spoke, articulating with great difficulty. - -“All safe--all happy ... verily, _all_ things work together for good!” - -He smiled, looking straight across at Owen Quentillian, and suddenly -said with great distinctness: - -“_Mors janua vitæ!_” - -Owen could hear the cry still, ringing through the room, in the time of -dumb struggle that followed. - -It seemed a fitting epitome of the spirit that had been Fenwick -Morchard’s. - -Just before the first hint of day dawned into the room, Lucilla and -the nurse laid back on to the pillows the form that they had been -supporting. - -Adrian was crying and shivering like a child. - -“Take him downstairs and give him something hot to drink,” the nurse -commanded Owen. “There’s a fire in the kitchen.” - -Quentillian looked at Lucilla. - -“Please go,” she said. - -He went downstairs with Adrian. - -“If only I’d been better to him! He was awfully good to me, really,” -sobbed Adrian. “He used to make an awful fuss of me when I was a little -chap, and I wasn’t half grateful enough--beast that I was!” - -“Drink this.” - -“I can’t.” - -“Of course you can. Try and be a man, Adrian, for your sister’s sake.” - -“It’s worse for me than for any of them,” said Adrian ingenuously, -“because I’ve got things to be remorseful about, and they haven’t. And -now it’s too late!” - -“You were here in time,” said Quentillian, abominably conscious, and -resentful, of his own triteness. - -“And I promised him I’d chuck my job. I think it comforted him.” - -“I’m sure it did.” - -“It was a sacrifice, in a way, to throw the whole thing up, when I was -doing well and keen on it, and all that sort of thing; but I’m thankful -now that I did it. Perhaps it made up to--_him_--for my having been -such a hound, often and often.” - -It was oddly evident that Adrian was torn between genuine grief and -shock and a latent desire to make the most of his own former depravity. - -“I daresay you’re thinking that having been through the war and -everything, I ought to be used to the sight of death,” he said -presently; “but it’s quite different when it’s like this. One got sort -of hardened there, and everybody was running the same risk--oneself -included. But my father--why, it seems like the end of everything, -Owen. I must say, I think I’m a bit young to have my home broken up -like this, don’t you?” - -“Very young,” repeated Quentillian automatically, and yet not -altogether without significance. - -“I don’t know what will happen, but of course Lucilla and I have to -leave St. Gwenllian. It’s hard on her, too. I thought we ought to keep -together, you know, for a bit. It seems more natural. I shall have -to look for a fresh job, and I don’t know what Hale will say to my -chucking him.” - -Adrian was silent, obviously uneasy, and it was evident enough that -it was the strong revulsion from that anxiety which prompted his next -sudden outburst. - -“I’m so awfully thankful that I had the strength to make that promise -about leaving Hale. It’ll always be a comfort to me to feel that I -made a sacrifice for the dear old man, and that he--went--the happier -for it. Mind you, I don’t agree with him about Hale and Hale’s crowd. -Father had the old-fashioned ideas of his generation, you know, and of -course all progress seemed a sort of vandalism to him. I daresay if -he’d ever met Hale he’d have had his eyes opened a bit, and seen things -quite differently. Hale was always jolly decent about him, too--he’d -read some of his stuff, and had quite a sort of admiration for it, in a -way. Said it was reactionary, and all that, but perfectly sound in its -own way, you know--scholarly, and all that kind of muck.” - -“Have you written to Hale?” - -“No. Of course, in a way it’s an awfully awkward situation for me, -having to tell him why I’m not coming back to him, and so on. I thought -I’d pop up and see him as soon as it could be managed. Of course there -are arrangements to be made----” - -The boy broke off, in a fresh access of bewilderment and grief. - -“I simply can’t realize he’s gone, Owen. I say--you do think he was -happy, don’t you?” - -“Yes.” - -“That promise of mine meant a lot to him. I’m so thankful that I’ve -got that to remember. You might say, in a way, considering how much -he always thought of us, that some of his children had rather let him -down, in a way. I mean, Lucilla and I were the only two there, out of -the five of us. Of course, David, poor chap, had gone already, and -Val and Flossie couldn’t very well help themselves--and yet there it -was! Do you suppose that when he said--_that_--about ‘all safe, all -happy’--he was thinking of us?” - -“Yes, I do.” - -“It’s a comfort to know his mind was at rest. He wouldn’t have said -that if I hadn’t made that promise, you know,” said Adrian. - -“Look here, Adrian, hadn’t you better try and get some sleep? There’ll -be things to be done, later, you know, and you and I--if you’ll let me -help--must try and take some of it off Lucilla’s hands.” - -All the child in Adrian responded to the transparent lure. - -He drew himself up. - -“Thanks awfully, Owen. I shall be only too glad of your help. There’ll -be a good deal for me to see to, of course, so perhaps I’d better lie -down for an hour or two while I can. What about Lucilla?” - -“Would you like to come and find her?” - -The boy shuddered violently. - -“Not in there--I couldn’t,” he said piteously. - -They went upstairs together. - -As they passed the door of the Canon’s room, it was cautiously opened -and the nurse came outside and spoke to Adrian. - -“The doctor should be here presently. I want him to see Miss Morchard. -She turned faint a little while ago, and I’ve got her into her room, -but I’m afraid she’s in for a breakdown. I’ve seen them like this -before, after a long strain, you know.” - -The woman’s tone was professionally matter-of-fact. - -“Had I better go to her?” said Adrian, troubled, and seeming rather -resentful at the fresh anxiety thrust upon him. - -“I shouldn’t, if I were you. It’ll only upset her. She’s broken down a -bit--hysterical. It’ll relieve her, in the end. I shan’t leave her now, -till the doctor comes.” - -Lucilla hysterical! - -Owen, almost more amazed than concerned, watched the nurse depart to -what she evidently looked upon as a fresh case. - -“Well, I can’t do anything, I suppose,” said Adrian miserably. - -“Go to bed,” Quentillian repeated. “Shall I draft out some telegrams -for you, and let you see them before they go? It’s no use sending them -to the post-office before eight.” - -“Don’t you want to sleep yourself?” - -“Not just now, thanks.” - -“Well, I’ll relieve you at seven. Send someone to call me, will -you?--though I don’t suppose I shall sleep.” - -The boy trailed into his room, disconsolate and frightened-looking. - -Owen Quentillian, searching for writing materials, found them on the -table in the Canon’s study, a table scrupulous in its orderliness, each -stack of papers docketed, each article laid with symmetrical precision -in its own place. - -Owen would not sit there, where only the Canon had sat, under the -crucifix mounted on the green velvet plaque. He went instead to -another, smaller table, in the embrasure of a window, and sat there -writing until the morning light streamed in upon him. - -Then he laid down the pen, with a sense of the futility of activities -that sought to cheat reflection, and let his mind dwell upon that which -subconsciously obsessed it. - -Canon Morchard had died as he had lived--an optimist. An invincible -faith in the ultimate rightness of all things had been his to the end, -and perhaps most of all at the end. - -Quentillian envisaged the Canon’s causes of thankfulness. - -He had seen his children as “safe” and “happy.” Was it only because he -had wanted so to see them? - -David, who was dead, had been mourned for, but the Canon had been -spared the deepest bitterness of separation. He had known nothing of -the gulf widening between his own soul and that of his eldest son.... - -A fool’s paradise? - -He had seen Lucilla as safe and happy. - -And yet Lucilla’s life was over, unlived. As she herself had said, her -chances had gone by. Torquay remained. It was not very difficult to -imagine her days there. An old lady--the placid kindness accorded by -the aged to the middle-ageing--the outside interests of a little music, -a few books, a flower-garden--the pathetic, vicarious planning for -scarcely-seen nephews and nieces--the quick, solitary walks, cut short -by the fear of being missed, and then, as years went on, more solitude, -and again more solitude. - -Lucilla had said: “I’m not an optimist now--but I’m free.” - -From the bottom of his heart Owen recalled with thankfulness the fact -of Lucilla’s freed spirit. - -It was the best that life would ever hold for her now. - -His thoughts turned to Flora. - -Quentillian could not envisage her life: eternally secluded, eternally -withdrawn. She was lost to them, as they were lost to her. - -Subconsciously, he was aware of associations connected with Flora’s -vocation upon which he preferred not to dwell. He knew, dimly, -intuitively, that Lucilla’s merciless clarity of outlook had seen -Flora less as a voluntary sacrifice than as the self-deluded victim of -fanaticism. - -But no doubts had crossed the Canon’s mind on Flora’s behalf. He had -known no distrust of her craving for self-immolation, no dread of -reaction coming too late. - -He had thanked God for the dedication of Flora. - -The one of his children for whom he had grieved perhaps longest was -Valeria. And it was on Valeria that Owen’s thoughts dwelt most gladly. -She had purchased reality for herself, and although the price might -include his own temporary discomfiture, Quentillian rejoiced in it -candidly. Nevertheless, it was Val’s error, and not Val’s achievement, -that her father had seen. His hope for her had been the one of ultimate -reparation implied in his own favourite words--“All things work -together for good.” - -And the Canon had quoted those words yet again, when Adrian, his -favourite child, had come back to him. His deepest thankfulness had -been for the emotional, unstable promise volunteered by Adrian’s -impulsive youth. - -Quentillian could see no reliance to be placed upon that promise to -which the Canon, with such ardent gratitude and joy, had trusted. -Adrian would drift, the type that does little harm, if less good. -Strength of intellect, as of character, had been denied him. No -interest would hold him long, no aim seem to him to be worth sustained -effort. - -And yet the Canon had felt Adrian, too--perhaps most of all Adrian, in -the flush of reconciliation after their estrangement--to be “safe” and -“happy.” - -Then optimism was merely a veil, drawn across the nakedness of Truth? - -From the depths of a profound and ingrained pessimism, Quentillian -sought to view the question dispassionately, and felt himself -fundamentally unable to do so. - -Hard facts and--at best--resignation, or baseless hopes and undaunted -courage, such as had been Canon Morchard’s? - -The death of the Canon, bereft of all and yet believing himself to -possess all, had epitomized his life. - -Overhead, sounds and stirrings had begun, and Quentillian softly let -himself out of the house and stepped out into the fresh chill of the -morning air. His eyelids were stiff and aching from his vigil, and -sudden, most unwonted tears filled them. He glanced at the windows of -the old house. A light still burned in Lucilla’s, as though the nurse -had been able to spare no thought from her ministrations. - -Lucilla, the finest and bravest of the Canon’s children, had been -broken on the wheel. - -In the passionless sorrow that possessed him, Quentillian grasped at -the strand of consolation that he knew to exist somewhere. It had been -found for him once before, by Canon Morchard. - -He found it again, remembering. - -_Mors janua vitæ._ - -The Canon had proclaimed it, as a joyful certainty. Approached far -otherwise, Owen could yet proclaim it, too, as the supreme and ultimate -Fact to be faced, of which the true realization would strike forever -the balance between optimism and pessimism. - -He turned towards the entrance again, and as he did so the blinds of -Canon Morchard’s room were drawn down, by a careful, unseen hand. - - - - -V - -OWEN AND LUCILLA - - -(i) - -It was nearly a year later that Owen Quentillian went to Torquay to see -Lucilla Morchard, and asked her to marry him. - -Nothing in the occasional letters that they had exchanged could have -been regarded as in any way indicative of such a _dénouement_, and for -once Owen saw Lucilla thoroughly disconcerted. - -“But why?” she demanded, in a tone at once wistful and indignant. - -Her face was pale and lined, but her eyes had lost neither humour nor -sanity of outlook. - -“Not for the only reason that it ought to be, dear Lucilla,” he -answered humbly. “But because of the awful loneliness at Stear, and my -own weakness which makes me afraid of it. And a little because of your -sadness here, perhaps, but most of all because you are the only person -I know who can face facts, and _then_ be happy. It’s the most wonderful -combination in life.” - -“You have faced facts, yourself.” - -“And it has only brought me bitterness.” - -She reflected for a moment and then said: - -“That’s true. But you won’t find your remedy in marriage with me, Owen.” - -Her voice held all its old crisp, common-sense. - -“Are you staying to tea, because if so, my aunt will want some warning. -She is old, and fussy, and there’s only one maid.” - -They had met out of doors. - -“Pray don’t let me cause any inconvenience,” he said stiffly, offended -by the irrelevance. - -“It won’t be in the least inconvenient,” Lucilla assured him kindly. -“Aunt Mary likes to see people, very much, it’s a new interest for her. -Only it worries her if the drawing-room fire isn’t lit, or there’s no -cake for tea. Things like that, you know.” - -He hardly did know, so different was his own world, and he could -scarcely credit that Lucilla, the erstwhile mistress of St. Gwenllian, -could know. - -“You’ve remembered, of course,” she said reflectively, “that I’m -several years older than you are?” - -“What can that matter?” - -“Nothing at all, certainly, if you’ve faced the risk that it entails -and are prepared to take it. But, of course, that isn’t the only risk, -Owen.” - -“I suppose not. Is this an acceptance, or a refusal, Lucilla?” - -They both broke into laughter. - -“Here we are,” said Lucilla, stopping at a little gate in a row of -other little gates. “I’ll walk with you to the station afterwards.” - -She paused, with her hand on the little gate, and looked at him. - -“It’s only that we are--or we ought to be--past the stage of following -a generous impulse and hoping for the best. I--I don’t want either of -us to bite off more than we can chew.” - -On the elegance of her simile, Miss Morchard opened the front door of -“Balmoral” with a latchkey, allowing no time for a reply. - -She left Quentillian in the tiny, red-tiled hall while she went into a -room opening out of it, that was as obviously the drawing-room as the -room on the other side was the dining-room. - -Quentillian looked round him, at the walls crowded with foolish -brackets and bad water-colours, at the painted deal staircase and -balusters, at the window on the landing that looked out on to little -back gardens, all of exactly the same size and shape, and had a -momentary vivid recollection of the shabby, dignified rooms at St. -Gwenllian, and the old cedars close to the tennis court. - -Lucilla had been fond of gardening. - -From somewhere in the basement came the screeching note of a parrot. - -Then Lucilla summoned him. - -The drawing-room was exactly what he had expected it to be, and so was -the aunt. - -She talked a little about Torquay, and explained that she knew some of -the residents, but none of the visitors, unless there was “a link,” and -she asked Owen if he had read the life of Mary Slessor of Calabar. - -He had not. - -“You ought to read it. She was such a wonderful person,” said the -old lady with enthusiasm, and she talked about foreign missions for -some time, though even this failed to enlighten the uninterested -Quentillian on the identity of Mary Slessor of Calabar. - -Lucilla did not talk very much--but, then, she never had talked very -much. - -The old aunt referred to her several times, and once said to -Quentillian: “My niece is clever, you know. She reads a great deal. I -like having an opinion to go by, and she chooses my books for me so -much better than the girl at Boots’ lending library. So many people -just go by the name of a book, I fancy, but Lucilla and I like to know -something about the author as well.” - -She spoke with a faint air of justifiable pride. - -Quentillian suddenly thought of the mountain of manuscript concerning -Leonidas of Alexandria, at the laborious compilation for which Lucilla -had worked for so many years. He heard the oft-repeated tag of which -Canon Morchard had been fond: “Lucilla, here, is our literary critic.” - -A small, panting maid brought in tea, and the old lady poured it out, -and was very meticulous in inquiring into Quentillian’s precise tastes -as to milk and sugar. - -As soon as he could, he made his farewell. - -“I hope you’ll come again, now you’ve found the way here,” said -Lucilla’s aunt, kindly. - -Lucilla, as she had promised, went with him, when he left “Balmoral.” - -They walked in silence for a little way and then Owen said pleadingly: - -“You’ll let me take you away from that, won’t you, Lucilla? It’s an -impossible life for you.” - -“Why do you confuse the issue like that? It’s just what I said -before--you want to follow a generous impulse without counting the -cost. My life has really nothing to do with the question.” - -He was frankly confounded. - -“I thought it might be an argument in my favour,” he said resentfully. - -“There’s only one thing that could really count in that way--well, two -things, to be accurate. Your need of me, Owen.” - -“It’s quite real,” he returned levelly. “I’m lonely, and yet the -company of most of the people I know rather annoys me. And there’s -another thing. I’m frightened, very often. It’s since the war, and--and -you know I’d been shell-shocked, as they call it? I’ve thought lately -that if you were there--the realest person I know--I shouldn’t be -frightened, at Stear. I’m giving you facts, Lucilla--not romance. We’ve -both missed _that_.” - -“Val didn’t stand to you for romance, did she?” - -“No.” - -Quentillian could think of nothing at all to add to his bald negative. - -“Well, we’ve faced your risks,” said Lucilla. “What about mine?” - -“The worst one is that you should find me an intolerable egotist,” he -said rather unsteadily. - -“We can discount that.” - -She spoke curtly, and he made no rejoinder, uncertain of her meaning. - -“What was the other argument that might count in my favour, Lucilla? -One was my need of you. I think I’ve shown you that. But you said ‘two -things, to be accurate.’ Tell me what the other was.” - -“Is,” she corrected, with a sound that was very nearly a laugh, and -that caused him to look at her. - -She faced his gaze with all her own steadiness, but for the first time -he saw Lucilla’s mild imperviousness, her implacable matter-of-factness, -as a shield for something infinitely fragile and sensitive. - -Her voice, always quiet, was quieter than ever when she spoke. - -“It’s fair to tell you, I think. I’ve loved you for a long time now. So -you see my risks would be greater than yours, Owen. That’s why I was -afraid of impulse. But you see I’ve told you this--which was rather -difficult to say--because it seems to me that our one chance lies in -absolute honesty. We’ve faced the fact together that you’re--just -lonely, and that’s why you want me--but--we’ve got to face the other -fact too--both of us--I mean that, for me--you _do_ stand for romance, -Owen.” - -Her voice had not altered, but the effort with which she had spoken had -brought tears, that Owen had never seen there before, to Lucilla’s eyes. - -Nevertheless she smiled at him valiantly. - -For the first time, perhaps, since his childhood, Quentillian found -himself unable to analyse his feelings or to translate them into -tersely sententious periods. - -In the long silence that fell between them, there began a process by -which he slowly reversed certain judgments, and eliminated certain -axioms, which hitherto had stood to him for wisdom. - -But it was with scarcely any knowledge of this, that Owen Quentillian, -reduced at last to making an appeal, asked Lucilla Morchard once more: - -“Will you marry me? The risks are all yours--will you take them?” - -With her most characteristic gesture, she bent her head in assent, -neither impulsive nor emotional, but fully accepting responsibility, -and said seriously and gently: - -“Yes, Owen, I will.” - - - - -TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES: - - - Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_. - - Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. - - Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized. - - Archaic or variant spelling has been retained. - - The cover image for this eBook was created by the transcriber and is - entered into the public domain. - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE OPTIMIST *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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M. Delafield—A Project Gutenberg eBook - </title> - <link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover" /> - <style> /* <![CDATA[ */ - -body { - margin-left: 10%; - margin-right: 10%; -} - - h1,h2,h3 { - text-align: center; - clear: both; -} - -p { - margin-top: .51em; - text-align: justify; - margin-bottom: .49em; -} - -hr { - width: 33%; - margin-top: 2em; - margin-bottom: 2em; - margin-left: 33.5%; - margin-right: 33.5%; - clear: both; -} - -hr.tb {width: 45%; margin-left: 27.5%; margin-right: 27.5%;} -hr.tiny {width: 10%; margin-left: 45%; margin-right: 45%;} -hr.chap {width: 65%; margin-left: 17.5%; margin-right: 17.5%;} -@media print { hr.chap {display: none; visibility: hidden;} } - - -div.chapter {page-break-before: always;} -h2.nobreak {page-break-before: avoid;} - -.pagenum { - position: absolute; - left: 92%; - font-size: smaller; - text-align: right; - font-style: normal; - font-weight: normal; - font-variant: normal; - text-indent: 0; -} - - -.blockquot { - margin-left: 10%; - margin-right: 10%; -} - -.x-ebookmaker .blockquot { - margin-left: 7.5%; - margin-right: 7.5%; -} - -.indentright {margin-right: 5em;} - -.center {text-align: center;} - -.right {text-align: right;} - -.smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} - -.ph1 {text-align: center; font-size: large; font-weight: bold;} - -div.titlepage {text-align: center; page-break-before: always; page-break-after: always;} -div.titlepage p {text-align: center; font-weight: bold; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: 2em;} - -.xxxlarge {font-size: 300%;} -.large {font-size: 125%;} - -.antiqua { - font-family: Blackletter, Fraktur, Textur, "Old English Text MT", "Olde English Mt", "Olde English", Gothic, serif, sans-serif;} - - -.x-ebookmaker .hide {display: none; visibility: hidden;} - -.figcenter { - margin: auto; - text-align: center; - page-break-inside: avoid; - max-width: 100%; -} - -.poetry-container {text-align: center;} -.poetry {display: inline-block; text-align: left;} -.poetry .verse {text-indent: -2.5em; padding-left: 3em;} -.poetry .indent {text-indent: 1.5em;} -.poetry .indent3 {text-indent: 3.5em;} -.poetry .first {text-indent: -3em; padding-left: 3em;} - -@media print { .poetry {display: block;} } -.x-ebookmaker .poetry {display: block;} - - -.transnote {background-color: #E6E6FA; - color: black; - font-size:smaller; - margin-left: 17.5%; - margin-right: 17.5%; - padding: 1em; - margin-bottom: 1em; - font-family:sans-serif, serif; } - - /* ]]> */ </style> -</head> -<body> -<p style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The optimist, by E. M. Delafield</p> -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online -at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: The optimist</p> -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: E. M. Delafield</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: July 14, 2022 [eBook #68524]</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin: 1em 0'>Most recently updated: May 7, 2022</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; text-align:left'>Produced by: Tim Lindell, David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)</p> -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE OPTIMIST ***</div> - -<div class="figcenter hide"><img src="images/coversmall.jpg" width="450" alt="" /></div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<h1>THE OPTIMIST</h1> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p class="center"><span class="smcap">By</span><br /> - -E. M. DELAFIELD</p> - -<hr class="tiny" /> - -<p class="center"><span class="smcap">Humbug. A Study in Education</span><br /> - -<span class="smcap">The Heel of Achilles</span><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Tension</span></p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> -<div class="chapter"> -<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_title.jpg" alt="" /></div> -</div> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="titlepage"> -<p><span class="xxxlarge">THE<br /> -OPTIMIST</span></p> - -<p>BY<br /> - -<span class="large">E. M. DELAFIELD</span></p> - - -<p><span class="antiqua">New York</span><br /> -<span class="large">THE MACMILLAN COMPANY<br /> -1922</span><br /> -<br /> -<i>All rights reserved</i></p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p class="center">PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA</p> - - - -<p class="center"><span class="smcap">Copyrighted, 1922,<br /> -By</span> THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.</p> - - -<p class="center">Set up and electrotyped. Published October, 1922.</p> - - -<p class="center">FERRIS<br /> -PRINTING COMPANY<br /> -NEW YORK CITY</p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> -<div class="chapter"> -<p class="center"><span class="antiqua">Dedicated</span><br /> -<br /> -TO C. A. DAWSON-SCOTT IN<br /> -AFFECTIONATE ADMIRATION OF<br /> -THE NOVELIST AND THE WOMAN.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_7">[7]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">I<br /> - - -<small>VALERIA AND OWEN QUENTILLIAN</small></h2> -</div> - -<h3>(i)</h3> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> ship swung slowly away from the side of the -wharf. Several people on board then said, “Well, -we’re off at last!” to several other people who had only -been thinking of saying it.</p> - -<p>Owen Quentillian remembered another, longer, sea-voyage -taken by himself at an early age. Far more -clearly he remembered his arrival at St. Gwenllian.</p> - -<p>It was that which he wanted to recall, aware as he -was of the necessity for resuming a connection that -had almost insensibly lapsed for several years.</p> - -<p>He deliberately let his mind travel backwards, -visualizing himself, a disconsolate, shivering morsel, -being taken away from Papa and Mamma at the very -station itself, and put into an open pony-cart beside -Miss Lucilla Morchard.</p> - -<p>The conversation between them, as far as he could -recollect it, had run upon strangely categorical lines.</p> - -<p>“Who are you?”</p> - -<p>“I’m Canon Morchard’s daughter. You can call me -Lucilla.”</p> - -<p>“How old are you?”</p> - -<p>“I’m fifteen, but you shouldn’t ask grown-up persons -their age.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, are you a grown-up person?”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_8">[8]</span>“Of course I am. My mother is dead, and I look -after the house and the children, and now I’m going -to look after you as well.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla had smiled very nicely as she said this.</p> - -<p>“How many children are there?”</p> - -<p>“Three, at home. My eldest brother is at school.”</p> - -<p>“What are the names of the other ones?”</p> - -<p>“Valeria and Flora and Adrian. Valeria and Flora -are sometimes called Val and Flossie.”</p> - -<p>He had discovered afterwards that they were seldom -called anything else, except by their father.</p> - -<p>“Why don’t Papa and Mamma come in this little -carriage too?”</p> - -<p>“Because there wouldn’t have been room. They -will come in the brougham, later on.”</p> - -<p>“They won’t go back to India without saying good-bye -first, will they?” he asked wistfully.</p> - -<p>He had known for a long time that Papa and Mamma -were going back to India and leaving him at St. -Gwenllian.</p> - -<p>“No, I promise you they won’t do that,” had said -Lucilla seriously.</p> - -<p>Owen had felt entirely that her word was one to be -relied upon. Very few grown-up persons gave him -that feeling.</p> - -<p>He remembered extraordinarily little about the house -at St. Gwenllian. It was large, and cold, and there -were a good many pictures on the walls, but the only -two rooms of which he retained a mental photograph -were the schoolroom, and the Canon’s library.</p> - -<p>He saw the latter room first.</p> - -<p>Lucilla had taken him there at once.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">[9]</span>He remembered the books against the wall—numbers -and numbers of books—and the big black writing -table, with a small bowl of violets next to a pile of -papers, and above the writing-table a finely-carved -ivory figure, crucified upon a wooden cross, set in a -long plaque of pale-green velvet.</p> - -<p>Lucilla had seemed to be disappointed because her -father was out.</p> - -<p>“He said he did so want to be here to welcome -you himself, but he is always very busy. Some one -sent for him, I think.”</p> - -<p>The youthful Owen Quentillian had cared less than -nothing for the non-appearance of his future host and -tutor. The prospect of the schoolroom tea had touched -him more nearly.</p> - -<p>But the schoolroom tea had turned out to be a sort -of nightmare.</p> - -<p>Even now, he could hardly smile at the recollection -of that dreadful meal.</p> - -<p>Eventually Val and Flossie had resolved themselves -into good-natured, cheerful little girls, and Adrian into -a slightly spoilt and rather precocious little boy, addicted -to remarks of the type hailed as “wonderful” -in the drawing-room and “affected humbug” in the -schoolroom.</p> - -<p>But on that first evening, Val and Flossie had been -two monsters with enormous eyes that stared disapprovingly, -all the time, straight at Owen Quentillian -and nobody else. Adrian had been an utterly incomprehensible, -rather malignant little creature, who had -asked questions.</p> - -<p>“Can you see colours for each day of the week?”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_10">[10]</span>Quentillian wondered whether he had looked as much -alarmed as he had felt, in his utter bewilderment.</p> - -<p>“<i>I</i> think Monday is blue, and Tuesday light green, -and Wednesday dark green,” Adrian had then proclaimed, -triumphantly, and casting his big brown eyes -about as though to make sure that his three sisters -had heard the enunciation of his strange creed.</p> - -<p>“Adrian is not a bit like other little boys,” one of -them had then said, with calm pride.</p> - -<p>Owen Quentillian, unconscious of irony, had ardently -hoped that she spoke truly.</p> - -<p>Adrian had pinched him surreptitiously during tea, -and had laughed in a way that made Owen flush when -they had asked him what India was like and he had -answered “I don’t know.”</p> - -<p>He had thought the thick bread-and-butter nasty, -and wondered if there was never any cake. A vista of -past teas, with sugared cakes from the drawing-room, -especially selected by himself, and brought to his own -little table on the back veranda by the Ayah, made him -choke.</p> - -<p>There had been a dreadful moment when he had -snatched at the horrid mug they had given him and -held it before his face for a long, long time, desperately -pretending to drink, and not daring to show his face.</p> - -<p>Lucilla, seated at the head of the table, had offered -the others more tea, but she had said nothing to the -little strange boy, and he still felt grateful to her.</p> - -<p>The miserable, chaotic jumble that was all that his -mind retained, of interminable slices of bread-and-butter -that tasted like sawdust, of thick, ugly white -china, of hostile or mocking gazes, of jokes and allusions<span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">[11]</span> -in which he had no share, all came to a sudden -end when he had given up any hope of ever being happy -again so long as he lived.</p> - -<p>Canon Morchard had come into the room.</p> - -<p>And, magically, Val and Flossie had turned into -quiet, insignificant little girls, looking gently and trustfully -at their father, and no longer staring curiously -at Owen Quentillian, and Adrian had become a wide-eyed, -guileless baby, and the thick bread-and-butter -and the ugly china no longer existed at all.</p> - -<p>Only Lucilla had undergone no transformation.</p> - -<p>She said “This is Owen Quentillian, Father,” in a -matter-of-fact tone of voice.</p> - -<p>“I know, my child, I know.”</p> - -<p>His hand, large and protecting, had grasped the -boy’s hand, and after a moment he stooped and put -his lips gently to Owen’s forehead.</p> - -<p>Quentillian remembered a presence of general benignity, -a strangely sweet smile that came, however, very -rarely, a deep voice, and an effect of commanding -height and size.</p> - -<p>Memory could not recapture any set form of words, -but Quentillian endeavoured, whimsically, to recast -certain speeches which he felt to be permeated with -the spirit of the Canon.</p> - -<p>“My dear little boy, I hope you may come to feel -this as home. We shall all of us endeavour to make -it so. Lucilla here is my little housekeeper—ask her -for anything that you want. Valeria—my tomboy. -She and you will have some grand romps together. -Flora is younger; nearer your own age, perhaps. Flora -plays the piano, and we hope that she may show great<span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">[12]</span> -feeling for Art, by and bye. Little Adrian, I am sure, -has already made friends with you. I call him the -Little Friend of all the World. There are some very -quaint fancies under this brown mop, but we shall -make something out of them one of these days—one -of these days.”</p> - -<p>Some such introduction there had certainly been. -The Canon had been nothing if not categorical, and -Quentillian could fancifully surmise in him a bewilderment -not untinged with resentment had his Valeria -one day tired of being a tomboy, and elected to patronize -the piano, or Flora suddenly become imbued with -a romping spirit, to the detriment of her artistic -propensities.</p> - -<p>But the Canon’s children had always refrained from -any <i>volte-face</i> calculated to disconcert their parent. -Quentillian was almost sure that all of them, except -Lucilla, had been afraid of him—even Adrian, on -whom his father had lavished a peculiar cherishing -tenderness.</p> - -<p>Quentillian could remember certain sharp, stern rebukes, -called forth by Valeria’s tendency to untimely -giggles, or Flora’s infantile tears, or his own occasional -sulks and obstinacy under the new <i>régime</i>. But he -could only once remember Adrian in disgrace, and so -abysmal had been the catastrophe, that imagination -was unneeded for recalling it clearly.</p> - -<p>Adrian had told a lie.</p> - -<p>Quentillian re-lived the terrible episode.</p> - -<p>“Which of you children took a message for me -from Radly yesterday? Not you, Lucilla?”</p> - -<p>“No, father.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">[13]</span>“Mrs. Radly died last night.” The Canon’s face was -suffused. “She asked for me all yesterday, and Radly -actually left her in order to find some way of sending -me a message. I hear now that he met ‘one of the -St. Gwenllian children’ and sent an urgent summons -which was never delivered. <i>Which was never delivered!</i> -Good Heavens, children, think of it! I was here, -in our own home-circle, enjoying a pleasant evening -reading aloud, when that woman was dying there in -the farm, craving for the help and comfort that I, her -shepherd and pastor, could and <i>should</i> have given her.”</p> - -<p>He covered his face with his hand and groaned -aloud.</p> - -<p>“In all the years of my ministry,” he said slowly, -“I have never had a more bitter blow. And dealt me -by one of my own household! Children,” his voice -boomed suddenly terrible, “which of you received -Radly’s message yesterday?”</p> - -<p>Quentillian, in the retrospect, felt no surprise at the -absence of any competition in laying claim to the implied -responsibility.</p> - -<p>At last Lucilla said tentatively:</p> - -<p>“Val? Flora?”</p> - -<p>“I never saw Radly at all, yesterday, nor any other -day,” said Val, her brown eyes wide open and fixed -straight upon her father.</p> - -<p>Flora’s little, pretty face was pale and scared.</p> - -<p>“It wasn’t me. No one ever gave me any message.”</p> - -<p>Her voice trembled as though she feared to be disbelieved.</p> - -<p>“Owen?” said the Canon sternly.</p> - -<p>“No, sir.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">[14]</span>“Adrian?” his voice softened.</p> - -<p>“No, father.”</p> - -<p>The Canon hardly appeared to listen to Adrian’s -answer. His hand was on the little boy’s brown curls, -in the fond, half-absent, gesture habitual to him.</p> - -<p>He faced the children, and his eye rested upon Owen -Quentillian.</p> - -<p>“If any one of you,” he said sternly and slowly, -“has been betrayed into telling me a lie, understand -that it is not yet too late for full confession. Selfish -heedlessness cannot be judged by its terrible consequences, -and if I spoke too strongly just now, it was -out of the depths of my own grief and shame. The -forgetfulness was bad—very bad—but that I can forgive. -A lie, I can <i>not</i> forgive. It is not too late.”</p> - -<p>His face was white and terrible as he gazed with -strained eyes at the children.</p> - -<p>Little Flora began to cry, and Lucilla put her arm -round her.</p> - -<p>“Understand me, children, denial is perfectly useless. -I <i>know</i> that message was given to one of you, -and that it was not delivered, and it is simply a question -of hours before I see Radly and obtain from him the -name of the child to whom the message was given. I -accuse no one of you, but I implore the culprit to speak -out. Otherwise,” he hit the table with his clenched -fist, and it seemed as though lightning shot from his -blazing eyes, “otherwise I shall know that there dwells -under my roof a liar and a coward.”</p> - -<p>Quentillian could hear still the scorn that rang in -that deep, vibrant voice, terrifying the children.</p> - -<p>Not one of them spoke.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">[15]</span>And the Canon had gone out of the room with -anguish in his eyes.</p> - -<p>The nursery court-martial that followed was held by -Lucilla.</p> - -<p>“Flossie, it couldn’t have been you, because you -stayed in all yesterday with your cold. Owen and Val -were out in the afternoon?”</p> - -<p>“We went to see the woman with the new twins,” -said Val, indignantly. “We never met anyone the -whole way, did we, Owen?”</p> - -<p>“No.”</p> - -<p>Owen Quentillian had known all the time what was -coming. He knew, with the terrible, intimate knowledge -of the nursery, that Adrian was the only one of the -Canon’s children who did not always speak the truth.</p> - -<p>Apparently Lucilla, also, knew.</p> - -<p>She said “Oh, Adrian,” in a troubled, imploring -voice.</p> - -<p>“I didn’t,” said Adrian, and burst into tears.</p> - -<p>“I knew it was Adrian,” said little Flora. “I saw -Radly coming up the lane very fast, I saw him out -of the night-nursery window, and I saw Adrian, too. -I knew it was Adrian, all the time.”</p> - -<p>None of the children was surprised.</p> - -<p>Adrian, confronted with their take-it-for-granted -attitude, ceased his mechanical denials.</p> - -<p>The preoccupation of them all, was Canon Morchard.</p> - -<p>“It’ll be less bad if you tell him yourself than if -Radly does,” Owen Quentillian pointed out.</p> - -<p>“Of course, it makes it much worse having told him -a lie,” Val said crudely, “but perhaps he didn’t much<span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">[16]</span> -notice what you said. I’m sure he thought it was -Owen, all the time.”</p> - -<p>How much better if it had been Owen, if it had -been any one of them, save the Canon’s best-loved child, -his youngest son!</p> - -<p>“You must come and tell him at once,” Lucilla decreed—but -not hopefully.</p> - -<p>“I can’t. You know what he said about a liar and -a coward under his roof.”</p> - -<p>Adrian cried and shivered.</p> - -<p>“He wasn’t angry the time I broke the clock,” said -Flora. “He took me on his knee and only just talked -to me. I didn’t mind a bit.”</p> - -<p>“But you hadn’t told a story,” said the inexorable -Val.</p> - -<p>They all knew that there lay the crux of the matter.</p> - -<p>Quentillian could see the circle of scared, perplexed -faces still—Lucilla, troubled, but unastonished, keeping -a vigilant hold on Adrian all the time, Val, frankly -horrified and full of outspoken predictions of the direst -description, Flossie in tears, stroking and fondling -Adrian’s hand with the tenderest compassion. He even -visualized the pale, squarely built, little flaxen-haired -boy that had been himself.</p> - -<p>They could not persuade Adrian to confess.</p> - -<p>At last Lucilla said: “If you don’t tell him, Adrian, -then I shall.”</p> - -<p>And so it had been, because Canon Morchard, re-entering -the schoolroom, had, with a penetration to -which his children were accustomed, instantly perceived -the tears and the terror on Adrian’s face.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">[17]</span>“What is it, little lad? Have you hurt yourself?”</p> - -<p>The kind, unsuspicious concern in his voice, as he -held out his hand!</p> - -<p>Quentillian was certain that a pause had followed the -enquiry—Adrian’s opportunity, conceded by Lucilla, -even while she knew, as they all did, that he would take -no advantage of it.</p> - -<p>Then Lucilla had told.</p> - -<p>Quentillian’s thoughts went off at a tangent, dwelling -for the first time, with a certain surprised admiration, -upon Lucilla’s resolute, almost matter-of-fact performance -of her painful and alarming task.</p> - -<p>Canon Morchard had been incredulous at first, and -Lucilla had steadily repeated, and reiterated again and -again, the dreadful truth.</p> - -<p>A black time had followed.</p> - -<p>It assumed the proportions of a twelve-month, in -the retrospect. Could it have extended over a week? -Strangely enough, Quentillian could not recall the exact -fate of Adrian, but he knew that the Canon first -fulminated words of wrath and scorn, and at last had -actually broken down, tears streaming down his furrowed -face, and that the sight of this unrestrained display -of suffering had caused the boy Owen to creep -from the room, with the strange, sick feeling of one -who had witnessed an indecency.</p> - -<p>All the children except Lucilla, who indeed scarcely -counted as one of them, had avoided Canon Morchard -in the ensuing days. They had crept about the house -silently, and at meals no one spoke until the Canon had -left the room. Owen Quentillian, playing with a ball -in the passage and inadvertently bouncing it against<span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">[18]</span> -the closed study door, had been suddenly confronted by -the Canon, and the look of grief and horror fixed -upon that handsome face had rendered any spoken rebuke -for levity unnecessary.</p> - -<p>After all, they had left an impression, those Morchards, -all of them, Quentillian reflected.</p> - -<p>Lucilla had been calm, matter-of-fact, competent—perhaps -a little inhuman. Val, impetuous, noisy, inclined -to defiance, yet frankly terrified of her father. -Flossie—impossible to think of her as Flora, unless -the name was uttered in the Canon’s full, deep tones—surely -the prettiest of the three, gentler than Val, less -self-assured than Lucilla, timid only with her father. -Adrian, of course, did not speak the truth. His contemporaries -had known it, although Canon Morchard -had not realized the little boy’s habitual weakness. -But then he had never realized that the children were -afraid of him.</p> - -<p>Why had they all been afraid of him?</p> - -<p>Quentillian decided that it must have been because -of his own phenomenal rectitude, his high standard of -honour, and above all and especially, his deep, fundamental -sense of religion.</p> - -<p>Canon Morchard, undoubtedly, lived “in the presence -of God.” Even the little boy Owen had known -that, and, thinking backwards, Quentillian was convinced -of it still.</p> - -<p>He felt curious to see the Canon again. David -Morchard had said to him in Mesopotamia: “Go and -see him. They’ve none of them forgotten you, and -they’ll be glad of first-hand news. I’ve only been -home once in five years.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">[19]</span>The shrug of his shoulders had seemed to Quentillian -expressive.</p> - -<p>But evidently David had judged his family correctly. -The Canon had written and invited his old pupil to -stay with him.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>“It will not only be joy untold to receive news of our -dear lad, David, but a real pleasure to us all to welcome -you amongst us once more. I have not forgotten -my pupil of long-ago days, nor my daughters their -erstwhile playfellow. You will find all at home, including -Adrian. Dear fellow, I had hoped it was to -be the Church for him, but he has been so open, so -anxious to decide the whole important question <i>rightly</i>, -that one can only leave the decision to him in all -confidence. I would not hurry him in any way, but -his brief Army days are over, thank God, and we have -the untold pleasure of having him with us now, so -full of fun and high spirits, dear boy. You, with your -pre-war experience of Oxford, will perhaps be able -to talk things over with him and help him to a right -and wise decision.</p> - -<p>“You will remember my eldest daughter, Lucilla. -She is still my right hand, mothering the younger -ones, and yet finding time for all sorts of wider interests -than those afforded by her secretarial work -for me. I think that you will agree with me that -Lucilla’s intellectual abilities, had she been less of a -home-bird, must have made their mark in the world.</p> - -<p>“Valeria is still something of the madcap that perhaps -you remember. Her energy and enthusiasm keep -us all in the best of spirits, even though we are sometimes -a little startled at the new ideas sprung upon<span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">[20]</span> -us. Both she and Flora worked valiantly during the -terrible war years, though I could spare neither of -my darlings to leave home for very long at a time. -Valeria, however, was six months in France at a Canteen, -and I believe rendered really valuable service. -Little Flora, as I still call her, gives pleasure to us all -with her music, and our men in hospital were sharers -in her gift as far as we could manage it.”</p> -</div> - -<p>Quentillian took up yet another sheet of notepaper -covered with small, legible writing. It came back to -him with a sense of familiarity, that the Canon had always -been an expansive and prolific writer of letters.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>“Make us a long visit, my dear boy. There are no -near ones to claim you, alas, and I should like you to -remember that it was to us that your dear father and -mother first confided you when they left you for what -we then hoped was to be only a short term of years. -God saw otherwise, my dear lad, and called them unto -Himself. <i>How</i> incomprehensible are His ways, and -how, through it all, one must feel that mysterious certainty -‘<i>all</i> things work together for good, to those -that love Him!’ Those words have been more present -to me than I can well tell you, during the years of -storm and stress. David’s long, weary time in Mesopotamia -tried one high, but when Adrian, my Benjamin, -buckled on his armour and went forth, my -heart <i>must</i> have failed me, but for that wonderful -strength that seems to bear one up in the day of tribulation. -How often have I not said to myself: ‘He hath -given His angels charge over thee ... in their hands -they shall bear thee up, lest haply thou dash thy foot -against a stone!’</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">[21]</span>“Perhaps you will smile at this rambling letter of an -almost-old man, but I fancy that as one grows older, -the need to bear testimony becomes ever a stronger -and more personal thing. His ways <i>are</i> so wonderful! -It seems to me, for instance, a direct gift from His -hand that the Owen Quentillian to whom I gave his -first Latin prose should be returning to us once more, -a distinguished young writer. I wonder if we shall -recognize you? I have so vivid a recollection of the -white hair and eyelashes that made the village boys -call out, ‘Go it, Snowball!’ as they watched your prowess -on the football field!</p> - -<p>“Well, dear fellow, I must close this. You have only -to let us know the day and hour of your arrival, and -the warmest of welcomes awaits you.</p> - -<p>“I <i>must</i> sign myself, in memory of old happy times,</p> - -<p class="right"><span class="indentright">“Yours ever affectionately,</span><br /> -“<span class="smcap">Fenwick Morchard</span>.”</p> -</div> - -<p>Quentillian, with great precision, folded the sheets -together again.</p> - -<p>“So Lucilla is a home-bird, Valeria is still something -of a madcap, Flora is still ‘little Flora,’ and Adrian -is a dear lad who is anxious to decide rightly about his -future career.”</p> - -<p>He wondered doubtfully whether he himself would -come to endorse the Canon’s opinion of the Canon’s -progeny.</p> - -<p>And what was the Canon himself, if labels were -to be thus distributed?</p> - -<p>The sensation of doubt in Quentillian’s mind was -accentuated, but he concluded his reflections by reminding<span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">[22]</span> -himself, half tolerantly, and half with a certain -grimness, that the Canon was at least, according to -himself, Quentillian’s ever affectionate Fenwick Morchard.</p> - - -<h3>(ii)</h3> - -<p>“<span class="smcap">This</span> is like old times,” said Quentillian.</p> - -<p>Lucilla Morchard smiled, shook hands with him, and -made no answer, and Quentillian immediately, and with -annoyance, became conscious that the occasion was -not in the least like old times.</p> - -<p>Apparently Miss Morchard did not accept <i>clichés</i> -uncritically.</p> - -<p>Her face, indeed, expressed a spirit both critical and -perceptive. Quentillian could still trace the schoolgirl -Lucilla in the clearly-cut, unbeautiful oval, with the -jaw slightly underhung, grey, short-sighted eyes, and -straight black brows. Her dark hair was folded plainly -beneath her purple straw hat, but he could discern that -there was all the old abundance of it. Her figure was -tall and youthful, but her face made her look fully her -age. He surmised that Lucilla must be thirty-five, -now.</p> - -<p>“This time, my father <i>is</i> here to welcome you.”</p> - -<p>She turned round, and Quentillian saw the Canon.</p> - -<p>“Ah, dear fellow! Welcome—welcome you be, indeed!”</p> - -<p>A hand grasped Quentillian’s hand, an arm was laid -across his shoulders, and the Canon’s full, hearty voice, -very deep and musical, rang in his ears.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">[23]</span>Quentillian felt inadequate.</p> - -<p>With all the acute self-consciousness of the modern, -he was perfectly aware that Canon Morchard’s warmth -of feeling and ardour of demonstration awoke in himself -nothing but a slight, distinctly unpleasant, sensation -of gratitude, and a feeble fear of appearing as unresponsive -as he felt.</p> - -<p>“I think it’s the same Owen Quentillian, isn’t it?”</p> - -<p>The steady pressure of the Canon’s arm compelled -his unwilling returned prodigal to remain still, facing -him, and submit to a scrutiny from kind, narrowed -eyes.</p> - -<p>“Just the same. All is well—well, indeed.”</p> - -<p>The Canon’s hand smote Quentillian gently between -the shoulders, as they walked down the platform.</p> - -<p>“The trap is waiting, dear boy. They are eager for -your arrival, at home. I have my whole goodly company -awaiting you, thank God—Lucilla here, and my -merry Valeria, and little Flora with her incurably shy -ways, and my Benjamin—the youngest of the flock—Adrian. -You and Adrian must have many talks, dear -lad. I want just such a friend for him as yourself—full -of youth, and fun, and merriment, as he is himself, -and yet able to help him when it comes to facing the -deeper issues—the deeper issues. You young people -must have many wise, deep talks, together, such as -youth loves. I remember my University days so well -and how ‘we tired the sun with talking’—aye, Owen, -your father and I were famous philosophers, once upon -a time! How does that strike you, eh?”</p> - -<p>It struck Quentillian principally that his father’s -contemporary reminded him oddly of a book of late<span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">[24]</span> -Victorian memoirs, but he did not voice the impression -aloud.</p> - -<p>Instead, it was a relief to him to be able to make -an obvious, and yet perfectly sincere, comment upon -the unchanged aspect of the old red-brick house, standing -well away from the small town.</p> - -<p>“Valeria is our gardener,” said Canon Morchard. -“You will be consulted about various borders and the -like, no doubt. But we have all of us an interest in -botany. You must remember that from the old days, -eh? There was a collecting craze, if I remember -rightly, that led to a great deal of friendly rivalry -amongst you children.”</p> - -<p>Quentillian’s recollection of the collecting craze differed -so drastically from that of the Canon, that he -glanced involuntarily at Lucilla. She met his eye -calmly, but he fancied a little latent hostility in her -unconsciousness.</p> - -<p>It rather served to confirm his impression of the -extreme lack of spontaneity that had characterized -those bygone excursions into the realms of Nature. -They had been undertaken, at least by himself and his -ally and contemporary, Valeria, with one eye, as it -were, upon the Canon’s study window. Even Adrian, -if Quentillian remembered rightly, had relaxed the -normal enthusiasm of boyhood in the pursuit of bird’s -eggs, after the wondrous eye for detail of the bird’s -Creator had been sufficiently often pointed out to -him.</p> - -<p>“Welcome home,” said the Canon happily. “You -remember the old garden? I seem to recollect some -capital fun going on amongst the old rhododendron<span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">[25]</span> -bushes at hide-and-seek, eh? We play lawn-tennis, -nowadays. I see a sett is going on now. Who is -here this afternoon, Lucilla?”</p> - -<p>“Captain Cuscaden is playing with Flora, and I suppose -it’s Mr. Clover in the far court.”</p> - -<p>“To be sure. Clover is my excellent curate, who -has been one of ourselves for several years now. Sit -ye down, young people, sit ye down. Tea will be -out here directly, and the players will no doubt come for -refreshment.”</p> - -<p>The Canon settled himself with the deliberation of -a heavily-built man, and leant back in his wicker chair, -with finger-tips joined together, the breeze stirring -the thick grey hair upon his temples.</p> - -<p>It was a cameo-like head, with something of the -ivory colouring of a cameo, but the cameo’s blank orbs -were replaced by deeply-set, brilliant hazel eyes of -which the flashing, ardent outlook recalled at once the -child and the fanatic. Innumerable fine lines were -crossed and recrossed at the corners of either socket, -but the broad forehead was singularly open and unlined.</p> - -<p>Quentillian noted the feminine sweetness of the -closed mouth, contrasting with the masculine jut of -the strong, prominent jaw. His mind registered simultaneously -the recollection of the Canon’s violent and -terrifying outbursts of anger, and his astonishing capabilities -of tenderness.</p> - -<p>The latter expression was altogether predominant, as -the tennis players came to join the group under the -cedars.</p> - -<p>“Valeria—Flora—you need no introductions here,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">[26]</span> -dear lad. Clover, let me present my old pupil—one -of whom you have very often heard us speak—Owen -Quentillian. This is my very good friend and helper. -And.... Ah, Captain Cuscaden—Mr. Quentillian.”</p> - -<p>Quentillian fancied less enthusiasm in this last introduction, -and it seemed to him significant that no -descriptive phrase followed the name. Either Captain -Cuscaden was not worth classifying, or he could not -satisfactorily be relegated into any class, and Quentillian -suspected that Canon Morchard would resent the -latter state of affairs more than the former.</p> - -<p>At all events, Cuscaden was good-looking, of bold -allure and sunburnt face, revealing the most perfect -of teeth in a pleasant smile.</p> - -<p>Mr. Clover was sandy and pale and seemed to be -talkative.</p> - -<p>“I believe I should have known you anywhere,” -Valeria Morchard told Quentillian, frankly gazing at -him. He was not sorry to have the opportunity of gazing -back as frankly at her.</p> - -<p>As children, the handsome or unhandsome looks of -Val, his inseparable playmate, had naturally interested -him not at all. He had vaguely acquiesced in the universal -nursery dictum that Flora, with her fair curls -and wide, innocent eyes, was pretty, but he now found -her blond slenderness insignificant in the extreme compared -to Valeria, with her tall and perfectly balanced -figure, ripe-apricot bloom, and brown laughing eyes. -No longer a very young girl, she somehow combined -the poise of her twenty-seven years with a shy, semi-abruptness -of diction reminiscent of seventeen.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">[27]</span>Quentillian thought her charming.</p> - -<p>So, apparently, did the other men.</p> - -<p>“And who bore off the palm of victory?”</p> - -<p>Canon Morchard indicated the tennis court.</p> - -<p>“We won, at five games all. A very good sett,” -Clover replied. “My partner’s service is almost invincible.”</p> - -<p>Canon Morchard smiled.</p> - -<p>“We think Valeria’s service is her strong point,” he -explained to Quentillian. “She was coached by our -dear David, and David is no mean player, I assure you. -Little Flora needs to stand up to the ball better—stand -up to the ball better. Flora has the feminine tendency -to hit out too soon—eh, Flora? Our champion is -Adrian, however. You and he will have some great -contests, I foresee.”</p> - -<p>The more the Canon foresaw, the more did Quentillian’s -own aspirations turn in search of contrary -directions. The only diversion of those predicted by -his host, of which he felt able to tolerate the thought, -was that of being consulted by Valeria upon the herbaceous -borders.</p> - -<p>“Clover, there, has a particularly good stroke on to -the back line, but you’ll get to know it. Have you -played at all since you left the ’Varsity?”</p> - -<p>“I got a good deal of tennis when I was home on -leave in nineteen-sixteen, but nothing after that, when -I was in Mesopotamia.”</p> - -<p>“Were you not in Flanders, dear boy?”</p> - -<p>“In ’fifteen and ’sixteen,” said Quentillian briefly.</p> - -<p>He wished to remember neither his two years on the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">[28]</span> -Western front, nor his many months in Hospital with -shell-shock.</p> - -<p>“Where did you and David meet, in Mesopotamia?” -inquired Lucilla.</p> - -<p>Quentillian had forgotten her presence, if not her -existence, but he felt grateful to her for sparing him -the tentative category of his soldiering capabilities -which he suspected the Canon of having in readiness.</p> - -<p>He was not, however, given time to answer Lucilla’s -question.</p> - -<p>The Canon’s hand was uplifted.</p> - -<p>“Ah, Lucilla my dear—please! My little talk with -Owen there, is to come later. There is so much that -I want to hear about our David—much, indeed. And -you shall have your share of news about your brother, -my child, but wait—at least wait—until we have had -our little private talk together.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla bent her head a little under the rebuke either -in acquiescence or to conceal some slight confusion; but -Valeria blushed hotly and unmistakably, and everyone -looked constrained except the Canon, who looked rather -severe, rather grieved, and at the same time perfectly -serene. When he spoke again, it was with marked -suavity.</p> - -<p>“Tell us something of your literary work, dear fellow,” -he requested Quentillian. “I am ashamed to say -that I have read nothing of yours, as yet. My time is -so little my own. Lucilla here is our literary critic.”</p> - -<p>He placed his thin, beautiful hand, for a fleeting -moment upon his eldest daughter’s hand.</p> - -<p>“Lucilla tells me that she knows your work. Critical -essays, is it?”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">[29]</span>“Yes, sir.”</p> - -<p>Quentillian gravely acknowledged the truth of the -assertion. His self-consciousness rather enhanced -than diminished in him a keen appraisement, perhaps -rather less detached than he would have liked it to be, -of his own literary value.</p> - -<p>“I published a small volume of essays before the -war, but since then I have only been a very occasional -contributor to one or two of the reviews.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, yes. You must let me see what you have done, -some day. This is the era of youth. Indeed, some -of the things I see in print today strike me as not only -crude and immature, but absolutely mischievous—false, -foolish, shallow teaching from those who have never -submitted to be taught themselves. I am not afraid -of that in your case, Owen. But remember this, all -you young people: Nothing can be of real or lasting -value that is not founded upon the broad principles of -Christianity—charity, self-sacrifice, humility, loving-kindness. -One feels that, more than ever, nowadays, -when cynicism is so much in fashion.”</p> - -<p>The Canon leant back in his chair again with his -eyes closed, as though momentarily exhausted by the -extraordinary passion with which he had spoken.</p> - -<p>So profoundly did Owen Quentillian disagree with -his host, that he remained absolutely silent. He reminded -himself that since his majority he had sought, -voluntarily, only the companionship of those whose -views were at least as progressive as his own. He -had almost forgotten that those other, older, views -existed, were held with a passion of sincerity contrasting -oddly with the cool, detached, carefully impersonal<span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">[30]</span> -logic that was the only attitude contemplated by himself -and his kind for the consideration of all problems -of ethics, morals, or of Life itself.</p> - -<p>No doubt the Canon did not admit the normal evolution -of the art of self-sacrifice to be self-advertisement, -and held the officious pelican to be the best of -birds.</p> - -<p>Quentillian, horribly aware of his own priggishness, -wanted to reform the whole of the Canon’s philosophy -at once.</p> - -<p>Nevertheless he retained enough humour to hope that -the preposterous desire had not been apparent in his -silence.</p> - -<p>His eyes met those of Valeria Morchard, and read -there amusement, and something not unlike protest.</p> - -<p>Lucilla, in her level voice, offered him tea.</p> - -<p>“The cup that cheers,” said Mr. Clover in a nervous -way.</p> - -<p>The ineptitude roused in Quentillian a disproportionate -sense of irritation and renewed his old conviction -that his nerves were not even yet under his complete -control.</p> - -<p>As though the Canon, too, were mildly averse from -such trivialities, he began to speak again.</p> - -<p>“What one feels in the cleverness of the day is the -note of ugliness that prevails. Do you not feel that? -The sordid, the grotesque, the painful—all, all sought -out and dwelt upon. That, we are told, is the new -realism. We know, indeed, that there is a sad side to -life, but is it realism to dwell only upon one side of -the picture? Surely, surely, a sane optimism were the -better outlook—the truer realism.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">[31]</span>“You don’t think, then, that the optimism of England -is responsible for her present plight, sir?”</p> - -<p>Quentillian’s tone was one of respectful suggestion, -but he was aware that Val, beside him, had suddenly -caught her breath as though at an audacity, and that -Flora and Mr. Clover were both gazing anxiously at -the Canon.</p> - -<p>A flash of lightning shot from those ardent eyes -straight into the passionless irony of the younger -man’s.</p> - -<p>“But for England’s optimism, there would be no -England today. It was the spirit of optimism that won -the war, Owen.”</p> - -<p>A sick recollection of men, armed and disciplined, -taking steady aim at other men, standing against a wall -to be shot for cowardice or treason, of grey-faced -commanders leading those who followed them into -certain death, all surged into Quentillian’s rebellious -mind. They, the men who had been there, had known -better than to prate of optimism.</p> - -<p>They had faced facts, had anticipated disaster, had -envisaged the worst possibilities, and their pessimism -had won the war.</p> - -<p>“Are you, too, bitten with the folly of the day?”</p> - -<p>The Canon’s voice was gentle again, his arm once -more laid across Quentillian’s shoulders.</p> - -<p>“Did I not hear something about shell-shock, dear -fellow? We must have no talk of the war here. -Thank God for that He hath brought it to an end. -Tell me, dear lad, will you play tennis?”</p> - -<p>Bewildered, almost affronted, Quentillian yet agreed -to play tennis, feeling himself more like a forward<span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">[32]</span> -boy, being treated with forbearance, than like a modern -intellect illuminating the way of thought for the older -generation.</p> - -<p>He played with Valeria as his partner, and found -the Canon’s eulogy of her service to be entirely justified.</p> - -<p>He found an opportunity at the end of the game -of expressing his admiration for her play, and she -replied, conventionally enough, that she had a great -deal of practice.</p> - -<p>“There isn’t much else to do,” she added, with a -slight grimace.</p> - -<p>Under pretext of looking for a distant ball, they -continued the conversation.</p> - -<p>“If you remember this place at all,” Val said, “you -know how dull it is. Just tennis in the summer, and -horrible bazaars and jumble sales, and never a new -person or a new idea from year’s end to year’s end.”</p> - -<p>“It sounds appalling. But, after all, you’re not -bound, in the old, antiquated way. You can go away.”</p> - -<p>“No I can’t,” she said bluntly. “I did get to France, -for six months, during the war, but it was only <i>because</i> -it was the war. And even then—oh, well, the sort -of letters I got were enough to make me feel that -Father really hated my being there.”</p> - -<p>Quentillian was genuinely aghast.</p> - -<p>“But I thought that sort of attitude had gone out -with all the other Victorian traditions. I thought -women did what they liked—were as free as men.”</p> - -<p>“That’s what it says in the books I read, and what -some of the girls I met in France told me. But it -isn’t like that here. And one <i>can’t</i> hurt Father. You<span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">[33]</span> -know what he’s like—so good, and so sensitive, and—and -so noble, somehow. He makes modern things -seem trivial—vulgar, even.”</p> - -<p>“Your father is a reactionary,” said Quentillian -kindly, rather as one might say: “Your father is a -Hottentot.”</p> - -<p>“You mustn’t think that he just wants us to stay -at home and arrange the flowers,” Val said. “You -know how he always wanted us to have intellectual -interests. Oh, Owen, don’t you remember the collections?”</p> - -<p>She broke off, and blushed and laughed.</p> - -<p>“It seems so very natural—I’ve so often thought of -you as Owen.”</p> - -<p>“That was very nice of you, Val,” said Quentillian -calmly.</p> - -<p>He had every intention of retaining his early privileges, -where Val was concerned.</p> - -<p>“I should like to read some of the things you’ve -written,” she said abruptly. “Lucilla reads your articles, -and has always admired them.”</p> - -<p>It seemed to Quentillian so extremely natural that -anybody who read his articles should admire them, -that he was conscious of receiving a slight shock when -Valeria added:</p> - -<p>“I gather that Father wouldn’t like them at all. Lucilla -always kept them out of his way.”</p> - -<p>“She is devoted to him, I can see that.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, of course.”</p> - -<p>Something in her voice made him look at her, and -she exclaimed, half laughing and half petulant: “We’re -all devoted to him, Lucilla and Flossie and I! I didn’t<span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">[34]</span> -mean the least shadow of a criticism of <i>him</i>. Only -that it’s a little difficult, sometimes, to keep up to his -level.”</p> - -<p>It seemed to Quentillian so monstrous a state of -affairs that the Canon’s three daughters should have -no worthier aim in life than the one implied, that -something of his feeling was reflected in his face, and -Valeria on the instant applied herself to looking for -the missing ball, found it, and returned to the tea-table -and the group there.</p> - -<p>The Canon was again speaking, this time to young -Cuscaden.</p> - -<p>“If it is to be Canada, I believe I could give you one -or two introductions that might be of service to you. -The Government people, for instance.... I have -one or two very good friends amongst them. You -are really anxious to leave the Army and try colonization?”</p> - -<p>“Quite determined to, sir.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, you young fellows, you young fellows! It -seems to me that there is none of the spirit of stability -that existed in our day! But perhaps the wish to see -further afield is a natural one. Certainly, my own -greatest regret is that I have had so little time for -travelling.”</p> - -<p>He turned to Lucilla.</p> - -<p>“Your dearest mother and I had planned a visit to -Italy the very year that she was taken from us. Well, -well! It was not to be. I shall never see the Eternal -City now, I imagine, except with the eyes of the mind. -Clover, you are amongst those who have seen Rome. -Think of it! Seen Rome, where Peter healed and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">[35]</span> -Paul preached the Gospel, where Laurence and Agnes -and Cyprian and countless others were martyred! Tell -us something of the Coliseum.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Clover did not give the effect of being an eloquent -person, but he had evidently been called upon -before by the Canon, and he gave a not unilluminating -little description, punctuated, and indeed supplemented, -by Canon Morchard’s exhaustive comments.</p> - -<p>Quentillian listened in a sort of amazement, not at -all untinged by a rather uncertain wonder as to how -he should ever sustain his own part in these ingenuous -conversations....</p> - -<p>The others, he saw, listened, with the possible exception -of Lucilla, whose eyes were fixed upon a distant -flower-bed.</p> - -<p>Captain Cuscaden kept his gaze upon Valeria, but -he put in an occasional question, generally upon a subject -of architecture. Flora played with a leaf and said -nothing at all, and Val, unconsciously, Quentillian felt -sure, repeated everything her father said in more colloquial -English.</p> - -<p>“It amazes me to realize that with a lack of all our -modern appliances, such veritable giants of architecture -should yet have been raised,” mused the Canon.</p> - -<p>“Yes, isn’t it wonderful to think they had none of -our machines and things, and yet made those enormous -statues and gates and things?” said Val.</p> - -<p>“Well for us, indeed, that they did so, my child. -Every fresh excavation proves to be a new link with -the past.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, indeed,” said Mr. Clover.</p> - -<p>“Yes, all the new things they dig up seem to make<span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">[36]</span> -a fresh link with those old Roman days,” echoed Val -faithfully.</p> - -<p>“Yes, indeed,” said Mr. Clover.</p> - -<p>“If any of you young people followed the accounts -of the recent Egyptian excavations—Valeria, I think -you are our keenest antiquarian—were you not struck -by the extraordinary confirmation of Scripture narrative -afforded by each fresh discovery?”</p> - -<p>This time Mr. Clover only said “Indeed?” and Valeria -repeated:</p> - -<p>“Yes, it all carried out the things one reads in the -Bible, didn’t it?”</p> - -<p>“We required no such confirmation, certainly, but -it comes to one as a fresh joy, and brings these things -home with full force.”</p> - -<p>And Mr. Clover, with what Quentillian perversely -chose to regard as misplaced ingenuity, once more -found a variation of his formula, and remarked, “Indeed, -yes.”</p> - -<p>On these lines they talked about Egypt.</p> - -<p>Then they talked about Rome again.</p> - -<p>Then they went back to Egypt.</p> - -<p>Quentillian looked at the rebellious profile beneath -Val’s shady hat, and came to the conclusion that, -whether she fully realized it or not, she was as profoundly -bored as himself.</p> - -<p>It was Captain Cuscaden who released them from -the strain, by rising to take his leave.</p> - -<p>“I’m sorry you have not seen Adrian. He will be -disappointed to have missed you,” Canon Morchard -said courteously. “Another day, when Adrian is at -home, you must come over again. He is spending the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">[37]</span> -afternoon with friends at a distance, and will hardly -be home before dinner-time. You must come over -again.”</p> - -<p>“Thank you, sir. I should like to very much.”</p> - -<p>Something in the Captain’s prompt reply convinced -Quentillian that his acceptance was not merely a conventional -one.</p> - -<p>“Your motor-bicycle is round by the hall door,” said -Valeria, and she and Captain Cuscaden left the garden -together.</p> - -<p>“And now, dear lad, you and I must have some talk -together.”</p> - -<p>Rather to Quentillian’s dismay, the firm and genial -pronouncement of his host seemed to have been anticipated. -Lucilla could be discerned bending over the -distant flower-bed which had been the object of her -solicitation during the talk about Rome, and Flora had -disappeared. Mr. Clover now turned and hastened -towards the house.</p> - -<p>“You and I have had our heart-to-heart talks before -now, Owen,” said the Canon affectionately. “We must -have many more of them, dear fellow—many more.”</p> - - -<h3>(iii)</h3> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> natural instinct of Quentillian, as of everybody -else, was to suppose that a heart-to-heart talk must -necessarily be upon the subject of himself.</p> - -<p>He was therefore slightly disconcerted, though also -undoubtedly relieved, when he perceived that the -Canon’s thoughts were only preoccupied with his own -two sons.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">[38]</span>They disposed of David with a rapidity that was -partly due to Quentillian’s own determined uncommunicativeness, -and partly to the Canon’s evident anxiety -to get on to the topic of Adrian.</p> - -<p>“I wish David had been able to come home before -returning to India, but no doubt these things are ordered -for us. He writes fondly and affectionately, -dear boy—fondly and affectionately. Not as often as -I could wish, perhaps, but the young are thoughtless. -It costs so little to send one line to those who are -anxiously waiting and watching at home! Well, well—it -has been a great joy to hear that the dear fellow -is his own bright self. And his faith, Owen? Is all -well there? Did he say anything to you of that?”</p> - -<p>“No, sir.”</p> - -<p>The Canon sighed.</p> - -<p>“Perhaps it was not to be expected. You of the -present generation do not discuss these things as we -did. Even at Oxford, I am told, the men no longer -preoccupy themselves with such questions in the same -way.”</p> - -<p>“Some do, sir,” said Quentillian, beginning to feel -rather sorry for the Canon.</p> - -<p>The Canon, however, received Quentillian’s consolatory -effort very much at its true worth.</p> - -<p>“Some do, perhaps, as you say, but they are not -those from whom any very valuable contribution to the -problems of the times is to be expected. The tone -of Oxford is not what it was, Owen—not what it was. -It lessens my disappointment at not sending Adrian -there, to find an Alma Mater indeed, as his father -before him. One had always thought of the Church<span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">[39]</span> -for him, dear boy, but these things cannot be forced. -His soldiering seems to have put an end to any leanings -that way. Adrian is one reason, amongst many others, -why I am glad to welcome you amongst us, Owen. He -may find it easier to discuss things with a contemporary,” -said the Canon wistfully. “Your own destiny, -I imagine, is sealed?”</p> - -<p>Quentillian assented, although he had thought of the -very small property recently inherited by himself in no -such grandiloquent terms.</p> - -<p>“When do you take possession of your kingdom?”</p> - -<p>“In a few months, sir. The place was let during my -uncle’s lifetime, and there are repairs to be done before -I go there. I intend to live there, and try my hand -at farming.”</p> - -<p>He purposely omitted any mention of his writing.</p> - -<p>“Good—good—excellent indeed. And we shall not -be very distant neighbours, eh?”</p> - -<p>“Just the other side of the county, sir. I should -like to go over there from here, if you’re kind enough -to put up with me for two or three days.”</p> - -<p>“By all means, of course—but let there be no talk -of two or three days, Owen, between you and me. -Make this your headquarters; come and go quite freely, -as one of ourselves. We have always thought of you -as one of ourselves,” said the Canon warmly. “I -think you have no very close ties, this side of the -Great Division?”</p> - -<p>“Thank you very much indeed,” said Quentillian, -feeling unable to accept the Great Division even by -implication, but sincerely grateful for the Canon’s most -genuine and spontaneous kindness.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">[40]</span>“It’s more than good of you to receive me so kindly, -and I shall be only too glad to take you at your word.”</p> - -<p>He wished that his self-consciousness had allowed -him to make this speech without a perfectly clear realization -that he only did so because the normal economy -of expression habitual to him would have left the elder -man dissatisfied.</p> - -<p>As it was, the Canon’s arm was, for the second time -that day, affectionately laid across Quentillian’s shoulders, -and thus they paced the garden and eventually -entered the house, to the extreme relief of the Canon’s -unresponsive prop.</p> - -<p>“Your room, dear Owen. Lucilla is my housekeeper. -Ask her for anything you want,” said the Canon, carrying -Quentillian back to his ninth year, and almost -making him expect to hear next that Valeria was the -Canon’s tomboy.</p> - -<p>No such inapposite piece of information followed, -and Quentillian expressed his pleasure at the very -charming room in which he found himself.</p> - -<p>“Make it your own, dear lad, for as long as you -will,” and, as though irrepressibly, the Canon added as -he closed the door: “Bless you.”</p> - -<p>At dinner, Quentillian saw Adrian Morchard. He -thought him very like his sister Val, and also very like -the little boy who had rehearsed aloud colours for each -day of the week.</p> - -<p>Adrian spoke of Quentillian’s writings, said that he -had read some of them, and was instantly and silently -disbelieved by the author. The subject was not pursued.</p> - -<p>In the drawing-room, later on in the evening, Flora<span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">[41]</span> -played the piano, and although Quentillian was no -musician, he had sufficient knowledge to understand -that Flora was one. She played Bach, at the Canon’s -request, and Debussy at Adrian’s. The Canon admitted, -with a slight, grave smile, that he did not admire -Debussy.</p> - -<p>Valeria occupied herself with needlework, but Lucilla -sat with her hands folded until her father said -gently:</p> - -<p>“Are we to see none of your great tomes tonight, -my dear?”</p> - -<p>Lucilla rose, and her father explained to the guest:</p> - -<p>“There are certain references for a small compilation -that I may one day attempt, which Lucilla is kindly -looking out for me. You remember her as a very -scholarly little girl, no doubt.”</p> - -<p>The nearest thing Quentillian could compass to this -was a very distinct remembrance of having listened to -several of the novels of Sir Walter Scott, read aloud -by Lucilla, and the Canon looked very much pleased -at the reminiscence.</p> - -<p>“We are not without our literary evenings now,” -he declared. “There have been some very pleasant -readings and discussions round the lamp on winter -evenings. Lucilla provides me with some absorbing -book, and Valeria has her strip of embroidery there, -and Flora is busy with her pencil. I enjoy a pleasant -evening of reading aloud.”</p> - -<p>The present occasion was not, however, one of reading -aloud; nevertheless, Quentillian had none of the -talk with Valeria that he had half-hoped to have.</p> - -<p>The Canon’s attitude towards his family circle was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">[42]</span> -patriarchal. He sat in an armchair and talked a great -deal to Quentillian, and his eyes rested with grave satisfaction -upon his children, grouped round him.</p> - -<p>They remained there until half-past nine, when the -Canon read prayers to the assembled household.</p> - -<p>“We break up early,” he said afterwards to Quentillian. -“Lucilla and I have work to do—she is always -my right hand. Valeria and Flora, I believe, discuss -mysterious questions of <i>chiffons</i> upstairs. Don’t prolong -the conference too late, though, my dears. I -heard voices last night as I came upstairs, which was -not as it should be—not as it should be. Owen, dear -boy, Adrian will look after you. Good-night to you -all.”</p> - -<p>The Canon kissed Val and Flora each on the forehead -and laid his hand for an instant upon either head -with a murmur that was evidently an habitual nightly -blessing.</p> - -<p>Then he went into his study with Lucilla, and Adrian -and Quentillian sat in the smoking-room making desultory -conversation that bore not the slightest resemblance -to the wise, deep talks of the Canon’s forecastings.</p> - -<p>The forecastings of the Canon, in fact, like those -of many other dominating personalities, were scrupulously -carried out in his presence, and thankfully allowed -to lapse in his absence.</p> - -<p>As of old, it was only Lucilla who was completely -at ease in her father’s company, and Quentillian presently -came to the conclusion that her silence, her unemotional -acquiescences, denoted a mind that was -merely a reflection of his.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">[43]</span>Flora, remote, gentle, preoccupied with her music, -gave him the odd illusion of being slightly withdrawn -from them all.</p> - -<p>Only in Valeria were to be discerned suppressed, but -unmistakable, flashes of rebellion, and with Valeria, -Quentillian, as usual scrutinizing his own impressions -under a microscope, presently suspected himself of falling -quietly in love.</p> - -<p>In common with most young men of his day, Quentillian -considered himself to have outlived passion. In -effect, the absorbing episode of his young manhood was -in fact over, and Val, ingenuous and beautiful, was -provocative of the normal reaction.</p> - -<p>One night she joined Adrian and Quentillian in the -smoking-room, after the Canon’s usual disappearance -into his study.</p> - -<p>With a look half-frightened and half-mischievous, -she lit a cigarette.</p> - -<p>Adrian laughed.</p> - -<p>“Don’t look so guilty, Val. It isn’t a crime, and -besides, no one will know.”</p> - -<p>Val coloured in a childish way, and said to Quentillian:</p> - -<p>“My father knows that I smoke—at least, I think -he knows, in a sort of way. He doesn’t like it, and -that’s why I don’t do it in front of him,” she concluded -naïvely.</p> - -<p>“You’re wrong, Val,” said Adrian. “You and -Flossie ought to assert yourselves more. It would -make it much easier for me, if you did. Father’s ideas -about women are so old-fashioned, one can’t introduce -him to any of one’s friends.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">[44]</span>Quentillian exchanged a glance with Valeria. It -required small acumen to translate the plurality of -Adrian’s “friends” into the singular, and the feminine -singular at that.</p> - -<p>“Father is very broad-minded,” said Valeria conscientiously. -“He never says that smoking is wrong; -only that it’s unfeminine.”</p> - -<p>“It isn’t anything of the sort,” Adrian declared with -the most astonishing violence. “Some people—girls—require -it for their nerves. It soothes them. It doesn’t -make them in the least unfeminine. I met a girl the -other day—you’d have liked her awfully, Val—and she -simply smoked <i>perfectly</i> naturally, the whole time, just -like a man.”</p> - -<p>“Who was she?” inquired Val smoothly.</p> - -<p>“Let me see—what was her name now?”</p> - -<p>This time Quentillian avoided Valeria’s eyes, positively -abashed by the extreme hollowness of Adrian’s -pretence at forgetfulness.</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes—Olga Duffle—Miss Olga Duffle. She is -staying with the Admastons—the people I was with -the day you arrived, Owen. Don’t you think you girls -might ask them all over to tennis, one of these days?”</p> - -<p>“I suppose so—yes, of course we will. Would -Father like Miss Duffle? He doesn’t much care for -the Admastons, does he?”</p> - -<p>“Absolute prejudice, my dear girl. You’ve got into -a rut, all you people down here—that’s what you’ve -done. You’d like Olga most awfully—everybody does. -She’s the most popular girl in London, and not a bit -spoilt, although she’s an only child and her people<span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">[45]</span> -adore her. Mrs. Duffle told me herself that Olga was -just like a ray of sunshine at home.”</p> - -<p>“What an original woman Mrs. Duffle must be,” -murmured Val.</p> - -<p>“I always think there must be something remarkable -about any girl, if her own nearest relations speak well -of her,” Quentillian said in detached accents.</p> - -<p>Adrian looked suspiciously at his audience.</p> - -<p>“You’d like Olga awfully,” he repeated rather pathetically. -“And I can tell you this, Val, she’d give -you and Flossie no end of hints about clothes and -things. She dresses better than any girl I’ve ever seen.”</p> - -<p>Valeria was roused to no display of enthusiasm by -this culminating claim of Miss Duffle on her regard.</p> - -<p>“What sort of age is she?”</p> - -<p>“She looks about eighteen, but I believe she’s -twenty-four and a bit,” said Adrian with some precision. -“She plays tennis, too, rippingly. You’d better -ask the Admastons to bring her over, I can tell you. -It isn’t everyone who gets the chance of playing with -a girl like that.”</p> - -<p>“We might have a tennis party next week,” Val considered. -“I shall only ask one Admaston girl; we’ve -too many girls as it is. One Admaston, and this Olga -person, and Lucilla and I—Flossie won’t play if anybody -very good is there. That’s four, and then you -and Owen and Mr. Clover—and we could have Captain -Cuscaden. I’ll talk to Lucilla about it, if you like, -Adrian.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I don’t care about it. It’s for your own sake, -really, that I suggested it,” Adrian explained.</p> - -<p>His forefinger carefully traced out the pattern<span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">[46]</span> -stamped upon the leather arm of his chair, and he -contemplated it earnestly with his head upon one side, -even murmuring a sub-audible—“One—two—three—and -a corner”—before clearing his throat.</p> - -<p>“H’m. No, my dear Val, don’t run away with the -idea that I’m wildly keen on this tennis stunt for my -own amusement. In fact, I may say I’ve been a bit -off tennis lately, simply from seeing how extraordinarily -good some amateurs can be. It discourages one, -in a way. But I thought you girls might like to know -Olga, I must say. She’d be an awfully nice friend -for you to have, you know.”</p> - -<p>There was a pleading note discernible in the tone of -Adrian’s philanthropic suggestions that might have -been partly accountable for the tolerance with which -his sister received them.</p> - -<p>Nevertheless, she said to Quentillian next day, with -a certain hint of apology:</p> - -<p>“We’ve spoilt Adrian, I’m afraid. You remember -what a dear little boy he was?”</p> - -<p>Quentillian remembered better still what a tiresome -little boy Adrian had been, but this recollection, as so -many others connected with the house of Morchard, -he did not insist upon.</p> - -<p>“I suppose he must have his Olga if he wants to, -but I hope she’s a nice girl. You know how very -particular Father is, and I think he’s especially sensitive -where Adrian is concerned.”</p> - -<p>“It struck me that perhaps he was almost inclined -to take Adrian’s affairs too seriously,” Quentillian suggested, -with great moderation. “Adrian, after all, is<span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">[47]</span> -very young, isn’t he, both in years and in character, -in spite of his soldiering?”</p> - -<p>“I suppose he is. He’s very susceptible, too. I -sometimes think that Father doesn’t altogether make -allowance for that.”</p> - -<p>Even the very negative criticism implied was so contrary -to the spirit of the house that it gave Quentillian -the agreeable illusion of partnering Valeria in a mild -domestic conspiracy, and pleased him inordinately.</p> - -<p>The sense of conspiracy was deepened on the day of -the tennis party, when a Miss Admaston, gawky and -unimpressive, duly escorted Miss Olga Duffle to St. -Gwenllian.</p> - -<p>She was less pretty, and possessed of more personality, -than Quentillian had expected. Very small and -slight, her face was of the squirrel type, her eyes very -large and dark, her black <i>crêpe</i> hair brushed childishly -away from her little round forehead, her nose unmistakably -<i>retroussé</i>. Two very white front teeth were -just visible, resting upon an habitually indrawn under-lip.</p> - -<p>Quentillian, quite irrationally, immediately felt certain -that she spoke with a lisp. She did not, but she -certainly pronounced the name of Captain George Cuscaden, -with whom she appeared to be upon intimate -terms, as though it were spelt “Dzorze.”</p> - -<p>She also called Adrian by his first name, but gave -no other startling signs of modernity. Indeed, a very -pretty, and most unmodern, deference marked her -manner towards Canon Morchard.</p> - -<p>“Father likes her,” Valeria murmured to Quentillian, -who was more concerned with her charming<span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">[48]</span> -air of imparting to him a secret than with Miss Duffle’s -conquest of the Canon.</p> - -<p>It was only at tea-time that the Canon joined the -tennis party. Immediately afterwards he made courteous -apologies and returned to the house.</p> - -<p>It was undeniable that the absence of the Canon -caused the conversation, which had circled uneasily -round cathedral subjects, to lapse into triviality. The -super-critical Quentillian could not decide which form -of social intercourse he found least to his taste.</p> - -<p>“Jam?” said Adrian.</p> - -<p>The Canon had said, a few minutes earlier:</p> - -<p>“You must try some of our strawberry jam, Miss -Duffle. My daughter Flora is responsible for it, I -believe. Lucilla there is our housekeeper, but I am -given to understand that her younger sisters are allowed -to try experiments. I will not quote: <i>Fiat -experimentum.</i>”</p> - -<p>“Jam?” repeated Adrian.</p> - -<p>“Oh, there’s a wasp in the jam! Oh, save me!”</p> - -<p>Olga laughed as she uttered little cries of alarm, and -her laughter really suggested the adjective “merry.”</p> - -<p>“Save the women and children!”</p> - -<p>There was much ineffectual slapping of teaspoons -against the air, the tablecloth, the jam pot, and many -exclamations.</p> - -<p>“Yonder he goes! Passed to you for necessary action, -Miss Admaston!”</p> - -<p>“Be a man, Cuscaden; he’s right under your nose.”</p> - -<p>“Dzorze, do be careful—you’ll get stung!” Olga -cried across the table.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">[49]</span>Captain Cuscaden neatly captured the wasp beneath -an empty plate.</p> - -<p>“That’s got him. He’ll never lift up his head again.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, then may I have my jam?”</p> - -<p>Olga, with her head on one side, might have been -imitating a little girl, but Quentillian could not decide -whether or no the imitation was an unconscious one.</p> - -<p>“The wasp has eaten all the jam,” Adrian rejoined -in the same tone as Olga’s.</p> - -<p>“Oh! he hasn’t eaten all of it.”</p> - -<p>“No, he hasn’t eaten it all.”</p> - -<p>“Oh! the wasp didn’t eat all the jam, did he?”</p> - -<p>“Not quite all.”</p> - -<p>“There are still a few spoonfuls left that the wasp -didn’t eat, Miss Duffle.”</p> - -<p>Neither Olga, Adrian, Captain Cuscaden, Flora nor -Miss Admaston appeared to regard themselves as being -amongst the extremest examples of brainless fatuity -produced by a fatuous century. Yet thus it was that -Owen Quentillian was regarding them, whilst at the -same time another section of his brain passionlessly -registered the conviction that his nerves were still on -edge and his tendency to irrational irritability passing -almost beyond his own control.</p> - -<p>After tea he remained idly in a long chair beside -Valeria, while they watched Olga’s little nimble figure -on the tennis court, where Adrian was her partner. -Lucilla played against them with George Cuscaden, and -Olga several times called out gaily: “Dzorze, I hate -you!”</p> - -<p>When Lucilla sent an unplayable stroke across the -net, she only cried: “Oh, well played!”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">[50]</span>“I don’t like her voice, do you?” Val murmured -confidentially.</p> - -<p>“Hideous,” said Quentillian, briefly and candidly.</p> - -<p>“I wonder if Adrian thinks he’s in earnest. Of -course, I don’t suppose she’d look at him. And of -course he couldn’t think of marrying anybody for ages. -He’s too young, and he’d have to get a job.”</p> - -<p>“He’ll have to do that anyway, won’t he? He says -he doesn’t dislike the idea of business, and I could give -him an introduction to a man who might be useful.”</p> - -<p>“It’s very kind of you. I know Father wants to get -him settled. Dear Father, he was so disappointed that -Adrian isn’t going into the Church after all, and he’s -taken it so beautifully.”</p> - -<p>Quentillian regarded the Canon’s disappointment -with so much more astonishment than sympathy that -he wished only to avoid a discussion on the beauty of -its manifestation.</p> - -<p>“Curiously enough, I have a living in my gift, belonging -to my very small property at Stear. The old -man there wishes to retire, and I want to consult your -father as to a new appointment. No one could be less -fitted than myself,” said Quentillian with an emphasis -not altogether devoid of satisfaction, “to nominate a -candidate for that sort of thing.”</p> - -<p>Val looked at him with all her peculiar directness -of gaze.</p> - -<p>“Sometimes you talk as though you rather despised -the Church,” she said bluntly.</p> - -<p>There was a pause.</p> - -<p>“If I have given you such an impression, I must<span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">[51]</span> -apologize. It was most discourteous of me,” said -Quentillian stiffly.</p> - -<p>He was fully prepared to acknowledge and to defend -his own purely rationalistic views, but the implication -of a lack of taste in his behaviour as guest in an orthodox -household offended him.</p> - -<p>“I didn’t mean that,” said Val, calmly and gravely. -“I know that a great many very clever people are not -believers in the sense that my father is one, for instance; -but they do respect the Christian ideal, all the -same. I only wondered whether you were one of them. -Do you mind my talking like this?”</p> - -<p>The relentless voice of Quentillian’s inner monitor -assured him that he was, on the contrary, ready to -welcome any intimate discussion of himself and his -views, on whatever subject.</p> - -<p>Val looked at him expectantly.</p> - -<p>“Where I differ from, for instance, your father, is -in separating Christian morality from what might be -called the miraculous element of Christianity. Frankly, -I can’t accept the latter.”</p> - -<p>“You don’t believe in the divinity of Christ?”</p> - -<p>Her voice was a very much shocked one, and Quentillian -replied only by a gesture. Val kept silence, and -presently he glanced at her face and saw that tears -stood in her eyes.</p> - -<p>He was half touched and half impatient.</p> - -<p>“Surely that point of view isn’t altogether a new -one to you. You must know that the trend of modern -thought is all very much in that direction.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose I knew it, certainly. But it has never<span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">[52]</span> -come very near me before. Father has sheltered us -from everything, in the most beautiful way.”</p> - -<p>She spoke very simply and sincerely.</p> - -<p>The time-honoured <i>cliché</i> as to never wishing to deprive -anyone of his or her faith—Valeria least of all—hung -unspoken on his lips.</p> - -<p>If the spiritual intimacy of which Owen Quentillian -was beginning to dream should come to pass between -them, he was quite clearly and definitely convinced that -Valeria’s early beliefs must go.</p> - -<p>“Have you really never felt any doubt at all—any -inclination to question?”</p> - -<p>Valeria looked troubled.</p> - -<p>“I suppose I’ve never thought it out very clearly. -One doesn’t, you know, brought up as we were.”</p> - -<p>Her eyes were full of thought.</p> - -<p>“Tell me,” said Quentillian gently, after a silence.</p> - -<p>“I was hoping,” said Val, with innocent eyes turned -full upon him, “that Father would never know about -you. It would make him so unhappy.”</p> - - -<h3>(iv)</h3> - -<p><span class="smcap">Val</span>, in accordance with time-honoured tradition, -nightly brushed out her long brown hair in her sister -Flora’s bedroom.</p> - -<p>They talked desultorily.</p> - -<p>“Choir practice tomorrow. I wish we could have -Plain Chant instead of those things....”</p> - -<p>“Father doesn’t care for Plain Chant.”</p> - -<p>“I know.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">[53]</span>“Give me a piece of ribbon, Flossie. I’ve lost all -mine.”</p> - -<p>“Val—here, will blue do?—Val, do you think Owen -is falling in love with you?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know. Well, to be honest, I think he is.”</p> - -<p>“So do I.”</p> - -<p>“That’s Lucilla going up to bed. How early they -are tonight.”</p> - -<p>They heard the Canon’s voice upon the stairs outside.</p> - -<p>“Good-night to you, my dear daughter. May God -have you in His keeping!”</p> - -<p>Then came a gentle tap upon the bedroom door.</p> - -<p>“Not <i>too</i> prolonged a conference, little girls! I -have sent Lucilla to seek her bed.”</p> - -<p>“Good-night, father,” they chorused.</p> - -<p>“Good-night to you, my dear children. Good-night, -and may God bless you.”</p> - -<p>“Father would be pleased.”</p> - -<p>Flora reverted, unmistakably, to the topic of Owen -Quentillian.</p> - -<p>“I suppose so,” said Val doubtfully.</p> - -<p>“But you know he would! He is delighted with -Owen, and it would be so close to us—only an hour’s -journey. I think it would be very nice, Val,” said -Flora wistfully, “and it’s time one of us got married. -Lucilla won’t, now, and nobody ever asks me, so it had -better be you.”</p> - -<p>They both laughed.</p> - -<p>“Nobody has ever asked <i>me</i>, except that curate we -had before Mr. Clover, and I always thought he was -more or less weak-minded,” Valeria remarked candidly.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">[54]</span>“They may not have asked you, but they’ve wanted -to,” said Flora shrewdly. “Don’t answer if you’d -rather not, but didn’t Captain Cuscaden ever...?”</p> - -<p>Val crimsoned suddenly.</p> - -<p>“No. That was all nonsense. I believe he’s in love -with that Olga girl.”</p> - -<p>“After you? Oh, Val!”</p> - -<p>“I don’t suppose it was ever me at all,” said Val -with averted head. “I can’t think why we’ve ever -imagined such nonsense. Anyway, it’s all over now, -and I—I think I rather hate him, now.”</p> - -<p>“Oh!” Flora’s tone was both highly dissatisfied and -rather incredulous.</p> - -<p>“One can’t hate a person and—and like them, at -one and the same time,” Valeria exclaimed, with all -the vehemence of those who affirm that of which they -are not convinced.</p> - -<p>“I suppose not. See if you can untie me, Val—I’ve -got into a knot.”</p> - -<p>There was silence, and then Valeria, without looking -at her sister, suddenly said:</p> - -<p>“Sometimes I wish we’d been brought up more like -other people, Flossie. I know Father’s care for us has -been beautiful—dear Father!—but somehow the girls -I was with in France seemed more alive, in a way. -They knew about things....”</p> - -<p>“Isn’t that rather like Eve wanting the knowledge -of good and evil? Father always says that one should -only seek the beautiful side—‘whatsoever things are -pure, whatsoever things are holy,’ like St. Paul says.”</p> - -<p>“Owen wouldn’t agree to that. He believes that one -ought to know everything, good and bad alike.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">[55]</span>“Perhaps it’s different for a man.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps. We don’t know much about men, after -all, do we, Flossie?”</p> - -<p>Flossie raised her eyebrows with an indescribable -effect of fastidious distaste, and closed her lips.</p> - -<p>“I don’t think I want to, particularly. Father is the -most wonderful man that anyone could ever want to -know, I should imagine.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes,” said Valeria.</p> - -<p>She was perfectly conscious of speaking anything -but whole-heartedly.</p> - -<p>She did indeed think her father wonderful, but she -could not, like Flora, feel herself to be forever satisfied -by the contemplation of parental wonderfulness.</p> - -<p>“You’re different since you came back from France, -Val. I think you’d better marry Owen,” said Flora -calmly.</p> - -<p>“He hasn’t asked me, yet.”</p> - -<p>There was a sound from the floor below.</p> - -<p>“That was Father! He hates us to sit up late. I’d -better go before he comes up again. Good-night, -Flossie.”</p> - -<p>“Good-night.”</p> - -<p>Flora looked at her sister, and once more murmured: -“Father would like it, you know,” half pleadingly and -half as though in rebuke.</p> - -<p>“Father doesn’t know everything about Owen. He -has been very much affected by the tone of the day, -as Father calls it. His faith....”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Val! Isn’t that one reason the more? You -might do so much to help him.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">[56]</span>Flora spoke with humourless and absolute earnestness.</p> - -<p>“Valeria!”</p> - -<p>The Canon’s voice, subdued but distinct, came to -them from without.</p> - -<p>“My dear, go to your room. This is not right. You -are acting in defiance of my known wishes, although, -no doubt, thoughtlessly. Bid your sister good-night -and go.”</p> - -<p>Val did not even wait to carry out the first half of -the Canon’s injunction. She caught up her brush and -comb and left the room.</p> - -<p>“Are my wishes so little to you, Valeria?” said her -father, standing on the stairs. “It costs so small an -act of self-sacrifice to be faithful in that which is -least!”</p> - -<p>“I’m sorry, Father. We both forgot the time.”</p> - -<p>“Thoughtless Valeria! Are you always to be my -madcap daughter?”</p> - -<p>His tone was very fond, and he kissed her and -blessed her once more.</p> - -<p>Valeria went to her own room.</p> - -<p>She sat upon the side of her bed and cried a little.</p> - -<p>Everything seemed to be vaguely disappointing and -unsatisfactory. What if Owen Quentillian was in love -with her? He was very clever, and Val was tired of -cleverness. Father was clever—even Flora, in her -austere, musical way, was clever. Val supposed grimly -that she herself must be clever, if imposed intellectual -interests, a wide range of reading, a habit of abstract -discussion, could make her so. Nevertheless she was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">[57]</span> -guiltily conscious of desires within herself other than -purely academic ones.</p> - -<p>Flora was right. Those six months in France had -made her different.</p> - -<p>She had worked in a canteen, where the preoccupation -of everyone had been the procuring and dispensing -of primitive things—food, and drink, and warmth. -Women had worked with their hands for men who -had been fighting, and were going to fight again.</p> - -<p>Valeria had been the quickest worker there, one of -the most efficient. The manual work, the close contact -with material things, had satisfied some craving within -herself of which she had not before been actively conscious.</p> - -<p>She had learnt to cook and had become proficient -with astonishing ease. Scrambled eggs interested her -more than herbaceous borders, more than choir practises, -more, to her own surprise and shame, than evening -readings-aloud at home.</p> - -<p>The canteen jokes, elementary, beer-and-tobacco-flavoured, -had amused her whole-heartedly. She had -laughed, foolishly and mirthfully, for sheer enjoyment, -knowing all the time that, judged by the criterion of -St. Gwenllian, the jests were pointless, the wit undeserving -of the name.</p> - -<p>Very soon she had ceased to dwell upon any remembrance -of the criterion of St. Gwenllian. She had let -herself go.</p> - -<p>There had been brief, giggling intimacies with girls -and young women whom Valeria could certainly not -visualize as intimates in her own home, allusions and -catchwords shared with the men or the orderlies, childish,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">[58]</span> -undignified escapades which she was aware that -the Canon would have regarded and apostrophised as -vulgar. Those days now seemed like a dream.</p> - -<p>Even the girl with whom she had shared a room -for six months no longer wrote to her.</p> - -<p>She, the bobbed-haired, twenty-two-year-old Pollie -Gordon, had had love-affairs. Valeria remembered -certain confidences made by Pollie, and still blushed. -Pollie had been strangely outspoken, to Miss Morchard’s -way of thinking, but she had been interesting—revealing -even.</p> - -<p>Valeria ruefully realized perfectly that Pollie Gordon, -whether one’s taste approved of her or not, had -lived every moment of her short life to the full. She -was acutely aware of contrast.</p> - -<p>“And I’m twenty-seven!” thought Val. “I’d better -go and be a cook somewhere. If only I could! Or -marry Owen—supposing he asks me. Anyway, one -might have children.”</p> - -<p>A humourous wonder crossed her mind as to her -ability to cope with the intelligent, eclectically-minded -children that Owen Quentillian might be expected to -father.</p> - -<p>“It’s a pity he isn’t poor. I believe I should be better -as a poor man’s wife, having to do everything for him, -and for the babies, if there were babies.... The -Colonies, for instance....”</p> - -<p>Although she was alone, Val coloured again and -tears stood in her eyes.</p> - -<p>“What a fool I am!”</p> - -<p>It was this painfully sincere conviction that sent her -to seek the oblivion of sleep, rather than any recollection<span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">[59]</span> -of the fidelity in that which is least, enjoined upon -her by her father.</p> - -<p>For the next few days Valeria was zealous in gardening -and tennis playing. She also, on two occasions, -fetched volumes of Lamartine and asked her father to -read aloud after dinner.</p> - -<p>Her physical exertions sent her to bed tired out, and -made her sleep soundly.</p> - -<p>It surprised her very much when Lucilla, who never -made personal remarks, said to her:</p> - -<p>“Why don’t you go away for a time, Val? You -don’t look well.”</p> - -<p>“I’m perfectly all right. I only wish I had rather -more to do, sometimes.”</p> - -<p>Valeria looked at her elder sister. She was less intimate -with her than with Flora. No one, in fact, was -intimate with Lucilla. She spoke seldom, and almost -always impersonally. At least, one knew that she -was discreet....</p> - -<p>Val, on impulse, spoke.</p> - -<p>“Do you suppose—don’t be horrified, Lucilla—do -you suppose Father would ever think of letting me go -away and work?”</p> - -<p>Lucilla gave no sign of being horrified.</p> - -<p>She appeared to weigh her answer before she replied.</p> - -<p>“I don’t think it would occur to him, of his own -accord.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no. But if one asked him? Would it make -him dreadfully unhappy?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Lucilla matter-of-factly.</p> - -<p>Valeria, disappointed and rather angry, shrugged -her shoulders.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">[60]</span>“Then, of course, that puts an end to the whole -thing.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla finished stamping a small pile of the Canon’s -letters, laid them on the table, and placed a paper-weight -upon the heap before turning round to face her -sister.</p> - -<p>“But why, Val?”</p> - -<p>“Why what?”</p> - -<p>“Why need it put an end to the whole thing? You -know as well as I do that it would make Father unhappy -for any one of us to suggest leaving home. But -if you really mean to do it, you must make up your -mind to his being unhappy about it.”</p> - -<p>“Lucilla!”</p> - -<p>Lucilla did not elaborate her astounding theses, but -her gaze, sustained and level, met Valeria’s astonished -eyes calmly.</p> - -<p>“You don’t suppose I’m as hideously selfish as that, -do you?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know what you are. But you’ve a right to -your own life.”</p> - -<p>“Not at anyone else’s expense.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla began to stamp postcards.</p> - -<p>“Lucilla, you didn’t mean that, did you?”</p> - -<p>“Of course I did, Val.”</p> - -<p>“That I should hurt <i>Father</i>, and go away just to -satisfy my own restlessness, knowing that he disapproved -and was unhappy? I should never know a -moment’s peace again.”</p> - -<p>“Well, if you feel like that, I suppose you won’t -do it.”</p> - -<p>“Wouldn’t you feel like that, in my place?”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">[61]</span>“No, I shouldn’t; but that’s neither here nor there. -It’s for you to decide whether a practical consideration -or a sentimental one weighs most in your own particular -case.”</p> - -<p>“Sentimental?”</p> - -<p>Val’s indignant tone gave the word its least agreeable -meaning.</p> - -<p>“It is a question of sentiment, isn’t it? Father likes -to have you at home, but he’s not dependent upon you -in any way.”</p> - -<p>“But wouldn’t he say that my place was at home—that -it was only restlessness and love of independence...?” -Valeria stammered.</p> - -<p>She suddenly felt very young beneath the remote, -passionless gaze of her sister. For the first time in -her life she saw Lucilla as a human being and not as -an elder sister, and she was struck with Lucilla’s -strange effect of spiritual aloofness. It would be very -easy to speak freely to anyone so impersonal as Lucilla.</p> - -<p>“It’s ever since I got back from France,” said Val -suddenly. “I don’t know what’s the matter with me, -exactly, but I’ve ... wanted things. I’ve wanted -to work quite hard, at things like cooking, or sweeping—and -I’ve been sick of books, and music, and -botany. I don’t feel any of it is one scrap worth while. -And, oh, Lucilla, it’s such nonsense, because no one -wants me to cook or sweep, so I’m just ‘seeking vocations -to which I am not called,’ as Father always says. -Perhaps it’s just that I want change.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla was silent.</p> - -<p>“Do say what you think,” Val besought her with -some impatience.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">[62]</span>“I will if you like, but it isn’t really what I think, -or what Father thinks, that matters. It’s what you -think yourself.”</p> - -<p>Valeria stamped her foot.</p> - -<p>“I don’t <i>know</i> what I think.”</p> - -<p>“Better go away,” Lucilla then said briefly.</p> - -<p>“Work?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, if that’s what you feel like. Of course, marriage -would be better.”</p> - -<p>“Lucilla.”</p> - -<p>“You asked me to say what I thought,” her sister -pointed out.</p> - -<p>“I suppose you mean Owen Quentillian,” Val said -at last. “But even if I did that—and he hasn’t asked -me to, so far—it would only mean just the same sort -of thing, only in another house. There’d be servants -to do the real work, and a gardener to do the garden, -and a nurse for the babies, if there were babies. Owen -talks about farming Stear, but he’d do it all out of -books, I feel certain. We should be frightfully—frightfully -civilized.”</p> - -<p>“Owen <i>is</i> frightfully civilized.”</p> - -<p>“Well, I don’t think I am,” said Val contentiously.</p> - -<p>“Lucilla, do you like Owen?”</p> - -<p>“Yes. I’m very sorry for him, too.”</p> - -<p>“Why?” Valeria could not believe that Owen would -be in the least grateful for Lucilla’s sorrow. It might -even be difficult to induce him to believe that anyone -could be sufficiently officious to indulge in such an -emotion on his behalf.</p> - -<p>“I think his shell-shock has affected him much more -than he realizes,” Lucilla said. “I think his nerves are<span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">[63]</span> -on edge, very often. He’d be a difficult person to live -with, Val.”</p> - -<p>Valeria remained thoughtful.</p> - -<p>She knew that Lucilla’s judgments, if rarely put into -words, were extraordinarily clear-cut and definite, and -as such they carried conviction to her own intuitive, -emotional impulses of like and dislike.</p> - -<p>“Father likes Owen so much. Wouldn’t he be -pleased if one ever did?” Val said elliptically.</p> - -<p>“Very pleased, I should think.”</p> - -<p>“Of course, that isn’t really a reason for doing it.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla apparently found the wisdom of her sister’s -observation too obvious for reply.</p> - -<p>“Not the only reason, anyway.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla’s silence was again an assent.</p> - -<p>“Gossiping in the morning, my daughters?”</p> - -<p>The Canon’s deep, pleasant voice preceded him as -he paused outside the open window.</p> - -<p>“Is that as it should be? Lucilla, my dear love, at -your desk again? You look pale—you should be in -the open air. Is not the day a glorious one? When -this world about us is so unutterably fair, does it not -make one think of ‘eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, -neither hath it entered into the heart of man to conceive, -what things He hath prepared for them that -love him’?”</p> - -<p>The Canon’s uplifted gaze was as joyful as it was -earnest.</p> - -<p>“Heaven seems very near, on such a day,” he said -softly.</p> - -<p>Val, always outspoken, and struggling with the unease<span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">[64]</span> -of her own discontent, joined him at the window -and said wistfully:</p> - -<p>“I can’t feel it like you do, Father. I wish I could.”</p> - -<p>“Little Valeria! It will come, my dear; it will all -come. These things become more real and vivid to us -as life goes on. So many of those I love have gone -to swell the ranks of the Church Triumphant, now—such -a goodly company of friends! How can I feel it -to be a strange or far-away country, when your mother -awaits me there, and my own dear father and mother, -and such a host of friends? What a meeting that will -be, with no shadow of parting any more!”</p> - -<p>Valeria was conscious of foolish, utterly unexplained -tears, rising to her throat at the tender, trustful voice -in which her father spoke.</p> - -<p>How she loved him! Never could she do anything -that would hurt or disappoint him. The resolution, -impulsive and emotional, gave her a certain sense of -stability, welcome after all her chaotic self-questionings -and contradictory determinations.</p> - -<p>“Will you give Owen and myself the pleasure of -your company this afternoon, Valeria? We meditate -an expedition to Stear—an expedition to Stear.”</p> - -<p>She said that she would go with them.</p> - -<p>None of the Canon’s children had ever refused an -invitation to go out with the Canon since the days -when the Sunday afternoons of their childhood had -been marked by the recurrent honour of a walk with -Father. An honour and a pleasure, even if rather a -breathless one, and one that moreover was occasionally -liable to end in shattering disaster, as when Flora had -been sent home in disgrace by herself for the misguided<span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">[65]</span> -sense of humour that had led her, aged five, -to put out her tongue at the curate. Or that other -unforgettable episode when Val herself, teased by the -boys, had vigorously boxed Adrian’s ears.</p> - -<p>She smiled as she recollected it, and wondered if -Owen remembered too, and yet there was a sort of -disloyalty in recalling the affair too closely.</p> - -<p>The Canon had been so <i>very</i> angry! His anger, as -intense as it was memorable, had been succeeded by -such a prolonged period of the blackest depression!</p> - -<p>Val realized thankfully that it was a long time since -any of them had seen the Canon angry.</p> - -<p>She turned aimlessly down the garden.</p> - -<p>The Canon had already gone indoors. He was never -other than occupied, and Valeria had never seen him -impatient of an interruption.</p> - -<p>“The man who wants me is the man I want,” the -Canon sometimes quoted, with his wonderfully attractive -smile.</p> - -<p>“Father <i>is</i> wonderful. <i>Never</i> could I disappoint or -grieve him,” thought Val vehemently.</p> - -<p>She suddenly wheeled round and returned to the -open window, determined that Lucilla, the astonishing -Lucilla, should know of her resolution.</p> - -<p>“You know what we were talking about just now?” -she demanded abruptly.</p> - -<p>Lucilla looked up.</p> - -<p>“I’ve quite made up my mind that your advice was -wrong,” said Val firmly. “I know you said what you -thought was best, and it’s nice of you to want me to -be independent, but, after all, one’s duty comes first.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">[66]</span> -I don’t believe it’s my duty to dash away from home -and make Father unhappy.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla looked down again.</p> - -<p>“Of course, if anything happened <i>of itself</i> to make -me leave home, it would be quite different. If I married, -or anything like that. But just to go away for -a purely selfish whim——”</p> - -<p>She paused expressively.</p> - -<p>“I couldn’t do it, you know.”</p> - -<p>“Well—” Lucilla’s tone conceded, apparently, that -Val had every right to judge for herself. Further than -that, it did not go.</p> - -<p>“Lucilla, if you really think like that, about living -one’s own life, and I suppose from the aggravating -way in which you won’t say anything, that you do—why -don’t you do it yourself?”</p> - -<p>“But I haven’t any wish to,” said Lucilla, looking -surprised.</p> - -<p>“Haven’t you ever had any wish to?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, once. But not now.”</p> - -<p>“Then why didn’t you?” Val pursued desperately. -She felt as though she was coming really to know -her sister for the first time.</p> - -<p>“I suppose because I thought, like you, that it -wouldn’t do to leave Father.”</p> - -<p>“But you don’t think that any more?”</p> - -<p>“No.”</p> - -<p>“Did anyone advise you?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no. There wasn’t anything to advise about. -One has to think things out for oneself, after all.”</p> - -<p>“Oh!” Val was conscious of her own perpetual<span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">[67]</span> -craving for approval from everyone, for any course -that she might adopt.</p> - -<p>“Did you ever ask anyone’s advice, Lucilla?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t think so. If I did, it would be because I -meant to take it, and I can’t imagine wanting to let -anyone else decide things for me. Just talking about -one’s own affairs isn’t taking advice, though people -like to call it so.”</p> - -<p>“I think it’s a very good thing you’re not married,” -said Val crossly. “You’re too superior.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps that’s why no one has ever asked me,” -said Miss Morchard with calm.</p> - -<p>Valeria, in spite of her momentary elevation of -spirits in resolving never to grieve her father, prepared -for the visit to Stear in a discontented frame of mind.</p> - -<p>At the last moment Adrian suddenly announced a -wish to accompany them.</p> - -<p>“My dear! But of course—” The Canon’s pleasure -was very evident. “Owen, you will welcome this -lad of mine as part of our little excursion, eh? Why -not make one of the old-time family parties? Why -not let us all go and explore this future home of -Owen’s? It’s not very often that I have a free afternoon -nowadays—and to have all my dear ones to make -holiday with me would be indeed a rare joy.”</p> - -<p>He looked round him expectantly.</p> - -<p>“The caretaker won’t be able to manage tea for so -many,” said Lucilla, looking at Quentillian.</p> - -<p>“There speaks my practical housekeeper!</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="verse">For though on pleasure she was bent,</div> -<div class="verse">She had a frugal mind.</div> -</div></div> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">[68]</span>“Eh, Lucilla? Could you not contrive a basket for -us, my dear, picnic fashion? Come, come, let’s have -an impromptu picnic. What say you, young people?”</p> - -<p>They said what the Canon wanted them to say. No -one, Val felt, could have done otherwise, in the face -of his eagerness. She was partly disappointed, and -partly relieved. There had been a certain romance in -going with Owen to see Owen’s home, with the barely -acknowledged wonder whether it might not one day -also be hers.</p> - -<p>But there was no hint of romance in the solidly -packed basket presently produced by Lucilla, and reluctantly -carried by Adrian, nor in Flora’s tardiness -that nearly caused them to miss the train, nor in her -Father’s gentle, humourously worded rebuke to her.</p> - - -<h3>(v)</h3> - -<p><span class="smcap">If</span> Valeria was slightly discomposed by the tribal -nature of the expedition to Stear, Quentillian was seriously -annoyed by it. He had figured to himself a -grave and gentle readjustment of values, when he -should see the place that he had known since boyhood -transformed into a setting for the figure of Valeria.</p> - -<p>He did not suppose himself to be tempestuously in -love, but he had made up his mind that he greatly -wished to marry Valeria.</p> - -<p>A wistful uncertainty possessed him as to whether -Valeria would wish to marry him.</p> - -<p>Stear looked forlorn and uninhabited, and the repairs -were even less advanced than Quentillian had -expected them to be.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">[69]</span>He reflected that he ought to be upon the spot, and -shuddered involuntarily, and to his disgust, at the -lonely prospect.</p> - -<p>Since his shell-shock, he had very often been afraid -of his own company, and the knowledge was peculiarly -galling to him.</p> - -<p>“Your lines have fallen to you in pleasant places, -Owen,” said the Canon genially.</p> - -<p>“You are optimistic, sir,” said Quentillian rather -dryly. “It will be months before these men are out -of the place.”</p> - -<p>“You should move in yourself,” Lucilla suggested.</p> - -<p>“I believe I should.”</p> - -<p>“Thoughtless Lucilla! Why should Owen leave his -present quarters, if he is happy with us, as I trust he -is? Aye, dear Owen, you are very welcome at St. -Gwenllian whilst your own nest is being prepared -for you.”</p> - -<p>The Canon’s ready hand sought Quentillian’s arm.</p> - -<p>Owen glanced at Lucilla half apologetically, but her -gaze, impervious to subtleties, and mildly cheerful, met -his very readily.</p> - -<p>“Please stay on with us, if you should care to.”</p> - -<p>“Thank you,” said Quentillian non-committally.</p> - -<p>Later, at the Canon’s suggestion, he took them to -visit the church.</p> - -<p>“You will one day have the responsibility of finding -a new shepherd for the flock here, I understand, -Owen.”</p> - -<p>“I shall hope for some advice from you, sir.”</p> - -<p>“Aye, indeed? It’s a very good living, is it not?<span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">[70]</span> -Though that is very far from being the first consideration—very -far, indeed.”</p> - -<p>“What’s it worth?” Adrian inquired.</p> - -<p>“I believe it’s considered worth about £700 a year.”</p> - -<p>“A job for a married man,” said Adrian casually.</p> - -<p>An involuntary flash of amused comprehension -passed between Quentillian and Valeria. He understood -it to be in reference to this when she said to -him in a low voice on leaving the church:</p> - -<p>“I don’t think Olga Duffle would make a clergyman’s -wife, do you?”</p> - -<p>“I should doubt it.”</p> - -<p>“But Adrian couldn’t really be thinking of it.”</p> - -<p>“I thought he’d decided against the Church.”</p> - -<p>“So he has. I think it was one of the greatest disappointments -Father has ever had.”</p> - -<p>“Your father would only have wished it if Adrian -had wished it.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes,” said Val emphatically. “Naturally, he -looks upon it as a question of vocation. Father is the -last person to ignore that.”</p> - -<p>She hesitated, and then said: “Owen, do you believe -that everyone has a vocation?”</p> - -<p>The question, to him so oddly reminiscent of the -perplexities of a bygone age, nearly made him laugh, -but his amusement was wholly tender.</p> - -<p>“I don’t believe in a special vocation straight from -Heaven for each one of us,” he admitted. “You know, -I never can believe that Heaven takes that acute personal -interest in individuals that religious people always -emphasize when they’re talking about themselves. But, -of course, there are certain lines of development——”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">[71]</span>“I think,” Val said seriously, “that I should like to -feel I had a definite job in life, that no one but myself -could do. I feel so—indefinite.”</p> - -<p>“I believe I might enlighten you on that subject,” -Owen replied in measured accents.</p> - -<p>“I don’t mean Sales of Work or a botanical collection, -Owen.”</p> - -<p>“I know you don’t. The sales of work and the -collections were never a means of self-expression, were -they?”</p> - -<p>“They did stand for something, though.”</p> - -<p>“For your wish to please somebody else?”</p> - -<p>“The wish is still there, Owen.”</p> - -<p>“Val, you know I think self-abnegation is all wrong.”</p> - -<p>He was half laughing, but the flushed face that she -turned towards him was altogether earnest.</p> - -<p>“Don’t think me arrogant, Val, but I do so wish I -could make you see it as I do. Don’t you see that the -Christian ideal of self-sacrifice was only the swing -of the pendulum, from the brutal old days when men -rejoiced in seeing their fellow-creatures tortured and -killed? Feelings had to be developed, and so the -Sermon on the Mount was preached. The pendulum -has swung too far the other way now—charity has -come to mean self-advertisement or sentimentality.”</p> - -<p>Quentillian, deeply interested in his own exposition -of views that were by no means new to him, was -brought up short by a call from behind him.</p> - -<p>“Hi, Owen! Are you walking for a wager? I want -to ask you something.”</p> - -<p>Quentillian, not at all disposed to welcome Adrian<span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">[72]</span> -and his interrogations, was obliged to slacken his steps -as Valeria did hers.</p> - -<p>Adrian was swishing at the long grasses on either -side of the road with a slender length of ash.</p> - -<p>“Look here, old man, have you got anybody in your -eye for that living?”</p> - -<p>Adrian’s head was studiously turned towards his -depredations with the ash-stick.</p> - -<p>“Because if you haven’t—not that it matters to me, -particularly, you understand, but I’ve got a friend, -who might be the man you want.”</p> - -<p>“Who is he?”</p> - -<p>“I should have to sound him first,” Adrian explained. -“I suppose you’d want a youngish fellow and—and -I suppose you’d rather he was married?”</p> - -<p>“Not in the least.”</p> - -<p>Adrian looked disturbed.</p> - -<p>“I thought a parson’s wife was useful in a large, -straggling sort of place like this. Not that it matters -to me.”</p> - -<p>“Is your friend married, Adrian?” Val enquired.</p> - -<p>Quentillian could not decide whether the simplicity -of her manner was ironical or no.</p> - -<p>“He isn’t married at present. I think he’s engaged. -You see, a living like this would justify a man in getting -married, wouldn’t it?”</p> - -<p>“It would depend on the sort of person he wished -to marry.”</p> - -<p>“Supposing she had a little money of her own?”</p> - -<p>“The sort of girls who marry clergymen never do -have money of their own,” said Quentillian, firmly.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">[73]</span>On this discouraging pronouncement, they were rejoined -by the rest of the party.</p> - -<p>Nevertheless Valeria contrived to enquire of Quentillian, -in a disturbed murmur:</p> - -<p>“What <i>can</i> Adrian be thinking of?”</p> - -<p>It was not at all difficult to guess what Adrian could -be thinking of, and became still less so as the days -slipped by and his infatuation for Miss Olga Duffle -led to her inclusion in innumerable games of tennis -and impromptu tea-parties at St. Gwenllian.</p> - -<p>“What can he <i>see</i> in her?” Valeria demanded, after -the fashion of sisters.</p> - -<p>Quentillian was unable to provide any adequate explanation -of the phenomenon, but he was fully prepared -to discuss it, and prolong thereby the sense of intimacy -with Valeria.</p> - -<p>It seemed to Quentillian that a new, slight, tinge -of gravity shadowed Valeria’s frankness.</p> - -<p>With all the logic and consistency of most persons -so situated, Quentillian alternately viewed this as being -hopeful or unhopeful, in the extreme, for the fulfilment -of his wishes.</p> - -<p>He was slightly amused at finding himself in the -extremely conventional position in which he had so -often viewed, with dispassionate distaste, the spectacle -presented by other men, and this amusement was not -without its share in determining him to submit his -proposal to Valeria in writing.</p> - -<p>A tendency, real, or fancied by Quentillian’s self-consciousness, -on the parts of Flora and Adrian at -least, to vacate any room in which he and Valeria -might be, upon excuses of a shadow-like transparency,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">[74]</span> -finally brought Quentillian to the point of leaving St. -Gwenllian, under promise of an early return.</p> - -<p>“You must come back, to us, dear Owen—you must -come back,” the Canon repeated. “I want many a talk -with you yet, and Adrian here will miss the evening -confabulations in the smoking-room—eh, Adrian? -Stear will hardly be ready for you yet awhile, to our -advantage be it spoken, so you must make your home -with us in the meanwhile. Come and go quite freely, -dear lad.”</p> - -<p>“Thank you very much.”</p> - -<p>Quentillian felt that he had already said these words -all too often, and conscientiously sought to vary the -formula.</p> - -<p>“It’s been a delightful time altogether, and I’m more -than grateful. It’s been wonderful to get such a kind -welcome after these years abroad.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, dear fellow!”</p> - -<p>The Canon’s fine face softened as he laid his arm -across the younger man’s shoulders.</p> - -<p>“Never doubt your welcome here, Owen,” he said.</p> - -<p>Owen suspected significance in the words, and then -derided himself.</p> - -<p>Whatever his certainties as regarded the Canon, it -was with Valeria that Quentillian was concerned, and -he could augur nothing from her frank and cordial -regret at his departure.</p> - -<p>“I shall write to you, Val.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, do. And I’ll tell you what happens with -Adrian and that Olga.”</p> - -<p>“I hope nothing will happen.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no—but it’s amusing.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">[75]</span>She did not look amused. Something of her ripe-apricot -bloom had faded, and there were shadows beneath -her brown eyes. Before he left St. Gwenllian, -Owen said rather earnestly to Lucilla that he thought -Valeria looked tired.</p> - -<p>“So do I.”</p> - -<p>“Is she ill?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t think so.”</p> - -<p>“I should hate to think of her being ill.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t think she’s ill, Owen.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla evidently accepted his solicitude as a natural -thing.</p> - -<p>“I’ve always thought that Val needed a greater outlet -for her energies than she gets here. She’s very -strong, really, and she did splendidly in France when -she was working so hard at her Canteen. I wish -she could go away and work again.”</p> - -<p>“Really?”</p> - -<p>“Don’t you think so yourself?”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps—if she wished it very much. There are -other things besides work, though,” said Owen Quentillian.</p> - -<p>“Well—” Lucilla’s favourite monosyllable held, as -usual, a sound of concession.</p> - -<p>“Couldn’t one do anything for her—take care of her, -somehow?”</p> - -<p>“I will order a cup of beef-tea for her at eleven -o’clock,” said Lucilla with seriousness, but with amusement -lurking in her eyes.</p> - -<p>They parted upon a mutual smile of excellent understanding.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">[76]</span>Quentillian thought that he liked Lucilla, with her -impersonal calm, and her unquestioning acceptances.</p> - -<p>He wrote to Valeria from London, letters that he felt -to be self-conscious, and received uneloquent replies. -He had left St. Gwenllian a fortnight when he finally -composed an epistle that left him a little—a very little—less -than profoundly dissatisfied with his own powers -of composition. He received her reply by return of -post.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>“Owen, dear, I’ve got your letter. I can’t answer -it in the way I should like to, making you understand -everything that I mean. But do understand first of -all that your thinking of me like that makes me very -proud, and I wish I was more worth it all.</p> - -<p>“I’m glad you loved someone else before, and thank -you for telling me. The reason I’m glad is because -I used to like someone very much myself once, but -it wasn’t like yours, it was only my own foolishness, -and never came to anything. But I think perhaps it’s -prevented my falling really in love, because, dear Owen, -I am not in love with you. If I married you, it would -be because you are, as you say, very lonely, and because -I am very, very fond of you, and also perhaps, a -little, because it would make Father so happy. But -none of those reasons are <i>the</i> real, true reason for -marrying, are they?</p> - -<p>“We have known one another so long, and understand -one another. Can’t we discuss it honestly together, -before settling anything? Either way, we are -always friends, so I will sign myself your friend.</p> - -<p class="right">“<span class="smcap">Valeria Morchard.</span>”</p> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">[77]</span>Quentillian read the letter with a strange mingling -of disappointment, relief, and mortification.</p> - -<p>Nevertheless it was in all sincerity that he wrote -to Val of his admiration for her candour.</p> - -<p>“You and I are moderns, my dear. Let us, as you -wish, discuss the future impersonally, but let me first -of all say that when—or if—ever you should come -to the decision which I want you to come to, then so -far as I am concerned, philosophical discussion will -go for nothing. I shall wait for your sign, Val, and -if it comes, there shall be no more pen and ink between -us, but a meeting for which I long with all my heart.”</p> - -<p>“Academic,” said Owen’s inner monitor, relentless -as ever.</p> - -<p>He posted his letter in spite of it.</p> - -<p>It was with relief, and yet with a happiness less -defined than he had expected it to be, that Quentillian -found himself engaged to Valeria.</p> - -<p>He regretted his own absence of ardour, and was -all the time aware of a faint, lurking gratification at -having so early outlived the illusions of passionate -emotion.</p> - -<p>He returned to St. Gwenllian.</p> - -<p>This time it was Valeria who met him. Something -in the simplicity with which she accepted their new -relationship touched him profoundly, and rendered of -no account his own temperamental subtleties.</p> - -<p>It was with a deepening sense of sincerity that Quentillian -said to her:</p> - -<p>“You have made me very happy, dearest.”</p> - -<p>“I’m glad, Owen. I’m happy too.”</p> - -<p>Her hand lay trustfully in his.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">[78]</span>“They want to see you so much, at home, Owen. -I’ve told them. They’re all so pleased.”</p> - -<p>It evidently added to Valeria’s content, that it should -be so.</p> - -<p>“You know that Father has always really looked -upon you as another son, even in the days when you -and I got into trouble for playing at Greek sacrificial -processions with the guinea pigs on silver salvers.”</p> - -<p>They laughed together at the recollection.</p> - -<p>The Canon had not been hard upon the classically-minded -delinquents.</p> - -<p>Quentillian believed himself to have realized fully -the adjuncts, necessary and fitting in the eyes of the -Morchard family, but to himself distasteful in the -extreme, of his engagement to Valeria.</p> - -<p>He was prepared for conventional congratulations, -for the abhorrent necessity of discussing his personal -affairs, for an emotional absence of reticence that would -differ as widely from his own impersonal, dissecting-room -outspokenness as would the Canon’s effusive -periods from Quentillian’s cultivated terseness of expression.</p> - -<p>Nevertheless, he was less well-armoured, or more -severely tried, than he had expected to be.</p> - -<p>Canon Morchard seemed to shower welcome, blessings, -congratulations upon him. He said:</p> - -<p>“Dear lad, you and I must have a long talk together, -at no distant date.”</p> - -<p>They had many.</p> - -<p>It seemed to Quentillian that he saw more of the -Canon than of Valeria, in the days that ensued.</p> - -<p>“Val, when will you marry me? I’m quite selfish<span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">[79]</span> -enough to want you to myself,” Quentillian said to her -with firmness after a week at St. Gwenllian that -seemed to him to have been mainly differentiated from -his last visit there by the increased number of one-sided -talks with the Canon to which he had been subjected.</p> - -<p>Val said tentatively: “The end of January?”</p> - -<p>“Why not before Christmas? Stear should be quite -ready for us by then.”</p> - -<p>It relieved him with a strange intensity to know -that he would not, after all, go alone to Stear.</p> - -<p>Valeria looked at him, and although her voice when -she spoke was serious, a certain mischievous amusement -lurked in her eyes.</p> - -<p>“Before Christmas, it’s Advent,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Advent?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t think Father would like my wedding to be -during Advent, at all.”</p> - -<p>“I see.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, don’t be vexed, Owen. It’s only a month’s difference -after all.”</p> - -<p>“It isn’t that,” began Quentillian candidly, and then -shared in her slight, unoffended laughter at his lack -of gallantry.</p> - -<p>“I only mean, my dear, that I don’t like to see you -bound by that sort of convention. Do you really think -it can make any difference if we’re married on one particular -date rather than another?”</p> - -<p>“I’m thinking entirely of Father,” gently said Val, -thus altogether evading the real point at issue.</p> - -<p>Quentillian was again and again made aware of this<span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">[80]</span> -capacity in Val for the avoidance of any discussion -between them on the subject of religion.</p> - -<p>It was as though the faint rebellion that he had -discerned in her at her own way of life had been extinguished -by the mere prospect of its coming to an -end. Nor, when he finally forced an issue, did Val -appear to possess his own capacities for impartial, -essentially impersonal, discussion.</p> - -<p>“Can’t we leave it alone, Owen? You told me what -your views were—and you know what mine are. -We’ve been honest with one another—isn’t that all that -matters?”</p> - -<p>“In a sense, of course it is. You don’t think that -perhaps it’s a pity to know there’s one subject we must -tacitly avoid—that we can’t discuss freely?”</p> - -<p>He spoke without emphasis of any kind.</p> - -<p>“It <i>is</i> a pity, of course,” said Val literally. “But how -can we help it? I can hardly listen to you without disloyalty -of the worst kind. If you look at it from my -point of view for a moment, you do see that, don’t -you, Owen?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I suppose I do see that,” he said heavily.</p> - -<p>He felt strangely disappointed and disillusioned.</p> - -<p>“Do you wish me to say anything to your father -about that?”</p> - -<p>Val blushed deeply, but spoke quite resolutely.</p> - -<p>“No, I don’t. I’ve thought it over, and I can’t see -that it concerns anyone but you and me. Lucilla says -so, too. I asked her what she thought. It’s not as -though I were eighteen, and it’s not as though I didn’t -trust you, absolutely, not to interfere with my beliefs, -any more than I with your—unbeliefs.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">[81]</span>Confronted with her grave trustfulness, no less than -with the obvious justice of her words, Quentillian could -only agree with her.</p> - -<p>His rather arrogant conviction of earlier days, that -Val’s beliefs must go, gave place to an unescapable certainty -that they would not even be modified. Rather -would Valeria, enforced by tradition and by the inherited -faith that was in her, expect with the course -of years to influence her husband’s views.</p> - -<p>Owen felt strongly the hopelessness of such expectation, -and still more strongly the inexpediency, not to -say the impossibility, of urging that hopelessness upon -Valeria.</p> - -<p>It was decided that the wedding should take place in -January, and the engagement be made public just before -Christmas.</p> - -<p>“You do not want to let the world in upon your -joy too soon, young people,” the Canon told them with -a grave smile.</p> - -<p>Val’s answering smile acquiesced in the assumption, -as indeed the smiles and silences, no less than the -spoken words, of his entire family were always apt to -acquiesce in any assumption made by Canon Morchard, -whether the facts warranted such acquiescence or not.</p> - -<p>The days slipped by, very much as they had slipped -by before Quentillian and Valeria had become engaged. -If Quentillian had expected a greater difference, a more -profound element, he was destined to be disappointed.</p> - -<p>Val was charming and—he would not have to face -loneliness at Stear.</p> - -<p>Indeed at one moment, it almost appeared as though<span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">[82]</span> -Valeria would not be alone in accomplishing the destruction -of the spirit of solitude at Stear.</p> - -<p>Adrian Morchard sought his prospective brother-in-law, -and said, with singularly ill-chosen colloquialism:</p> - -<p>“Tell me, old thing, have you had any talk with the -governor about that living at Stear?”</p> - -<p>“Not yet. The present incumbent hasn’t even resigned.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose—ha-ha—you’ll laugh—in fact I shouldn’t -be surprised if you thought it dashed funny—it makes -me smile myself, in a way—you’ll <i>roar</i> when I tell you -what I’m thinking of.”</p> - -<p>Quentillian felt as melancholy as do the majority -of people thus apostrophised, and was aware that his -melancholy was reflected on his face in a forbidding -expression.</p> - -<p>Adrian had turned rather pale.</p> - -<p>“You know the old man’s always been desperately -keen on my going into the Church? Well—I say, you -can laugh as much as you want to, I shan’t be offended—I’m -not at all sure I shan’t do it.”</p> - -<p>Quentillian felt no inclination whatever to indulge in -the prescribed orgy of merriment.</p> - -<p>“You coming into the family like this, with a good -living going begging, makes it a pretty obvious move -in a way, doesn’t it—and then it’d please the old man -frightfully—and really there are precious few openings -for a man who hasn’t been brought up to anything -special, nowadays.”</p> - -<p>“Yes. And what is the real reason?”</p> - -<p>Adrian laughed uncomfortably.</p> - -<p>“Sherlock Holmes! Well, between ourselves, I don’t<span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">[83]</span> -mind telling you that I want to see some prospect of -being able to marry, and if I had a definite thing in -view, like Stear, I might be able to bring it off.”</p> - -<p>“You can’t be ordained in five minutes. Don’t be -absurd.”</p> - -<p>“I’ve got to wait, anyhow,” said Adrian gloomily. -“She won’t even be engaged, yet. I thought I might -as well fill in the time at Cambridge or somewhere, -if it’s going to lead to something. I’m quite willing to -wait if I must, and of course I shall never change.”</p> - -<p>“It’s Miss Duffle, I suppose. I can’t say I should -have thought she’d enjoy the life of a country parson’s -wife.”</p> - -<p>“You haven’t the least idea of what she’s really -like.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps not.” Owen’s voice implied the contrary. -“What about yourself? Do you really suppose you -could stand it?”</p> - -<p>“Of course I could, if it meant <i>her</i>. My dear fellow, -my mind’s <i>absolutely</i> made up, I may tell you, and has -been for—for days. But, of course,” he added ingenuously, -“it does depend a good deal on whether -you’ll promise me Stear or not at the end of it all.”</p> - -<p>“What about your father?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, he’ll jump at it, of course. It’s been the one -wish of his heart, all along,” said Adrian easily.</p> - -<p>Quentillian wondered how it was possible that any -youth, brought up in the intellectual atmosphere of St. -Gwenllian, could be so entirely devoid of insight. To -his own way of thinking, it was utterly incredible that -Canon Morchard, ardent Christian and idealist, should -contemplate with any degree of equanimity, his son’s<span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">[84]</span> -proposed flippant adoption of a vocation which he regarded -as sacred.</p> - -<p>Owen committed himself to no promises.</p> - -<p>“I should like to talk it over with Val.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose if you must you must,” said Adrian, -grudgingly. “But don’t let her tell anyone else.”</p> - -<p>Valeria’s views were not far removed from Quentillian’s -own.</p> - -<p>It sometimes, indeed, seemed to Owen that the identity -of their points of view on every other subject only -rendered more evident the deep gulf dividing them on -the topic that Valeria had decreed should be a barred -one—that of religion.</p> - -<p>Spoken, their very difference might have brought -them closer together. Unspoken, it seemed to Owen -to pervade all their intercourse since their engagement -as it had never done before.</p> - - -<h3>(vi)</h3> - -<p><span class="smcap">Valeria</span> had been engaged for nearly a month when -she wrote a letter.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>“<span class="smcap">Dear Captain Cuscaden</span>,</p> - -<p>“I thought I would like to tell you myself that I am -engaged to be married. It is to Owen Quentillian, -whom I have known all my life, almost, and we hope -to be married in January.</p> - -<p>“I hope you will have very good luck in Canada, and -that you will sometimes let us know how you get on. -We are expecting you on Saturday, to come and say -good-bye.</p> - -<p class="right"><span class="indentright">“Yours sincerely,</span><br /> -“<span class="smcap">Valeria Morchard</span>.”</p> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_85">[85]</span>Val spent a long while over the composition of her -brief letter, re-read it a great number of times, and -finally tore it up very carefully into small pieces.</p> - -<p>“What’s the use?” she said.</p> - -<p>Captain Cuscaden, however, did not seem to have -been dependent upon Valeria for news of Valeria’s -engagement. He congratulated her formally on the -Saturday afternoon when he came to pay his farewell -visit to St. Gwenllian.</p> - -<p>Olga Duffle was there, too, and Miss Admaston.</p> - -<p>“No more tennis this year. It’s going to rain again,” -said Flora.</p> - -<p>“Here it comes,” Mr. Clover pointed out.</p> - -<p>“It may clear up later—let’s have tea.”</p> - -<p>After tea the rain was still falling heavily.</p> - -<p>“How are all you young folks going to amuse yourselves?” -genially enquired the Canon. “Lucilla, can -you not organize some of our old <i>jeux d’esprit</i>, with -pencil and paper?”</p> - -<p>There was an inarticulate protest from the Captain, -to which no one paid any attention except Valeria, who -heard it, and Olga, who replied to it: “I’ll help you, -Dzorze, if you’re very good.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Clover was zealous in finding paper and pencils.</p> - -<p>“I can’t resist this,” said the Canon boyishly. “I -must give some of my old favourites a turn before -going to more serious affairs. Now what is it to be?”</p> - -<p>No one appeared to be very ready with suggestions. -Captain Cuscaden was gloomily gazing out of the -window. Olga and Adrian were talking in undertones, -and Miss Admaston was telling Quentillian how very<span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">[86]</span> -much she dreaded and disliked any games that required -the use of brains.</p> - -<p>“Are we all ready?” said Mr. Clover joyously.</p> - -<p>“I suppose we’re as ready as we ever shall be,” said -Captain Cuscaden.</p> - -<p>Thus encouraged, they began.</p> - -<p>Canon Morchard, Lucilla, and Owen Quentillian -outmatched the rest of the players with ease. Each -seemed to think with promptitude of great men whose -names started with A, battles that began with M, or -quotations—English—of which the initial letter -was W.</p> - -<p>They challenged one another’s references, and verified -one another’s dates. They capped quotations, and -they provided original <i>bouts rimés</i>.</p> - -<p>The entertainment gradually resolved itself into one -animated trio, with a faithful but halting chorus, in -the persons of Mr. Clover and Flora, and a rapid and -low-toned aside between Adrian and Miss Duffle.</p> - -<p>Captain Cuscaden played a listless game of noughts -and crosses with Miss Admaston, and Valeria leant -back in her chair and ceased to pretend that she was -occupied.</p> - -<p>She looked at the sapphire and diamond ring on her -finger, and thought about Owen’s cleverness. She remembered -that Lucilla had said he would be a difficult -person to live with. She remembered her own secret -desires for a life of work, and her assurance to herself -that such ambitions were out of place. She reminded -herself that her father had been, in his own -parlance, glad beyond words to welcome Owen Quentillian -as a son. And she looked at Owen himself, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">[87]</span> -saw him intent, over his little slips of paper, and a sudden -rush of tenderness came over her. His absorption -in the game seemed to make him younger, and -in more need of her. She could remember Owen as -a flaxen-haired, solemn, rather priggish little boy, and -she suddenly felt that perhaps he had not changed a -very great deal since those days, after all.</p> - -<p>Val felt happier, in a subdued and wistful way. She -woke to the realization that the games were ended.</p> - -<p>The Canon had arisen.</p> - -<p>“Look up that derivation, Clover, dear man, and -let me have it. I shall be curious.... Fare ye -well, young people, I recommend Lucilla here as a -veritable dictionary of dates, if you wish to continue -your amusement.”</p> - -<p>Nothing could have been more evident, the moment -the Canon had left the room, than that no one wished -to pursue amusement on the lines indicated.</p> - -<p>Even Mr. Clover joined in the general movement -that thankfully relinquished paper and pencil, and sent -everyone to the piano, flung open by Olga Duffle.</p> - -<p>“Do play something,” Adrian pleaded.</p> - -<p>“Oh, not me. Make your sister play. She plays so -much better than I do.”</p> - -<p>It was indubitably true that Flora played a great -deal better than did Olga, yet nobody seemed to want -Flora to play the piano, and Olga, even as she protested, -slipped on to the music stool and ran her small -fingers over the keys.</p> - -<p>“I say, how well you do everything!” Adrian murmured -ecstatically above her.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">[88]</span>She looked up at him and smiled, showing all her -little pointed teeth.</p> - -<p>They clustered round her.</p> - -<p>“Do you know ‘Oh, Kiss Me and I’ll Never Tell,’ -that comes in that revue—I forget it’s name—the new -one? It’s lovely.”</p> - -<p>To the perceptions of Valeria Morchard, trained in -the eclectic school of the Canon’s taste, the musical -inspiration in question was not only undeserving of -being called lovely, but was vulgar to the point of -blatancy, ringing through the St. Gwenllian drawing-room -in Olga’s little, high, soprano voice.</p> - -<p>She was not at all surprised that Owen should look -at her through his <i>pince-nez</i> with eyebrows expressively -elevated, nor that Mr. Clover, presumably in a futile -endeavour to spare the Canon’s ears, should unobtrusively -go and shut the door.</p> - -<p>Val looked at Lucilla.</p> - -<p>There was something not at all unlike amusement -on Miss Morchard’s face, but Val did not think that -it was caused by the humour of “Oh, Kiss Me and I’ll -Never Tell.” Rather it might have been born of a -gentle irony, embracing alike the puzzled distaste of -Flora, the obvious terror of the curate lest he should -be supposed to be enjoying the entertainment, the absorption -with which Captain Cuscaden, Adrian, and -even Miss Admaston stood and listened, the supercilious -detachment of Owen Quentillian, the complacent -unconsciousness of the small, pert singer at the piano. -No doubt Lucilla could have detected, had she cared to -do so, the unspecified emotions that Val suspected of -being written upon her own unsmiling face.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_89">[89]</span>She felt suddenly impatient.</p> - -<p>“We’re all intolerable. Lucilla is superior, and -Flossie takes this rubbish <i>au grand serieux</i>, like a -crime, and Owen is thinking how deplorable it is that -idiotic words should be set to inferior music, and put -before the British public for its education.... I -can hear exactly what he’ll say about it afterwards.”</p> - -<p>It struck her that the anticipation scarcely boded well -for a life that was in future to be spent in Quentillian’s -company.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="verse">“My dusky gal is black as coal</div> -<div class="verse">“But she’s just the whitest, brightest soul.”</div> -</div></div> - -<p>carolled Olga.</p> - -<p>“I love the darky girls, don’t you?”</p> - -<p>“Rather.”</p> - -<p>“Why does the English youth of today seek artistic -inspiration from the uncivilized population of Central -Africa, I wonder?” said Owen Quentillian. He addressed -himself to Lucilla, but his very distinct utterance -was perfectly audible to everybody else.</p> - -<p>Captain Cuscaden laughed, and Olga looked round -with perfect good humour. It was Adrian who glared -at Quentillian, and Mr. Clover who observed reproachfully:</p> - -<p>“I’m sure those old plantation songs are charming, -<i>as</i> Miss Olga renders them.”</p> - -<p>“You shouldn’t be so superior, Owen,” said Lucilla -tranquilly.</p> - -<p>It was what Val had been thinking, but she had -found herself quite unable to say it, from the very -intensity of her feeling.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">[90]</span>Lucilla placed an old album on the music stand, and -they all began to sing together “Comin’ through the -Rye.”</p> - -<p>The music affected Valeria almost intolerably.</p> - -<p>All the Morchards had good voices, and both Flora -and Lucilla sang well. Their true, deep voices gradually -dominated Olga’s high pipe, and the four men -sank to a mere murmur of accompaniment. Miss Admaston -had never done more than crane over everybody’s -shoulder in turn in an endeavour to see the -page at close quarters, and murmur the last words of -a verse in an undertone when everyone else was singing -the first line of the refrain. She was now altogether -silent.</p> - -<p>“Sing the Russian songs, Flora,” said Quentillian.</p> - -<p>Valeria pressed her hands closer together, and leant -against the wall.</p> - -<p>It was growing dark.</p> - -<p>The air of the Russian song that Flora chose was -wild and sweet.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="first">“You are my darling, you are my soul</div> -<div class="verse">Light of my life, my sun, my goal ...</div> -<div class="verse">You are my being, my delight</div> -<div class="verse">Star of my darkest night.”</div> -</div></div> - -<p>Direct, primitive worship of one man for one -woman: Flora’s voice held all the passion that was not -in her, save at her music.</p> - -<p>The ache at Val’s heart seemed to her physical in -its intensity.</p> - -<p>She knew what she wanted, now, and she knew that -Owen Quentillian would not give it her.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">[91]</span>To her own horror, a rush of tears blinded her.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="verse">“But all is well for thou art with me</div> -<div class="verse">“The world is full of only thee.”</div> -</div></div> - -<p>sang Flora.</p> - -<p>“What is the matter?” said the low, troubled voice -of Cuscaden beside her.</p> - -<p>Val started violently.</p> - -<p>“Val, you <i>must</i> tell me. What is it...?”</p> - -<p>They looked at each other.</p> - -<p>It suddenly became the thing that mattered most in -the world that Val Morchard and George Cuscaden -should speak alone to one another.</p> - -<p>Regardless of the rain pouring outside, Valeria -gently opened the French window behind her.</p> - -<p>“Come outside. I must speak to you,” she said urgently.</p> - -<p>She had no idea what she was going to say.</p> - -<p>Outside, in the rapidly gathering darkness, the rain -fell in torrents and splashed up from the ground -against the stone step of the low veranda that ran -round the house.</p> - -<p>Cuscaden stepped out of the warm room and closed -the window again behind him. It was as though he -had shut them out of the world of music and companionship, -into some colder, more virile atmosphere.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="verse">“But all is well for thou art with me</div> -<div class="verse">“The world is full of only thee.”</div> -</div></div> - -<p>Flora’s song reached them as faintly as possible, -and neither heeded it.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">[92]</span>They faced one another, and Val found that she -was shivering from head to foot.</p> - -<p>“Why do I never get a chance of speaking to you -nowadays?” said Captain Cuscaden violently.</p> - -<p>“You could have,” said Valeria, and her voice broke.</p> - -<p>His arms went round her.</p> - -<p>“Val, Val, I love you so.”</p> - -<p>It was as though Quentillian had never existed.</p> - -<p>“And you’re going to Canada,” she wailed.</p> - -<p>“You’re coming with me.”</p> - -<p>“I must,” Val said, and surrendered herself to his -kisses.</p> - -<p>“My daughter, how wet you are!” exclaimed the -Canon.</p> - -<p>His daughter, hastening to her own room, paused -under the light of a lamp, and inadvertently thereby -gave the Canon an opportunity of verifying his statement.</p> - -<p>Val, beneath his astonished gaze, became acutely -aware that her rain-wet hair was disordered, her face -flaming, and showing all the marks of recent and violent -weeping.</p> - -<p>“What is all this?” the Canon enquired rather -sternly.</p> - -<p>Valeria felt utterly incapable of replying.</p> - -<p>“Answer me, Valeria.”</p> - -<p>“Captain Cuscaden is looking for you,” said Valeria -almost inaudibly.</p> - -<p>“Captain Cuscaden?”</p> - -<p>“Yes.”</p> - -<p>They gazed speechlessly at one another.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_93">[93]</span>A weight had descended upon the Canon’s brow and -the lines round his mouth were set sternly.</p> - -<p>“Valeria, has he insulted you?”</p> - -<p>The intimate conviction overwhelmed her that the -Canon’s opinion of her recent interview with Captain -Cuscaden would certainly demand an emphatically affirmative -reply to the enquiry. She felt a purely -hysterical desire to burst out laughing at the thought.</p> - -<p>“How is Captain Cuscaden concerned with you? -If it is as I think, Valeria, you did well to refer him -to me.”</p> - -<p>“But it isn’t. He—I—we are both to blame, Father. -I’m going to break off my engagement to Owen. I -love George.”</p> - -<p>The words were said, and although Valeria broke -into a flood of tears, it was with a sense of relief. -Telling Owen that she did not intend to marry him -after all, was, she honestly felt, nothing to telling the -Canon so.</p> - -<p>She sank down on the stairs and hid her face in her -hands, afraid to face her father’s realization of the -implication that her words contained.</p> - -<p>It did not tarry.</p> - -<p>“Do you want me to understand that you are under -a solemn engagement to marry Owen Quentillian, and -that you have at the same time been allowing—encouraging—the -clandestine attentions of this—this -<i>fellow</i>? You, my daughter, behaving like a wanton? -I won’t believe it—I can’t believe it—” the Canon’s -voice rose violently. “Valeria, for God’s sake tell me -I’m mistaken—don’t crouch there like a guilty creature—tell -me I’m wrong, tell me you’re the pure, honest<span class="pagenum" id="Page_94">[94]</span> -maiden I’ve tried to make you and not—not—a -creature without honour, without decency——”</p> - -<p>The rising note of anguish broke on a strangled sob.</p> - -<p>Below, a door was shut sharply.</p> - -<p>“Get up,” said the Canon with violence.</p> - -<p>Valeria rose, and he pulled her to her feet and -gazed searchingly into her face.</p> - -<p>“And this is my child!” said the Canon, and in his -turn dropped his face into his hands, groaning.</p> - -<p>“I couldn’t help it,” she spoke between her sobs, like -a child. “Owen knew I wasn’t in love with him -... only I never realized, I didn’t know George -cared, too—it was always him....”</p> - -<p>“Stop!” thundered the Canon. “Are you without -shame, Valeria? Is that fellow waiting for me downstairs, -or has he crawled away as I should expect, -from one who has so repaid my hospitality?”</p> - -<p>The words gave Valeria a needed impetus.</p> - -<p>“He is ready to meet you, Father—he went to find -you. And I love him—I suppose I’ve been very dishonourable, -but I—I believe Owen will understand.”</p> - -<p>She broke into tears again, and left him.</p> - -<p>Overwhelmed with the sense of her own dishonour, -regarding the Canon’s wrath as might have a child, in -the light of the greatest calamity that life could present, -she turned with absolute relief to the thought of -Owen’s dispassionate judgments, his studiously impersonal -attitude towards life. Owen would understand.</p> - -<p>There came a knock at the door.</p> - -<p>“Val, may I come in?”</p> - -<p>“What is it?” said Valeria unwillingly.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_95">[95]</span>Lucilla entered the room, unperturbed, but fully accepting -the disordered aspect of its occupant.</p> - -<p>“I’m afraid, Val, that the drawing-room door was -open, and it was impossible to help hearing Father. I -thought you’d rather know, in case you wanted to -speak to Owen.”</p> - -<p>“Owen knows?” almost shrieked Valeria.</p> - -<p>“I suppose he does. He must have drawn his own -conclusions.”</p> - -<p>“I couldn’t help it,” said Val again. “I never meant -anything like that to happen—it’s George Cuscaden, -Lucilla. It was always him, indeed it was, only I -didn’t know it, and it all seemed to happen in a minute—it -was stronger than either of us.”</p> - -<p>“I daresay you did quite right. Why don’t you -wash, Val?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Lucilla, how like you!”</p> - -<p>Valeria laughed shakily, but she followed her sister’s -advice.</p> - -<p>Lucilla methodically produced Val’s brush and comb, -and dry clothing.</p> - -<p>“Maud Admaston and Miss Duffle have gone, and -Adrian went with them. Mr. Clover has gone, too, so -it was only Owen and Flossie and I that heard.”</p> - -<p>“What did he say?”</p> - -<p>“He didn’t say anything. Shall I fasten you up, -Val?”</p> - -<p>“Lucilla—what am I to do?”</p> - -<p>“Tell Owen you can’t marry him, and tell George -you will marry him.”</p> - -<p>“I wish it was as simple as that! You always take -things so literally.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_96">[96]</span>“Well,” said Lucilla unmoved, “I don’t see any -other way of taking this. You can’t be engaged to -two people at once. You know—Owen will understand.”</p> - -<p>“That’s what I feel,” said Val to her own surprise. -“But Father—Father will never, never understand.”</p> - -<p>“Probably not. But after all, it’s you, and Owen, -and George, isn’t it, that are concerned? I shouldn’t -let there be scenes and upsets about it, Val, if I were -you—really I shouldn’t. Why don’t you just see Owen -tonight, and tell him about it, and then you and he -and George could all talk it over quietly tomorrow -morning?”</p> - -<p>Val was conscious of profound astonishment and -also of extreme relief.</p> - -<p>“Do you think one could? But Father——”</p> - -<p>“You needn’t go downstairs again. I quite understand -that you don’t want to see Father again tonight. -Shall I tell Owen to come up here?”</p> - -<p>“Here? How could he, in my bedroom?”</p> - -<p>“Goodness me, child, you may just as well be hung -for a sheep as a lamb, surely. But if you think it’s -so dreadful, I suppose you can come out on the landing -and speak to him.”</p> - -<p>Impossible to disconcert Lucilla!</p> - -<p>Val assented to the surprising propositions so matter-of-factly -delivered.</p> - -<p>“Yes, tell Owen to come up. I’d better get it over. -But Lucilla—George——”</p> - -<p>“Do you want me to see him, or give him a message?”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_97">[97]</span>“I want to know what Father says to him,” Val -said faintly.</p> - -<p>“Very well. I’ll ask Father if George has gone.”</p> - -<p>“And, oh, Lucilla! I know you can’t prevent it, -really, but if only you could make Father not come -up to me tonight! I can’t bear any more—indeed I -can’t.”</p> - -<p>“Well,” said Lucilla, “you’d better lock the door -then.” She took the key from the lock, put it on the -inside of the door and tried it in a practical manner. -“That’s all right. You can lock it on the inside as -soon as Owen has gone.”</p> - -<p>She went downstairs, but turned and came up again -the next moment.</p> - -<p>“I’ll have dinner sent up to you, shall I?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t want any.”</p> - -<p>“I should think you’d better have something, Val. -I’ll send up soup and chicken. The pudding is only -ginger, and you know how badly she makes ginger pudding.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla departed in earnest, upon this prosaic pronouncement.</p> - -<p>She was succeeded by Owen Quentillian, and Val -went out upon the landing to meet him.</p> - -<p>“Will you forgive me, Owen? I can’t marry you.”</p> - -<p>“What has happened?”</p> - -<p>“I thought you knew,” she said piteously.</p> - -<p>“I suppose I do. Is it Cuscaden?”</p> - -<p>“Yes.”</p> - -<p>“Then why,” Owen demanded in reasonable accents, -“couldn’t he have proposed to you himself without -waiting for you to be engaged to me?”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_98">[98]</span>“He thought he couldn’t ask me to go to Canada—and -he’s badly off—and then, when you came, he—he -thought it was you I cared about.”</p> - -<p>“I see,” said Quentillian dryly.</p> - -<p>“I don’t think I knew, exactly, that I still cared for -him, and I was sure he hadn’t meant anything, and it—it -was really all over—only then—Flora’s music, -somehow—and he asked me what it was—and I cried. -Owen, won’t you forgive me? Surely it’s better than -if I’d tried to go on with it?”</p> - -<p>“Of course it is.”</p> - -<p>They looked at one another rather helplessly.</p> - -<p>“Val, if I can do anything to help you, of course -I will. What are you going to do?”</p> - -<p>“I can’t think,” said Valeria faintly.</p> - -<p>“When does Cuscaden sail?”</p> - -<p>“Next week.”</p> - -<p>“That’s bad luck,” said Owen impartially. “Look -here, my dear, you must be tired out. Won’t you go -and sleep now, and in the morning we could see what’s -to be done?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, how good you are!”</p> - -<p>He frowned slightly.</p> - -<p>“Surely the day of heroics is over. I haven’t the -slightest desire to exchange pistol-shots with Captain -Cuscaden, I assure you. We are three reasonable human -beings, and we find ourselves in a difficulty from -which only clear thinking and absolute plain speaking -can extricate us. You may believe me when I tell -you that I am perfectly prepared to discuss the case -upon its own merits.”</p> - -<p>Valeria could believe him without difficulty. Even<span class="pagenum" id="Page_99">[99]</span> -in the midst of her distress, she could not altogether -stifle a slight suspicion that Owen was appreciating the -opportunity afforded him of being thoroughly modern -and rational.</p> - -<p>“Have you seen Father?”</p> - -<p>“Not yet.”</p> - -<p>Quentillian’s tone betrayed no great eagerness for -the prospective interview.</p> - -<p>“He is very, very angry with me, and I know he -has every right to be. But indeed, Owen, I was coming -straight to you, only I met him first, and it somehow -came out. George was going to tell him.”</p> - -<p>“Your father has never liked Captain Cuscaden,” -said Quentillian meditatively. “I am afraid he will -make things very difficult.”</p> - -<p>“I deserve it.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t be absurd,” said Quentillian, with severity. -“This is that foolish idea of atonement and repentance—and -all the other cheap salves to the humiliation of -having made a mistake. Don’t you see that it’s all -waste of time and energy, Val? You ought to be -thinking of what you’re going to do next, and how -you can do it with least wear and tear for us all. Life -isn’t a series of sins and punishments or virtues and -rewards, as it is in one’s nursery story-books. There -are actions and their consequences—that’s all.”</p> - -<p>She looked up at him, bewildered, and yet slightly -relieved at perceiving that he still possessed the power -of sententiousness.</p> - -<p>“Only say you forgive me, Owen.”</p> - -<p>“If you wish it, my dear, of course. Please don’t -cry any more.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_100">[100]</span>Valeria, however, crying more than ever, drew the -sapphire and diamond ring from her finger and mutely -held it out to him.</p> - -<p>Owen gazed at it for a moment through his <i>pince-nez</i>.</p> - -<p>Then he put it gently back into her hand again, and -closed her fingers round it with his own.</p> - -<p>“Please, Val.”</p> - -<p>Still holding her hand, he bent forward and very -softly kissed her wet cheek.</p> - -<p>“If we’re not engaged any more, we’ve got to go -back to what we were before—brother and sister, Val. -Good-night—don’t cry any more.”</p> - -<p>The smile with which he left her was in his eyes -as well as on his lips, and held nothing so much as -very gentle amusement, and an affectionate concern.</p> - - -<h3>(vii)</h3> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> amusement was no longer to be seen in the eyes -of Quentillian, and the concern had no affinity with affectionateness, -when he reached the door of the Canon’s -study.</p> - -<p>He felt himself to be eleven years old once more, -and in complete uncertainty as to the manner in which -he might be received, after the discovery of some unwonted -misdemeanour.</p> - -<p>The thunderous voice that bade him come in did -nothing to dispel the unpleasing illusion.</p> - -<p>The Canon was sitting at the writing-table, under -the carved crucifix that hung against the green velvet -plaque. A blotting pad, deeply scored with heavy black<span class="pagenum" id="Page_101">[101]</span> -lines, lay beneath his hand, and a broken lead pencil -testified to the energy with which that hand had sought -an outlet for the feelings that presumably agitated its -owner.</p> - -<p>The Canon swung round in his chair as the door -closed behind Quentillian.</p> - -<p>“Owen, Owen!” His voice broke. “My boy, how -can I face you?”</p> - -<p>The Canon answered his own question by rising -impetuously and leaning heavily upon Quentillian’s -shoulder, one hand across his eyes.</p> - -<p>“My dear, dear fellow!”</p> - -<p>His voice, charged with emotion, broke horribly over -each fresh ejaculation.</p> - -<p>“My son—Owen—you’ve been nothing less to me—and -now—treated like this—one of mine own household—what -can I say, what can I say?”</p> - -<p>Quentillian longed heartily to implore the Canon to -say nothing at all.</p> - -<p>“Won’t you sit down, sir? I thought I’d better -come and talk to you, if I may.”</p> - -<p>“Anything, anything, dear lad. Have you seen my -unhappy child?”</p> - -<p>“Valeria and I have agreed that we are no longer -engaged,” said Owen carefully. “I don’t consider that -I have been unfairly treated. She discovered, rather -before the eleventh hour, that she and Captain Cuscaden -were in love with one another, and it would have -been quite as unjust to me as to herself, if she had not -acted upon the discovery.”</p> - -<p>Canon Morchard gazed anxiously at the victim of -this neatly-analysed situation.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_102">[102]</span>“For Heaven’s sake, Owen, don’t let yourself become -bitter. It is so easy—so fatally easy, when one -is suffering. Take a stronger grip of your faith than -ever before, dear lad—remember that ‘<i>all</i> things work -together for good.’ One learns to dwell upon those -words, and the meaning deepens into something so -unspeakably precious....”</p> - -<p>To Owen’s relief the Canon sank back into his chair -again.</p> - -<p>“I can offer you no atonement,” he said presently, -with a deep weariness in his voice.</p> - -<p>“I am still unutterably bewildered. How I have -failed, how I have failed, with my motherless girl! -And I thought I knew my child—my merry Valeria, -as I have called her from her babyhood—I thought I -knew her through and through! <i>She</i> to be dishonourable, -<i>she</i> to be heartless, <i>she</i> to attach herself to a -godless, brainless, mannerless fellow—and when a man -like yourself had received her troth! Owen, it is as -though mine own right hand had turned against me.”</p> - -<p>The Canon held out a trembling right hand and -gazed upon it.</p> - -<p>“Where is Captain Cuscaden now, sir?” enquired -Quentillian, almost expecting to hear that the object -of his solicitude had been bound and cast into outer -darkness.</p> - -<p>“Where!” Canon Morchard struck the table with -his clenched fist until the blotting-paper and the broken -pencil bounded again. “Where! I have dismissed -him, Owen. Does he think that I shall give my daughter -to one who comes like a thief in the night? There<span class="pagenum" id="Page_103">[103]</span> -is such a thing as a righteous anger, and such an anger -was mine then.”</p> - -<p>It seemed to be his still, Owen reflected, and boded -ill for his own wish to discuss the situation impartially.</p> - -<p>“Valeria is very unhappy, sir.”</p> - -<p>The Canon groaned.</p> - -<p>“I can’t trust myself to see her, to speak to her. -God knows that my place is with my unhappy child, -but my shameful lack of self-control makes me tremble. -I have been angry—I am angry still.”</p> - -<p>He looked piteously at Owen.</p> - -<p>“I have thought to get the better of my devil with -prayer and fasting, but the old Adam is strong—terribly -strong. When I saw my child—my little Valeria—her -eyes wild, her person disordered, dashing upstairs -as might a shamed creature, to hide itself—when -I realized the depths of her dishonour—Owen, it -was in me to have struck her. I could have raised my -hand against my own child!”</p> - -<p>His head sank upon his breast.</p> - -<p>Quentillian waited before making a further, -strangely inadequate, contribution to the conversation.</p> - -<p>“Do you think, sir, perhaps you may be taking this -too seriously?”</p> - -<p>Canon Morchard stared at him. Then he smiled -grimly.</p> - -<p>“Generous—very generous, Owen. But I am to be -deceived by no such feint. I, who have had the care -of souls these thirty years! Do you think that, whatever -front you may present to the world, my eyes—<i>mine</i>—are<span class="pagenum" id="Page_104">[104]</span> -to be blinded? Do you think that <i>I</i> do not -know that the iron has entered into your soul?”</p> - -<p>The Canon’s eyes were so extraordinarily piercing -as they gazed into Quentillian’s, that the object of his -penetration sought in himself almost hopefully for -some of the searing emotions attributed to him.</p> - -<p>He discovered none.</p> - -<p>Wounded in his vanity, annoyed, disappointed even,—but -nothing more.</p> - -<p>Owen, quite aware of futility, inwardly formed -phrases of complete truthfulness, only to reject them.</p> - -<p>“I assure you that I am not in the least unhappy at -having been jilted by your daughter ... it -leaves me quite cold ... I don’t think I ever -really wanted to marry Val very much ... we were -much better friends before we tried to become engaged....”</p> - -<p>Or, with a yet more devastating candour:</p> - -<p>“I’ve been certain for days that I made a complete -fool of myself by ever proposing marriage to Valeria....”</p> - -<p>This surprisingly agile form of mental gymnastics -was tempestuously interrupted by the Canon.</p> - -<p>“For God’s sake, Owen, break down!” he groaned. -“My boy, my boy, you’re safe with me. Forget that -I’m Valeria’s father—think of me only as one who has -known suffering—aye, and sin, too. Make a safety-valve -of me—let yourself go. But I can bear this -sham cynicism of yours no longer. It’s wrong, Owen, -it’s wrong. True fortitude faces what lies before it, -finds its Gethsemane, and rises, purged of bitterness. -Break down—weep, nay, curse if you will, only cast<span class="pagenum" id="Page_105">[105]</span> -open the floodgates. Let loose whatever devils possess -your soul, you, the victim of treachery—let them -loose, I say, and we will conquer them together.”</p> - -<p>For an instant, all that Quentillian could do hardly -sufficed to prevent his letting loose a violent fit of -laughter.</p> - -<p>He drove his teeth into his lower lip. It was his -increasing perception of the Canon’s overwhelming -misery that steadied him.</p> - -<p>“Val has hurt me less than you think, sir,” he said -gently at last. “I have sometimes thought that she -and I had made a mistake.”</p> - -<p>The Canon gazed at him with a pathetic unbelief.</p> - -<p>“My unhappy child does not know what she has -lost.”</p> - -<p>“I hope she is going to be happy in her own way,” -said Quentillian.</p> - -<p>The Canon’s brow instantly became thunderous -again.</p> - -<p>“Not one word, Owen, not one word on those lines,” -he commanded sternly. “I appreciate your generosity -deeply, but there is such a thing as carrying generosity -too far.”</p> - -<p>“I can see small generosity in relinquishing to someone -else what is no longer mine.”</p> - -<p>The Canon swept on, unheeding.</p> - -<p>“My faith in my child has received a rude shock. -Valeria is unfit for wifehood and motherhood. How -can I let her undertake responsibility when she has -proved herself unworthy up to the hilt? No, Owen, -let it rest there. <i>I</i> will deal with Valeria, and may God -help us both!”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_106">[106]</span>Quentillian felt inclined to echo the petition whole-heartedly.</p> - -<p>He could not doubt that the Canon’s misery was utterly -unfeigned. So, also, was his wrath.</p> - -<p>The incongruous sound of the dinner-gong vibrated -violently through the room.</p> - -<p>The Canon did not stir.</p> - -<p>His voice, when next he spoke, was almost a groan.</p> - -<p>“I cannot see Valeria tonight. God forgive me, I -am not master of myself. Your calm shames me, -Owen. But it is not natural, not natural. You will, -and must, suffer for it later on. Tell me, dear fellow—that -I should have to say it!—do you wish to leave us—do -you wish to go?”</p> - -<p>Owen wished for nothing so much as an immediate -adjournment to the dining-room, but he felt that it -would indeed be impossible to say so.</p> - -<p>“You would not wish me to send Valeria from -home, I know. Nor do I know where I could send -her.”</p> - -<p>“Let her marry Cuscaden,” said Quentillian boldly.</p> - -<p>“Never, Owen. Give my child—my weak, untrustworthy -child, to a man who could behave as Cuscaden -has behaved? Believe me, I appreciate the generosity -that prompts you, but you know not what you ask—you -know not what you ask.”</p> - -<p>Quentillian, entirely unaccustomed to any such accusation, -was silently annoyed.</p> - -<p>He was also hungry.</p> - -<p>“I have sometimes thought,” said the Canon with -a trembling voice, “that my tendency has been to idolize -my children. I lost their mother so early! You<span class="pagenum" id="Page_107">[107]</span> -know how it was with me, Owen. Lucilla was my -eldest born, my right hand. I have come to depend -upon Lucilla, paradoxical though it may sound, from -a father towards his child. David, my eldest son -...” the Canon paused a long while, and then -murmured softly: “‘Whilst he was yet a great way -off’—David is in a far country, but he will return to -us yet, and though his Morning Prayer be our Evensong, -who shall say that there is separation between -us? And I have kept my other children by my side, -Owen. Little Flora has never yet tried her wings -away from home. She is more like her mother than -any of them—she and the dear Adrian.”</p> - -<p>A smile like an illumination came into the Canon’s -eyes as he spoke Adrian’s name. “The light of mine -eyes, that dear lad has always been. My Benjamin! -There are no words for what I went through whilst -Adrian was fighting, Owen. One could only remember -in Whose keeping he was, and that all <i>must</i> be -well, in reality. But all one’s faith was needed—it -must be so, with poor human nature. The soul goes -through dark waters, Owen, as you are finding now.”</p> - -<p>The protest which Owen almost automatically registered -within himself at this interpolated reference to -the despair which he could not feel, was necessarily -a silent one.</p> - -<p>“Valeria has been the brightest, the most lighthearted, -of all my children. She is naturally gifted -with high spirits, and she and I have made innocent -fun together, have shared the humourous view of life, -a thousand times. Have I allowed that gaiety of hers -to turn to flippancy—that mirthful spirit to cloak a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_108">[108]</span> -lack of principle? I ask myself again and again wherein -I have erred, for I cannot hold myself blameless, -Owen. I have thought over my motherless children, -I have prayed, and yet it has come to this—it has come -to this!”</p> - -<p>The Canon’s head dropped back into his hands once -more, and Quentillian felt as though this despairing -round of anger, self-blame, self-pity, and genuine -misery, might go on forever.</p> - -<p>He glanced at the clock. The dinner-gong having -failed of its appeal, it appeared as though nothing need -ever interrupt them again.</p> - -<p>“I will give him five minutes more, and then I shall -stand up,” Quentillian decided.</p> - -<p>The Canon lifted a haggard face.</p> - -<p>“Perhaps I had set my heart overmuch upon your -marriage with my child, Owen. It may be so—it may -be so. I may have forgotten that we poor mortals -cannot, after all, see very far—that all plannings and -schemings are very vain, seen by the light of Immortal -Wisdom. If so, I am receiving my punishment -now.”</p> - -<p>The Canon groaned again.</p> - -<p>“I am at a loss how to act. I can decide nothing. -I must see Valeria, but how can I do so until I can -command myself?”</p> - -<p>Even as he asked the question, the veins stood out -upon the Canon’s forehead, his nostrils quivered and -his face became suffused.</p> - -<p>“Three minutes more,” Quentillian reflected.</p> - -<p>“Owen, one thing I must ask. Has she asked your -pardon?”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_109">[109]</span>“Yes, but indeed I don’t think——”</p> - -<p>“No, Owen, no.” The Canon raised his hand in -instant protest. “Each generous plea from you, stabs -me afresh. I ask myself if my unhappy child even -knows what she has lost. I thought I knew Valeria -through and through—that nothing in her nature was -hidden from me, from her father. I have been -strangely mistaken, indeed.”</p> - -<p>(“Another half minute.”)</p> - -<p>“Am I harsh with her, am I harsh to my motherless -girl? God knows that I was angry when I met -her this evening, distraught-looking, crouching before -me like a shamed and terrified creature. I cannot -even now fully understand what has occurred, but her -own admission was that, engaged to you, she believed -herself to love another man—that she had allowed -him to make love to her.”</p> - -<p>Owen stood up resolutely.</p> - -<p>“Aye, Owen, I do not wonder at it, if you seek the -relief of movement. It is more natural so. I, too, in -my day, have paced this room.”</p> - -<p>Quentillian, however, had no desire to pace the room -except for the very few steps that would put him outside -it.</p> - -<p>He debated in vain within himself the most tactful -method of making this clear to Canon Morchard.</p> - -<p>“I suppose I have been blind. This blow has come -upon me with fearful suddenness—I suspected nothing—nothing. -How could I——”</p> - -<p>The door opened.</p> - -<p>Quentillian looked round thankfully at Lucilla. She<span class="pagenum" id="Page_110">[110]</span> -did not go up to her father, but spoke quietly from the -door.</p> - -<p>“Father, don’t you think Owen should come to dinner?”</p> - -<p>A quick frown drew the Canon’s always formidable -brows together.</p> - -<p>“Since when do my children interrupt me in my own -room, at my work, Lucilla?” he enquired.</p> - -<p>Her face did not change, but she looked at Quentillian.</p> - -<p>“Thank you,” he said quickly. “I will come.”</p> - -<p>The Canon rose. His hand went once more to the -resting-place now rapidly becoming habitual to it—Quentillian’s -shoulder.</p> - -<p>“Do not let my foolish child impose her trivial urgencies -upon you.”</p> - -<p>The Canon’s other hand went out towards his -daughter.</p> - -<p>“Did I speak over-sharply, my daughter? Perhaps -Mary was nearer my mood than Martha, just now—Martha, -careful and troubled over many things. Go, -then, children. Lucilla, you will come to me later. -Until then, I do not wish to be disturbed again.”</p> - -<p>With a heavy sigh, the Canon turned again to his -writing-table.</p> - -<p>Owen and Lucilla went out.</p> - -<p>“He is terribly upset. Could he not be persuaded -to come to dinner?”</p> - -<p>“No, I knew he wouldn’t want that. But I shall -take in a tray when I go to him later. Sometimes, if -he’s talking, he eats without thinking about it. I was -counting on that—and besides, he would have disliked<span class="pagenum" id="Page_111">[111]</span> -my suggesting that he should come in to dinner as -usual.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla’s voice and her face alike were entirely -guiltless of irony.</p> - -<p>Quentillian followed her into the dining-room:</p> - -<p>“The others have finished,” Lucilla said. “Would -you rather I stayed, or that I went?”</p> - -<p>“Stay, please.”</p> - -<p>She sat down opposite to him at once.</p> - -<p>“I wish your father were less angry with poor Val, -although perhaps it is not my place to say so. But in -his—his generous sympathy for me, I am afraid he -has rather lost sight of what she must have been suffering.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t think suffering, in my father’s eyes, would -ever condone what he considers wrong-doing.”</p> - -<p>The comment seemed to Owen to be rather an illuminating -one.</p> - -<p>“I suppose not. It may surprise you to hear that I -do not, personally, consider that Canon Morchard is -entitled either to condemn or condone whatever Valeria -may have done.”</p> - -<p>“I quite agree with you.”</p> - -<p>Quentillian was less gratified than astonished at the -assertion.</p> - -<p>“Val herself would hardly agree to that.”</p> - -<p>“No.”</p> - -<p>“Well, but don’t you see, Lucilla, how difficult that’s -going to make things? To my mind, the only natural -proceeding is for Valeria and George Cuscaden to -marry and go to Canada.”</p> - -<p>Quentillian paused almost without meaning to, on a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_112">[112]</span> -pronouncement that would certainly have met with -drastic and emphatic interruption from Canon Morchard.</p> - -<p>Lucilla, however, received it unmoved.</p> - -<p>“Don’t you think so?” said Quentillian, slightly disappointed.</p> - -<p>“Yes.”</p> - -<p>“But will Valeria do it? Won’t her strange ideas -of filial duty interfere? I am absolutely convinced -that one of the principal reasons for her ever becoming -engaged to me, was her wish to please her father.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t think it was altogether that, Owen. But -you did ask her to marry you at a time when she was -just beginning to realize that the sort of life she led -before the war wasn’t going to be enough for her.”</p> - -<p>“Need it have taken a European war to make her -see that?”</p> - -<p>The smile that Lucilla turned upon his petulance was -disarming.</p> - -<p>“Don’t be so cross, Owen.”</p> - -<p>She might have been talking to a little boy.</p> - -<p>“I think,” said Quentillian with dignity, “that perhaps -you forget it was only a few hours ago that I -learnt how completely cheated and—fooled, I have -been.”</p> - -<p>He could not avoid a recollection that the Canon -would not have needed such a reminder.</p> - -<p>“Indeed, I don’t forget at all,” said Lucilla earnestly. -“It must be very vexing for you, but—Owen, do forgive -me for saying that I can’t really feel as if you -minded dreadfully. You’re much too understanding, -really, not to know that poor Val didn’t wilfully cheat<span class="pagenum" id="Page_113">[113]</span> -you, any more than she cheated herself. And I think -you, too, perhaps, in another way, were beginning to -feel that you’d made a mistake in promising to marry -one another.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla, Quentillian realized half ruefully and half -with amusement, had beaten him at his own game. -Her unvarnished appraisement of the situation brought -to it no more and no less than the facts warranted.</p> - -<p>His answering gaze was as straight as her own.</p> - -<p>“You’re right,” he said abruptly.</p> - -<p>She held out her hand with a laden plate in it.</p> - -<p>“Pudding?” she enquired, prosaically.</p> - -<p>“Thanks.”</p> - -<p>He made an excellent dinner.</p> - -<p>“But what will happen to us now, Lucilla?”</p> - -<p>“Well, George Cuscaden will be here again, and -that’ll make Val feel better. And you’ll help, won’t -you?”</p> - -<p>“Certainly.”</p> - -<p>And, on the strange assurance, they separated.</p> - -<p>It was much later that Owen, from his own room, -heard the door of the study immediately below him, -open once more, and then shut.</p> - -<p>Barely audible, but still unmistakable, he heard a -steady stream of sound, rising and falling, easily to be -identified as the Canon’s voice.</p> - -<p>“Good God, what more <i>can</i> he have to say about -it?” reflected Quentillian. He was destined to ask -himself the question again, for the sounds, punctuated -by the briefest of pauses, doubtless consecrated to the -delivery of laconic replies from Lucilla, continued far -into the small hours of the morning.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_114">[114]</span>Finally, after Quentillian had fallen asleep, he was -roused by a gentle, reiterated knocking at the door.</p> - -<p>Only too well aware whose hand was responsible -for those considerately modified taps, he rose and went -to open the door, omitting the usual invitation to enter.</p> - -<p>As he expected, the Canon, unutterably pale and -weary-looking, stood without.</p> - -<p>“Dear fellow, I knew that I should find you awake. -Owen, I could not but come to tell you that all is well -with me now. I have forgiven, even as I myself hope—and -need—to be forgiven. I will see Valeria tomorrow, -and tell her that she has my full and free -pardon. Together we will consider what is the best -thing that we can make of this most unhappy business.”</p> - -<p>“And Cuscaden, sir?”</p> - -<p>Quentillian intended to suggest the inclusion of -Captain Cuscaden in the proposed conference, which -might reasonably be supposed to concern him closely, -but the Canon misunderstood the elliptical reference.</p> - -<p>“Aye, Owen, I have no bitterness left in my heart, -even for him. ‘Unto seventy times seven.’ Those -words have been ringing in my ears until I could -almost bring myself to believe that I heard them uttered -aloud. I need not ask if all is well with you, -dear boy? Your self-command and generosity have -shamed me all along.”</p> - -<p>The absolute sincerity of the utterance caused Quentillian, -with considerably more reason than the Canon, -to feel ashamed in his turn.</p> - -<p>“I am very far from being what you think me, sir,”<span class="pagenum" id="Page_115">[115]</span> -he said, earnestly, and with complete truth. “I am -afraid you are very tired.”</p> - -<p>The Canon, indeed, looked utterly exhausted.</p> - -<p>“If so, it is in my Master’s service,” said Canon -Morchard gently. “And you remember, Owen—‘there -remaineth a rest.’ May it be mine, and yours, too—all -in His own good time! Good-night to you, my -dear.”</p> - -<p>For the first time since Owen’s childish days, the -Canon placed his hand upon his head and murmured -a word of blessing.</p> - -<p>Then, with a smile as wistful as it was tender, he -turned and went away upstairs.</p> - - -<h3>(viii)</h3> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> following day was one of singular discomfort, -and of private interviews that were held to be of the -greatest necessity, in spite of the fact that the participants -always emerged from them in worse plight than -they went in.</p> - -<p>The Canon saw Valeria in his study, and she came -out crying.</p> - -<p>Valeria sought Flora, and both wept.</p> - -<p>Quentillian deliberately demanded an interview from -Captain Cuscaden, but was baffled in his design of a -rational discussion of the three-cornered situation by -Cuscaden’s honest bewilderment at the mere suggestion -of disinterested counsel.</p> - -<p>It seemed, indeed, that Captain Cuscaden would -have understood Owen better, and certainly have -thought more highly of him, had the traditional horsewhip,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_116">[116]</span> -abhorred of all Owen’s most deeply-rooted prejudices, -held a place in their conversation, at least as -threat, if not as actual fact.</p> - -<p>Failing the horsewhip, Cuscaden was inclined to -follow in the wake of the Canon and attribute to -Valeria’s discarded <i>fiancé</i> a spirit of generous heroism -that was even less to Quentillian’s liking.</p> - -<p>“Captain Cuscaden takes primitive views,” Quentillian -observed to Lucilla, whom alone he suspected of -summing up the whole situation very much at its true -value.</p> - -<p>“Yes, that will suit Val very well.”</p> - -<p>“You think she takes primitive views, too?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, don’t you?”</p> - -<p>Owen realized that, although he had never thought -Valeria subtle, he had at least supposed her to be -capable of appreciating his own subtlety. But subtleties -had not, apparently, really weighed with Val at all.</p> - -<p>The sight of her tear-mottled face annoyed Owen’s -æsthetic sense so much, and he felt so sincerely -ashamed of his annoyance, that it constrained him to -absent himself from the house all the afternoon. He -would gladly have left St. Gwenllian altogether and -felt sure that the Canon expected nothing less of him, -but Flora brought him a piteous little message from -Val to beg that he would remain until “something was -settled.”</p> - -<p>In the forlorn hope that this had been achieved, -Quentillian returned.</p> - -<p>An eager grasp met him almost upon the threshold.</p> - -<p>“Owen, dear lad! Where have you been? I have<span class="pagenum" id="Page_117">[117]</span> -been uneasy—most uneasy, at your prolonged absence.”</p> - -<p>“I’m very sorry, sir.”</p> - -<p>“Nay, so long as all is well with you! I should -have had more faith.”</p> - -<p>The Canon smiled gravely, and relief was latent in -the smile. Quentillian suddenly realized that Canon -Morchard had not improbably known the sub-conscious -fear of his guest and <i>protégé</i> having sought some -drastic means of ending an existence in the course of -which he had been played so ill a turn.</p> - -<p>His sense of his own inadequacy increased every -moment.</p> - -<p>“May I know how things stand?” he enquired -abruptly.</p> - -<p>“<i>May</i> you? Who has a better right than yourself, -dear Owen? Come you out with me, and let us have a -few words together.”</p> - -<p>Owen followed his host.</p> - -<p>“It has been a trying day—a sad and trying one. -But I need not tell you <i>that</i>—you, whose grief is so -much greater than mine own, even. Though you, -at least, Owen, have nothing to reproach yourself with, -whereas I am responsible for the weakness in my poor -child which has led to this unhappy state of affairs. -But at least she is fully sensible of error—she knows -what she has done.”</p> - -<p>It would be strange indeed if she did not, Owen -reflected, in the universal <i>bouleversement</i> that had -characterized Valeria’s surroundings ever since her -sudden departure from the conventions.</p> - -<p>“To my surprise, Lucilla, upon whose judgment I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_118">[118]</span> -place a certain reliance, although it may sound somewhat -odd to hear of a father seeking counsel of his -child—Lucilla advocates my sanctioning her sister’s -marriage. My first instinct was of course to cut her -short at the mention of anything so premature—so—so -lacking in all taste or feeling. But—I hardly -know——”</p> - -<p>“There is nothing against Captain Cuscaden, is -there?”</p> - -<p>Quentillian made the observation in the simple hope -of expediting the Canon’s decision, but he immediately -perceived that it led him open once more to the imputation -of high-minded generosity.</p> - -<p>“I mean to say, he can afford to marry?” he -amended hastily.</p> - -<p>“He has satisfied me upon that score,” Canon Morchard -admitted. “I have never desired wealth for my -dear ones, nor have they been brought up to it. Valeria -is not unfitted to become the wife of a poor man. Nay, -had she but acted an honourable and high-minded part -throughout, I should gladly send her forth into the -New World. Valeria has something of the pioneer -spirit, I have always felt.”</p> - -<p>He sighed heavily.</p> - -<p>“In short, Owen, if, as Lucilla tells me, you share -her own view, then I shall not withhold my consent -to this marriage. The haste is strange and unseemly, -but Captain Cuscaden cannot postpone his departure, -in view of the position awaiting him, and my unhappy -child, left here, would be in a difficult and awkward -situation, nor have I any security, alas, that she has -sufficient discretion to face such a situation.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_119">[119]</span>“It might be difficult for her,” Quentillian admitted. -“Lucilla is looking for us, I think, sir.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla was indeed advancing towards them.</p> - -<p>The Canon frowned slightly.</p> - -<p>“Am I wanted, my child?”</p> - -<p>“It was Owen that I wanted, father.”</p> - -<p>“My dear, Owen is engaged with me.”</p> - -<p>“I know,” Lucilla seemed slightly perplexed, but -quite unruffled. “I know, but the post is just going, -and I thought Owen ought to see this before I send -it to the papers.”</p> - -<p>She handed him a sheet of notepaper, upon which he -read a brief and conventionally-worded announcement -to the effect that the marriage arranged between himself -and Valeria Morchard would not take place.</p> - -<p>He passed it to the Canon, who groaned.</p> - -<p>“Must this be?” he enquired, with some superfluity.</p> - -<p>The superfluity seemed to strike himself, for he -added almost at once:</p> - -<p>“‘If ’t’were done, ’t’were well ’t’were done quickly’, -no doubt.”</p> - -<p>“There is the other announcement to be thought of,” -said Lucilla with merciless common-sense. “If Val is -married at the end of this week, we shall have to put -that in the papers.”</p> - -<p>The Canon gave Owen a quick, anxious glance.</p> - -<p>“Come into the house, my daughter,” he said to -Lucilla. “We can speak of such matters there.”</p> - -<p>Owen understood that Canon Morchard was thinking -of him.</p> - -<p>On a sudden impulse he went to seek Valeria.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_120">[120]</span>“Look here, my dear, I’d do anything to help you, -but do you really want me to stay on here any longer? -It’s more than I can stand.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Owen! I thought you’d forgiven me—I -thought you didn’t mind, so very much, after all,” she -cried in dismay.</p> - -<p>“I don’t mind in the least,” Quentillian told her -desperately. “But it’s a false position altogether, and -I want to be out of it.”</p> - -<p>“Of course you do, it was very selfish of me to want -to keep you. Only somehow Father is less—dreadful—when -you’re there, Owen. But he’s forgiven me,” -her tears came falling fast, “and I’m going out with -George when he sails, at the beginning of next week. -We shall be married very, very quietly, on Saturday.”</p> - -<p>“I’m very glad to hear it. Indeed I am, Val. I’m -sure he’s a good fellow, and I hope he’ll make you -very happy.”</p> - -<p>She was crying too much to speak, as he went away -from her.</p> - -<p>And Quentillian, definitely, could tell himself that -he had no regrets in relinquishing Valeria.</p> - -<p>Her warm emotionalism had not been without its -appeal, but he had no liking for tears at a crisis, nor -indeed for a crisis at all. His mind reverted to -Lucilla’s matter-of-fact fashion of dealing with the -crucial instances of life at St. Gwenllian, and theoretically, -he met her attitude with applause. But he also -remembered that he had not found her sympathetic, -upon the preceding evening.</p> - -<p>Impartially, he acknowledged with a rueful smile, -his own exactingness.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_121">[121]</span>He must go, and decided that it should be to London. -As for Stear, he would face it later. The -thought of Stear, and the loneliness there, brought the -realest sense of loss to him that he had yet experienced -over the defection of Valeria.</p> - -<p>He had thought to hear her laughter there, to see -the apricot bloom on her lovely face, her children -growing up there.</p> - -<p>With a long sigh, Owen let the vision go. The -warm, human things of life had come very near to -him, but he had not known how to hold them. Some -subtle, inner sense warned him that Valeria had done -well to betake herself and the rich gifts of her ardent -nature, to the simple and primitive life of the colonies, -and the man who was offering that life to her.</p> - -<p>He went away to make his preparations for leaving -St. Gwenllian.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Valeria’s wedding, not unnaturally, provided no occasion -for festivity.</p> - -<p>The bride herself remarked in private to her sisters:</p> - -<p>“I feel exactly as though I was one of those unfortunate -girls who come to Father for him to marry -them so as to ‘make honest women of them’ at the -eleventh hour. You know the way that sort of wedding -is hurried through, in a hole-and-corner style....”</p> - -<p>“It’s lucky for you you’ve got a good deal of your -trousseau made already,” was Lucilla’s practical reply.</p> - -<p>“Yes, and ‘V. Q.’ embroidered on more than half -of it!” cried Val hysterically.</p> - -<p>“You can’t possibly use it,” Flora declared austerely. -“Unless I can alter it for you in time.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_122">[122]</span>“Of course she can use it,” said Lucilla.</p> - -<p>Valeria left them both. In the overstrained condition -of her nerves, Lucilla’s crudely-worded common-sense -and Flora’s fastidiousness were equally little to -her taste. Her father’s sorrowful gravity struck her -with despair, and Owen Quentillian’s magnanimous -detachment puzzled her sincerely, and made her doubly -remorseful.</p> - -<p>It was only when George Cuscaden was actually -with her that she knew with real certainty that she -had done right at the last moment.</p> - -<p>On the night before her wedding, Canon Morchard -called Valeria, gave her his blessing and forgiveness, -and handed to her some of her dead mother’s jewelry.</p> - -<p>“God bless and help you in the way that you have -chosen, and may He bring all things together for good, -as He alone can do.”</p> - -<p>“Forgive me, Father.”</p> - -<p>“My child, I have nothing to forgive. It was not I -whom you wronged, but yourself,—and one other. -His pardon is yours, fully and freely, as you know -well. And now, my Valeria, you owe it to your husband -to put the past behind you. You will enter into -your new life purified by that very sense of past -error, humbled by repentance.”</p> - -<p>The Canon’s voice was very gentle.</p> - -<p>It was long after midnight when Valeria heard him -go upstairs.</p> - -<p>George Cuscaden and Valeria were married by Mr. -Clover, immediately after Matins next day, and Canon -Morchard, throughout the ceremony, knelt with his -face hidden by his hand.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_123">[123]</span>The sense of irrevocability that comes to most brides -assailed Valeria irresistibly for a moment as she -walked, alone with her husband, the short distance -from the church back to St. Gwenllian.</p> - -<p>She glanced up at him, and in the look that met hers -she found all the reassurance that she was ever to -need.</p> - -<p>“A new life, and a new world, my Val. We’re -going to face things together, now.”</p> - -<p>She was no longer afraid or doubtful, but felt the -strangest rush of pure exhilaration.</p> - -<p>It was her justification for the past.</p> - -<p>“A new life, and a new world,” she repeated. -“We’re going to be very happy, in spite of everything -that’s happened.”</p> - -<p>“We <i>are</i> very happy,” said George Cuscaden firmly, -her hand held fast in his.</p> - -<p>“I think they’ll forgive me, at home, in time. Father -was very kind last night, and Flossie and Lucilla have -been so good.”</p> - -<p>“Val, my darling,” said the young man very seriously, -“there’s one thing I do want to say, and you mustn’t -mind. You’ve got to leave the past behind you, now. -Isn’t there something or other in the Bible about forgetting -thy father’s house and thine own people?”</p> - -<p>“Something like that.”</p> - -<p>“Well, I don’t really mean forgetting them, you -know. But you’ve got your own life now, and it isn’t -going to run on the old lines any more. It seems to -me there’s been such a lot of talking and thinking in -your life up to now, that there’s been no room for<span class="pagenum" id="Page_124">[124]</span> -doing anything. You and I are going to change all -that.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, George,” said Valeria.</p> - -<p>She had, mysteriously, become absolutely happy and -absolutely secure. Nothing mattered any more at all -except the fact that George and she had found one another -in time.</p> - -<p>And she was able to surmise, not without a smile, -that she had that moment heard almost the only -Scriptural quotation from her husband of which he -was ever likely to deliver himself.</p> - -<p>Quotations, collections, barren discussions, abstract -ideals, all lay behind her. In future her preoccupations -would concern the health and welfare of her husband -and perhaps his children, food and clothing and -warmth, pots and pans, and the work of her own -hands.</p> - -<p>And from the depths of her heart, Valeria was -glad.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_125">[125]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">II<br /> - - -<small>ADRIAN</small></h2> -</div> - -<h3>(i)</h3> - -<p>“<span class="smcap">You</span> know, I can’t help thinking you’ve been all -wrong about this business of Val’s,” Adrian said reproachfully -to his remaining sisters.</p> - -<p>Lucilla seemed singularly undisturbed by the distressing -pronouncement, but Flora said anxiously:</p> - -<p>“Why, Adrian?”</p> - -<p>“Well, look how frightfully hard it is on the rest -of us. You know what Father is—he’ll be days and -days, if not months and months, getting over this, -and it’ll put him dead against anything of that sort -for life.”</p> - -<p>“These things don’t happen twice in one family, I -hope,” said Lucilla. “Neither Flora nor I are particularly -likely to break off one engagement and enter -into another and get married and go off to Canada, -all inside a week.”</p> - -<p>“You girls never think of anybody but yourselves.”</p> - -<p>“Are you thinking of doing anything like that, -then, Adrian?”</p> - -<p>Lucilla appeared mildly to be amused, and not at -all impressed by the probability of her own suggestion.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_126">[126]</span>“How can I think of doing anything at all when -I can’t get a decent job and only have a nominal allowance? -I know Father can’t afford more, and we’re -all in the same box—and then Val goes and marries -a chap like Cuscaden, who hasn’t a penny, when she -could have had a fellow with a decent little property -and some money of his own, besides what I suppose -he makes by writing. Why, just think what she -could have done for all of us!”</p> - -<p>Lucilla laughed outright.</p> - -<p>“It wouldn’t have made millionaires of us, if she -had married Owen.”</p> - -<p>“Well, I can’t say I blame her, from one point of -view,” Adrian conceded. “A more absolute prig than -Owen has turned into, I never wish to meet. You -know he won’t promise me the living at Stear?”</p> - -<p>“The living at Stear?”</p> - -<p>Flora looked at her brother in all but speechless -astonishment, and Lucilla observed that a living was -usually offered to a clergyman.</p> - -<p>“And is there any reason why I shouldn’t go into -the Church?” Adrian enquired, in counter-irony. -“Goodness knows there was enough talk about it before -the war, and it would please the governor -frightfully. In fact, really, I’m thinking of him as -much as anything. He was disappointed about old -David going into the army, and he’s frightfully cut -up about Val, and he may as well get a little comfort -out of one of us. And I really don’t dislike the idea -much, especially if it means a settled income in a year -or two’s time.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla got up.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_127">[127]</span>“Talk to Mr. Clover, before you say anything to -Father,” she advised. “Flossie, I’m going to see -about Val’s class.”</p> - -<p>Flora looked at Adrian with grave, unhumourous -eyes.</p> - -<p>“You don’t realize what Father would feel about -your speaking of going into the priesthood in that -sort of way, Adrian. You have no faintest vocation -to the life of a clergyman.”</p> - -<p>“What do you know about it? I’m the only person -who can judge of that.”</p> - -<p>“It lies between you and your conscience, certainly. -But if you suppose that Father, with all his experience, -would be satisfied with any but the highest -motives——”</p> - -<p>She stopped expressively.</p> - -<p>“There may be different opinions as to what the -highest motives <i>are</i>,” said Adrian. “I wish this business -of Val’s hadn’t put it out of the question to ask -Owen anything.”</p> - -<p>“Owen is coming to Stear in another month. I am -quite certain that he doesn’t mean to let this make any -difference, and you can ask him anything you want -to. But really and truly, Adrian, if this suggestion -wasn’t so absolutely wild, I should call it most irreverent.”</p> - -<p>It was evident that Flora had uttered the most profound -condemnation of which she was capable.</p> - -<p>That night she enquired of Lucilla whether it was -Adrian’s infatuation for Miss Duffle that brought to -birth his strangely sudden desire for clerical life.</p> - -<p>“I suppose so.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_128">[128]</span>“But apart from everything else, he’s much too -young to marry. And I don’t suppose she’d look at -him.”</p> - -<p>“Neither do I. So we needn’t worry about it.”</p> - -<p>“I feel as if Adrian was somebody quite new, -whom I’d never known before.”</p> - -<p>“He’s only growing up.”</p> - -<p>“Does Father really know Adrian?”</p> - -<p>Lucilla shook her head.</p> - -<p>Both missed Valeria, and the mournful haste with -which she had been equipped for her wedding and immediate -departure for Canada had left them with a -curious sense of having come through a great -catastrophe.</p> - -<p>The Canon was more profoundly depressed than -they had ever seen him, and rarely spoke. The reduced -number of people present at every meal rendered more -significant the abysmal silences of each gathering.</p> - -<p>Owen Quentillian, who had shown no marked disposition -to take an immediate departure from St. -Gwenllian, had been constrained to do so by the -Canon’s grieved air of perceiving for him no other -alternative.</p> - -<p>The house bore a stricken aspect.</p> - -<p>Only Adrian retained a sort of uneasy jauntiness, -that petered away into silence in the presence of his -father.</p> - -<p>Canon Morchard’s presence, however, was far more -withdrawn than usual from his family circle. Always -energetic, he seemed able to find innumerable claims -upon his time, and after the daily adjustment of these, -the study door was apt to shut upon him decisively.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_129">[129]</span>At dinner-time only were they certain of seeing him, -and the resultant gloom was of a nature that induced -Adrian, far more affected by it than either of his sisters -appeared to be, to invite the innocuous Mr. Clover to -dinner very soon after Valeria’s departure.</p> - -<p>The curate was always ready to promote conversation, -and sincerely supposed that his efforts must be -consolatory to his hosts. His attempts took the form -habitual to him of slightly self-evident remarks upon -whatever caught his eye in his surroundings.</p> - -<p>“Ha! Clover, dear man!” The Canon’s voice was -sepulchral, rather than cordial. “Sit ye down—sit ye -down.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Clover made a few timid remarks to his neighbour, -Flora, and wished that it had been Lucilla. He -was always rather frightened of the silent Flora, and -showed his alarmed consciousness of her musical talent -by inquiring:</p> - -<p>“And how is the piano?”</p> - -<p>“What have we here, Lucilla?” said the Canon -gravely, although the dish of cutlets was of an unmistakable -nature.</p> - -<p>He often made use of the phrase, and on this occasion -it bore an inflexion of disapproval that was evidently -not inspired by the cutlets themselves, but by -some inner, more profound discontent.</p> - -<p>“Cutlets in a silver dish,” said Mr. Clover.</p> - -<p>“Do you know that the Admastons are getting up -a theatrical show?” Adrian inquired. “Good idea, -isn’t it?”</p> - -<p>“I didn’t know any of them could act,” said Flora.</p> - -<p>“Oh, they’ve got friends and people. I tell you who’s<span class="pagenum" id="Page_130">[130]</span> -awfully good—Olga Duffle. She’s going to stay on -for the performance. As a matter of fact, they’ve -asked me to help get the thing up.”</p> - -<p>Adrian’s elaborately casual tone did not prevent anyone -except Lucilla from glancing surreptitiously at the -Canon, to see how the announcement was received.</p> - -<p>The Canon was frowning heavily.</p> - -<p>“No one has more sympathy than myself with any -diversions for young people, but the modern craze for -amusement is carried too far. What is it that your -friends are proposing to do, Adrian?”</p> - -<p>“Just get up a musical show—a sort of Pierrot entertainment. -It’ll be mostly singing and dancing, I -expect.”</p> - -<p>“I presume they have a charitable object in view.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose so,” returned Adrian, in a tone that conveyed -with sufficient accuracy to the majority of his -hearers that he had no reason for supposing anything -of the sort.</p> - -<p>“The youth of today is an amazement to me,” -said the Canon impressively. “After coming through -Armageddon, the young men and young women of -the present generation seem given over to a spirit of -triviality—I can call it nothing else—that amazes me. -There is no humour, today, there is ‘ragging’ or ‘rotting.’ -There is no dancing—there is ‘fox-trotting,’ -and ‘jazzing.’ There is no dressing, with beauty and -dignity, for young womanhood—there is blatant indecency -and an aping of a class that I cannot even name -in this room. There is no art, no drama, no literature—there -are <i>revues</i>, and a new class of novel of which -I cannot even trust myself to speak.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_131">[131]</span>The Canon drew a long breath and Adrian murmured -sub-audibly:</p> - -<p>“And fifthly, and lastly——”</p> - -<p>Mr. Clover gazed at the bowl in the middle of the -table and said:</p> - -<p>“Very—very—nice maidenhair,” in a rapid undertone, -and Canon Morchard resumed:</p> - -<p>“I yield to no one, as you young folk here should -readily admit, in my appreciation of the lighter side of -life. I believe, indeed, that I have poked some shrewd -enough fun in my day, at those who would have us -believe that this world is a gloomy place. Rather -would I say, in the old words we all know: ‘A merry -heart goes all the way, but a sad one tires in a mile’—ah! -You children can very well vouch for the amount -of innocent amusement and recreation that has gone -on amongst us. Our Sunday walks, our collecting -crazes, our family quips in which young and old have -taken full share—with deference due, be it understood, -with deference due—our evening readings-aloud—I -think all these, if they have been an entertainment, have -also provided a certain instruction. And that is as it -should be, let me tell you, young people—as it should -be.”</p> - -<p>“My father read aloud the whole of the Waverly -novels to us, when we were children,” Lucilla explained -to the curate.</p> - -<p>“Nowadays, I am given to understand that children -read an illustrated supplement entitled <i>Comic Cuts</i>,” -said the Canon bitterly.</p> - -<p>“Pretty Wedgwood plate,” came in an aside from -Mr. Clover.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_132">[132]</span>“There is a reaction even against Tennyson, that -king of song,” thundered the Canon.</p> - -<p>“Most of all against Tennyson, according to Owen -Quentillian,” said Adrian rather maliciously.</p> - -<p>“Owen is tainted by the folly of the day, undoubtedly—but -I cannot but believe that a young man of -intellectual calibre such as his will learn to distinguish -the true from the false in time. Owen is ‘the child of -many prayers,’” said the Canon with a sudden softening -of his voice.</p> - -<p>A moment later he sighed heavily.</p> - -<p>The direction of his thoughts was only too evidently -concerned with the recent disastrous turn taken by -Quentillian’s <i>affaire de cœur</i>.</p> - -<p>“What is the programme of your friends’ entertainment?” -the curate timorously inquired of Adrian.</p> - -<p>“Well, they’ve not really worked out the details yet, -but I’ve been asked to go over there this afternoon and -help them settle. Of course, Miss Duffle will sing, and -she’s promised to do a step-dance, and she and I -thought of getting up a play of some kind.”</p> - -<p>“You are not in a position to bind yourself to anything -of that sort, Adrian,” said the Canon hastily. -“I would have you realize that this supineness cannot -go on. You appear to forget that you have to find -some work for yourself.”</p> - -<p>It was so seldom that Canon Morchard vented his -feelings upon his younger son that an appalled silence -followed his words, rendering them the more noticeable.</p> - -<p>Then Mr. Clover said:</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_133">[133]</span>“Half-past eight,” in time to the chiming of the -clock on the mantelpiece, and there was another silence.</p> - -<p>Adrian looked sulky, and Flora nervous. The curate -gazed across the table at Lucilla and inquired:</p> - -<p>“What news from India?”</p> - -<p>It was the head of the house who replied.</p> - -<p>“David is strangely lax as a correspondent, Clover, -strangely lax. Flora there is favoured with a letter -more often than most of us—or should I rather say, -less seldom? And yet it costs so little to send a few -lines regularly to the loving ones at home! You young -folk little think what you are laying up for yourselves -in the years to come by neglecting tokens that may -appear trivial at the time. The unspoken kind word, -the unwritten affectionate letter—how they come back -to haunt us later on!”</p> - -<p>It almost appeared that these non-existent symbols -were haunting St. Gwenllian at once, so heavily did -the shadow of David’s remissness hang over the dinner -table.</p> - -<p>The Canon alternated between fits of profound and -cataclysmic silence, during which he ate nothing and -his eyes became grave and fixed in their unhappiness, -and outbursts of vehement discoursiveness, that not -infrequently took the form of rhetorical remonstrances -addressed to an audience only too willing to agree with -him.</p> - -<p>The consciousness of his grief pervaded the atmosphere. -No one could be unaware of it. His children, -indeed, knew of old the successive stages of -anger, morose irritability, and heart-broken remorse, -to which mental suffering reduced their father.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_134">[134]</span>Mr. Clover’s ineptitudes fell upon tense pauses, and -remained unanswered.</p> - -<p>Gradually the little man’s kind, anxious face showed -a faint reflection of the misery that was so plainly to -be read upon the Canon’s.</p> - -<p>Flora’s face looked set in its gravity, Adrian was -frankly sulky and resentful, and Lucilla’s impassivity -was tinged with regretfulness.</p> - -<p>Outside sounds struck almost with violence upon the -silence within, and Mr. Clover murmured distressfully:</p> - -<p>“A motor going along the road, towards the town.”</p> - -<p>“The craze for rapid transport is ruining our English -countryside,” said the Canon. “Frankly, I cannot -away with it. What profit or pleasure can there be in -whirling past unseen scenery, leaving clouds of dust -and an evil odour behind?”</p> - -<p>No one attempted to defend the satisfaction to be -derived from the pastime so epitomized, and the Canon -after a moment pushed back his chair.</p> - -<p>“Don’t move—do not move on any account. Clover, -you will pardon me, I know. I have a great deal of -writing to get through. I shall require no coffee, Lucilla.”</p> - -<p>He went out of the room, unsmiling, and with a -slow, dejected step, his grey head a little bowed forward.</p> - -<p>“How long is this going to last?” inquired Adrian, -after a moment.</p> - -<p>No one attempted to misunderstand his meaning.</p> - -<p>“The worst of it is that he’ll be still more unhappy -a little later on, when he realizes that his depression -has reacted on all of us,” said Flora.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_135">[135]</span>“In the meantime, Adrian, I strongly advise you to -find a job and begin to work at it,” Lucilla added.</p> - -<p>“Your father is very, very much depressed,” said -Mr. Clover.</p> - -<p>Adrian appeared to ponder these encouraging statements, -and then he observed:</p> - -<p>“Well, I don’t seem to be doing any good by staying -here, so I think the best thing I can do is to accept -the Admastons’ invitation and go over there and stay -until after this show. It’ll be much handier for rehearsals, -after all.”</p> - -<p>It may be supposed that this reason, however adequate -in fact, was not put forward, unsupported, by -Lucilla, upon whom Adrian as a matter of course devolved -the task of announcing his immediate intentions -to the Canon.</p> - -<p>“Let it be understood that he makes no further engagement -of the kind,” said the Canon curtly. “I -cannot interfere with his promise to these people, but -this state of affairs must end. I will speak to him -before he goes. Adrian is only a boy still, for all his -war experience.”</p> - -<p>There was the indulgent note in his voice that always -crept there sooner or later when speaking of his -youngest son.</p> - -<p>Adrian went to the Admastons, and St. Gwenllian -became used to the silence. Gradually the Canon resumed -his habits of reading aloud after dinner, and -of exchanging small items of general and parish news -with his family during meals.</p> - -<p>He seldom mentioned Valeria, but they knew that he -had written to her.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_136">[136]</span>He spoke of her again when an invitation came from -the Admastons to witness their entertainment—an invitation -which Adrian, it was evident to his sisters, cheerfully -took it for granted that his father would refuse.</p> - -<p>“It is very soon—very soon, indeed—to meet our -neighbours after this unhappy affair of Valeria’s, that -I fear has been only too much talked about. But it -may be right to accept—it may be right. I cannot wish -to disappoint the dear Adrian, either, though I am out -of tune with gaieties at present. I will think over it, -Lucilla, my dear, and let you know what answer to -return.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla, according to her wont, uttered no opinion, -until Flora said to her:</p> - -<p>“Wouldn’t it be better if we didn’t go to these -theatricals? Won’t Father dislike them very much?”</p> - -<p>“Very much indeed, I should imagine.”</p> - -<p>“And do you suppose Adrian <i>wants</i> us to be there?”</p> - -<p>“Probably not.”</p> - -<p>They looked at one another, Lucilla with a certain -rueful humourousness, Flora with none at all.</p> - -<p>“But, Lucilla, can’t you stop him?”</p> - -<p>“I shouldn’t think so.”</p> - -<p>Miss Morchard was always philosophical, rather -than enterprising.</p> - -<p>The Canon’s decision was communicated to his -daughters a few days later.</p> - -<p>“I have pondered this matter, my daughters, trivial -though it be in itself. And it seems to me that we -should do well to accept Mrs. Admaston’s invitation. -Lucilla, you are my secretary.... And one thing more, -my daughters.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_137">[137]</span>The Canon’s glance rested upon Flora, upon whose -face a shade of dismay had fallen.</p> - -<p>“One thing more. ‘<i>God loveth a cheerful giver.</i>’ -Even though it costs us something, let us go with a -good grace. We owe it to Valeria, to our dear erring -one, to show that she is whole-heartedly forgiven. Yes, -I can say it now, children. I have written my full and -free forgiveness to your sister. The cloud has lifted.”</p> - -<p>If so, it appeared to have done so only with a view -to descending upon other members of the Morchard -<i>ménage</i>.</p> - -<p>Neither Lucilla nor Flora prepared for the Admastons’ -party with any feelings save those of profound -apprehension, and Adrian, meeting them in the hall, -drew Lucilla aside in order to ask indignantly:</p> - -<p>“Couldn’t you have stopped Father from coming tonight? -I don’t want to be a beast, but really, it’s quite -out of his line, and he won’t enjoy himself. In fact, -he’ll probably be sick.”</p> - -<p>The aspirant to the ministry was garbed as a Pierrot, -with a curiously-shaped black patch upon his cheek, -revealed as a miniature couple of dancers intertwined.</p> - -<p>“Olga made it—isn’t it ripping?” said Adrian of -this masterpiece. “I can’t wait—I ought to be behind -the scenes at this minute. I came to look for some -salts or something—Olga’s most awfully nervous. -She’s simply shaking. What’s the proper thing to do -for her, Lucilla? She’s really most awfully upset.”</p> - -<p>“What about?”</p> - -<p>“Stage fright, I tell you. Really good actors and -actresses always get it. I wish I could get hold of -some champagne for her.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_138">[138]</span>“Try standing over her with the water-jug,” Lucilla -suggested crisply, and thereby deprived herself of her -brother’s presence.</p> - -<p>The Canon was always apt, at any gathering, to require -a daughter upon either side, although he knew -almost everyone in the county, and met old friends -with a great and urbane pleasure. On this occasion, -his eye roved in vain for Flora.</p> - -<p>She had murmured to Lucilla: “I don’t think I can -bear it. Even Maud Admaston says they’re all going -to be very <i>silly</i>, and I know Father will loathe it. I’ll -change places later if you want me to.”</p> - -<p>She had then disappeared to the very back of the -large billiard-room at one end of which a stage and -curtains had been erected.</p> - -<p>Their hostess, with what Lucilla inwardly qualified -as misguided kindness, conducted the Canon to a seat -near the top of the room.</p> - -<p>Lucilla resignedly took her place beside him.</p> - -<p>“Capital, capital!” said the Canon genially. “But -where is my little Flora?”</p> - -<p>“I think she found someone who wanted to talk to -her.”</p> - -<p>“Flora is still timid—very timid. I fear that Flora -has let slip her chance of joining our little family -group. I should have enjoyed having a daughter on -either side of me, to exchange impressions.”</p> - -<p>The first item on the heterogeneous programme, -however, was provocative of no very eloquent exchange -of impressions between Canon Morchard and anyone -else.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_139">[139]</span>He listened with a faint air of surprise to an opening -chorus from a row of Pierrots and Pierrettes, interspersed -with various noises from a whistle, a comb, -a pair of castanets, and a small and solid poker banged -loudly and intermittently against a tin tray.</p> - -<p>At the close of it he only said:</p> - -<p>“I hardly recognized our dear lad, at first. That -was he, was it not, at the end of the row, next to the -little lady with black hair?”</p> - -<p>“Yes. The girl was Olga Duffle. I believe she sings -a great deal.”</p> - -<p>The literal truth of her own description was borne -in upon Lucilla as the evening went on. Miss Duffle -did sing a great deal.</p> - -<p>She sang a solo about the Moon, and another one -about a Coal-black Baby Rose, and a third one, very -short and modern and rather indeterminate, asking -where was now the Flow’r, that had died within an -Hour, and ending on the still more poignant enquiry, -addressed to <i>le Bon Dieu</i> Above, Where was one who -said “I love”?</p> - -<p>The Canon, to this item, only asked in a puzzled -way if the end was not rather abrupt?</p> - -<p>“What in my day, we should have termed an unresolved -discord,” he observed with some slight severity.</p> - -<p>The sudden introduction of a quantity of toy balloons -amongst the audience did not amuse him in the -least, although he smiled, coldly and politely, as the -guests, with little screams, buffeted them lightly from -one to another.</p> - -<p>Only the people on the stage, all very young, seemed -thoroughly to realize the function of the toy balloons.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_140">[140]</span>They banged them hither and thither, shrieking with -laughter when the inevitable destruction ensued, and -making each miniature explosion an excuse for calling -out the catchword of the evening—imported from a -<i>revue</i> comedian whose methods, more or less successfully -imitated by most of the young men on the stage, -appeared to consist in the making of grotesque facial -contortions:—“May—I—ask—you—politely—to—<i>absquatulate</i>?”</p> - -<p>At each repetition of the phrase, the actors and actresses -were overcome with mirth.</p> - -<p>The members of the audience were more divided in -their opinions. Their laughter was not immoderate, -and that of Canon Morchard was non-existent.</p> - -<p>Lucilla, gazing anxiously at his severe profile, was -yet able to feel it some slight relief that at least Owen -Quentillian was not present. One such expression of -melancholy beside her was more than enough.</p> - -<p>“I hope I am not what is vulgarly called ‘superior’,” -said the Canon, “but I confess that all this noise appears -to me to be little short of senseless. Surely our -faculties were given us for some better purpose than -pointless, discordant merriment? No one is more -ready than myself to concede——”</p> - -<p>The upheaval of an enormous drum on to the stage -debarred Lucilla from hearing what it was that no one -was more ready than her father to concede, and she -was left, amidst ever-increasing din, to judge from his -exceedingly uncompromising expression, how much -more of the performance would elapse without causing -him to become what was vulgarly called superior.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_141">[141]</span></p> - - -<h3>(ii)</h3> - -<p><span class="smcap">Lucilla</span> Morchard was not naturally of a sanguine -disposition, and it must have been an optimist indeed -who would have ventured to augur that the effect of -the evening’s entertainment might be of benefit to the -Canon’s spirits.</p> - -<p>From placidity he passed to tolerance, and from -tolerance to endurance. In the course of the short -play that concluded the performance, Lucilla perceived -with resigned dismay that endurance was turning -rapidly to serious vexation.</p> - -<p>“Extravagant, vulgar, decadent nonsense,” was the -Canon’s verdict, and Lucilla’s critical faculty endorsed -the trenchant adjectives that he had selected, although -she was devoid of her parent’s apparently acute sense -of disgust.</p> - -<p>“Olga Duffle is a good actress,” she said.</p> - -<p>“One dislikes the <i>levity</i> of it all so profoundly,” -said the Canon. “I believe I am the last man in the -world to hold back from any cheerful, innocent amusement -at fit and proper times and seasons, but I cannot -but regret that Adrian, naturally gifted as he is, should -turn his talents to no better account than mere buffoonery.”</p> - -<p>The part relegated to Adrian in the little play was indeed -of no exalted order, and the most subtle display -of humour conceded to him was concerned with the -sudden removal of a chair behind him and his consequent -fall on to the floor.</p> - -<p>The audience laughed, with mild amusement.</p> - -<p>Lucilla dared not look at her father.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_142">[142]</span>A spirited speech from Olga Duffle, who had shown -no signs whatever of the stage fright that had caused -her fellow-actor so much solicitude, brought down the -curtain. Lucilla’s applause was rendered vigorous by -an impulse of extreme thankfulness.</p> - -<p>She was also grateful to the Canon for the measured -clapping of the palm of one hand against the back of -the other, with which he rewarded a performance that -he had certainly found to be neither instructive nor -amusing.</p> - -<p>Adrian sought no parental congratulations, when -the performers, still in theatrical costume, came down -amongst the audience, but Olga Duffle made her way -towards the Canon.</p> - -<p>She looked, as usual, more attractive than any of the -prettier girls present, and spoke with her habitual childlike, -almost imperceptible, suggestion of lisping.</p> - -<p>“Didn’t you think us all very silly? I’m afraid we -were, but so few people care for anything else, nowadays.”</p> - -<p>Her glance and gesture eloquently numbered the -Canon in the few, though she did not extend the implication -quite so far as to include Lucilla.</p> - -<p>“You are a good actress, Miss Duffle. Have you -had training?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no, nothing to speak of,” said Olga modestly. -“They did offer to give me a year at the big Dramatic -Training place, free, after I’d acted in a charity matinée -a few years ago in London. They said I could -easily play juvenile lead in any theatre in London at -the end of a year, but of course that was all nonsense. -Anyway my people naturally wouldn’t hear of it.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_143">[143]</span>“Indeed. Certainly it is a very moot point how far -the possession of a definite talent justifies embracing a -life such as that of a professional actress must needs -be.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, isn’t it?” said Olga.</p> - -<p>Her big dark eyes were fixed on the Canon’s face, -her lips parted with the expression of absorbed interest -that lent her charm as a listener.</p> - -<p>Lucilla was not surprised to see that the Canon’s -face relaxed as he looked down at the small up-gazing -figure.</p> - -<p>She left them, in response to an imperious glance -directed upon her from the other end of the room.</p> - -<p>“I particularly want the old man to get to know -Olga,” said Adrian with agitation. “It’d do him all -the good in the world to have some of his ideas about -the modern girl put straight, and if anyone can do it, -she can. Wasn’t it priceless of her to make straight -for him like that?”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps she likes to talk to a distinguished man.”</p> - -<p>“My dear old thing, don’t be absurd. Why, Olga -has half London at her feet.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla felt unable to make any display of enthusiasm -at the announcement, although she saw no reason -to doubt that a substratum of fact underlay Adrian’s -hyperbole.</p> - -<p>“I suppose Father thought the whole show utter -tripe?”</p> - -<p>“He didn’t say so,” Lucilla observed drily.</p> - -<p>“Well, for goodness sake get him away as soon as -Olga’s had her talk with him. The Admastons are -determined to turn the whole thing into a glorious rag,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_144">[144]</span> -and it’ll go on till all hours. Father would be wretched, -and besides I should have him on my mind the whole -time. I daresay I shan’t have many more opportunities -of enjoying myself, so I may as well make the -most of this,” said Adrian in a voice charged with -meaning, that Lucilla understood to be an allusion to -his recent ecclesiastical ambitions.</p> - -<p>When she found herself beside her father again, he -was in conversation with a short, fat, dark man whom -he made known to his daughter with a somewhat abstracted -air.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Duffle, Lucilla.”</p> - -<p>She was rather amused at the ease with which Olga’s -parentage could be traced, although in her, a <i>retroussé</i> -nose replaced the wide and upturned pug of her father, -and her dark, intelligent gaze was an unmistakably -improved edition of his shrewd black eyes. From -both faces shone the same ardent, restless, and essentially -animal, vitality.</p> - -<p>Mr. Duffle, however, had none of Olga’s claims to -social charms and talents. Lucilla knew him to be a -successful building contractor, who had amassed a -fortune during the war, and decided that he looked the -part.</p> - -<p>“I’ll come along one morning then, Canon, and have -a little chat with you,” Mr. Duffle was declaring with -a breezy assurance that could hardly have been derived -from the Canon’s expression.</p> - -<p>“You’re kept pretty hard at it, I daresay?”</p> - -<p>“The man who wants me is the man I want,” quoted -the Canon, with his grave smile.</p> - -<p>“Capital. I’ll blow along then, and give you a call.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_145">[145]</span> -My big car is in London, but we’ve got a little Daimler -down here that does very well for country lanes. My -daughter, of course, runs her own little two-seater. -These young people, nowadays, there’s no end to what -they expect. Not that I grudge Olga anything in -reason, you understand. She’s our only one, and -naturally her mother and I think the world of her.”</p> - -<p>A very simple pride beamed in his face as he spoke -of Olga, and Lucilla congratulated him upon her acting.</p> - -<p>“She’s pretty good, isn’t she? I believe she could -take her place amongst professionals any day, so she -tells me. But of course we shouldn’t hear of anything -like that for her. In fact, her mother and I -look very high for our little girl, very high indeed, -I may say, after all that Nature’s done for her, and -the advantages we’ve given her as well.”</p> - -<p>He laughed heartily, and then leaning confidentially -towards Lucilla he said in a semi-whisper:</p> - -<p>“Whoever gets our little Olga, young lady, will be -a very lucky fellow. There’ll be a little bit of—” he -tapped his forehead knowingly “and a little bit of—” -the tap was repeated, against his coat pocket this time. -Lucilla required no very acute powers of intuition to -refer these demonstrations to her brother’s intention.</p> - -<p>She wondered whether the Canon had made a similar -deduction.</p> - -<p>He was silent during their long drive home, but it -was the silence of thoughtfulness rather than that of -depression. The Canon’s intimates could generally -interpret without difficulty the nature of his silences.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_146">[146]</span>On the morning following he called Lucilla into the -study.</p> - -<p>“I had no word with Adrian last night,” he said -wistfully. “I saw you talking to him, my dear. Did -he tell you what day he is coming home again?”</p> - -<p>“No, Father.”</p> - -<p>“I confess that I am perturbed. Are these new -friends of his gentlefolk, are they church people, are -they even Christians?” said the Canon, walking up -and down. “If only the boy would be more unreserved -with me! One is so terribly anxious.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t think he wants to be reserved. He really -has no serious suggestion to offer, as to the future.”</p> - -<p>“My poor lad! He is not sufficiently in earnest. I -have blinded myself to it long enough. His early piety -and simplicity were so beautiful that perhaps I dwelt -upon them as tokens of future growth more than I -should have done. But there was a levity of tone -about these intimates of his that displeased me greatly. -It must cease, Lucilla—this intercourse must cease.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla dreaded few things more than such resolutions, -from which she knew that her father, at whatever -cost to himself or to anybody else, never swerved.</p> - -<p>“The Admastons are neighbours,” she pointed out.</p> - -<p>“All the more reason for Adrian to be content to -meet them in the ordinary course of events, without -treating their house as an hotel. But there is a -further attraction, Lucilla, I am convinced of it.”</p> - -<p>The Canon dropped his voice to impart his piece of -penetration.</p> - -<p>“That little Miss Duffle is undoubtedly attractive,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_147">[147]</span> -but can the boy have the incredible folly to be paying -his addresses to her?”</p> - -<p>It did not seem to Lucilla that any such formal term -could possibly be applied to Adrian’s highly modern -methods of displaying his admiration for Olga, and -she informed her father so with decision.</p> - -<p>“He must at all events be aware that he is in no -position to render any young lady conspicuous by his -attentions,” said the Canon. “I am displeased with -Adrian, Lucilla.”</p> - -<p>Canon Morchard was not alone in his displeasure. -Two days after the theatricals, Olga Duffle’s father appeared -at St. Gwenllian, and was shown into the study.</p> - -<p>The Canon greeted him, his habitual rather stately -courtesy in strong contrast to his visitor’s bluff curtness -of manner.</p> - -<p>“Sit you down, my dear sir.”</p> - -<p>The Canon took his own place on the revolving -chair before the writing-table, and the tips of his -fingers were lightly joined together as he bent his gaze, -benignant, and yet serious, upon the little building contractor.</p> - -<p>“You’ve got a nice little old place here. Needs a -lot of seeing to, though, I daresay. I see you haven’t -the electric light.”</p> - -<p>The Canon glanced round him as though he had -hardly noticed, as indeed he had not, the absence -of this modern advantage.</p> - -<p>“It wouldn’t cost you more than a couple of hundred -to put it in,” said Mr. Duffle negligently.</p> - -<p>The Canon was not in the least interested in the -problematical expense to be thus incurred, but he replied<span class="pagenum" id="Page_148">[148]</span> -gently that perhaps one of these days his successor -might wish to improve St. Gwenllian, and be -in a position to do so.</p> - -<p>“Ah,” said Mr. Duffle. “That brings me to my -point, in a roundabout sort of way. Your young man, -Canon, has no particular inheritance to look forward -to, if I understand rightly?”</p> - -<p>“My young man?”</p> - -<p>“Your boy Adrian. Not even your eldest son, is -he?”</p> - -<p>“Adrian is the youngest of my five children,” said -the Canon with peculiar distinctness. “I have two -sons and three daughters. May I enquire the reason -of this interest in my family?”</p> - -<p>“No offense, I hope, Canon. I thought you’d have -guessed the reason fast enough—my girl Olga. Now -mind you, I know very well that boys will be boys, and -girls girls, for the matter of that. I’m not even saying -that the little monkey hasn’t led him on a bit—she -leads ’em all on, come to that! But Master Adrian -has been talking of an engagement, it seems, and that -won’t do at all, you know. So I thought you and me, -Canon——”</p> - -<p>“Stop!” The Canon’s face was rigid. “Am I to -understand that your daughter has reason to complain -that my son presses undesired attentions upon her, or -causes their names to be coupled together in a manner -displeasing to her?”</p> - -<p>The builder’s stare was one of honest bewilderment.</p> - -<p>“Coupled together!” he repeated derisively. “Why, -the lad follows her about like a little dog. I should -think old Matthew Admaston is as easy going as they<span class="pagenum" id="Page_149">[149]</span> -make ’em, but even he thought it a bit thick to have -your young moon-calf, if you’ll excuse the expression, -on his doorstep morning, noon and night, while my -girl was in the house, till they had to ask him to stay, -to save the front-door bell coming off in his hand.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Duffle’s humourous extravagance of imagery -awoke no response in Canon Morchard.</p> - -<p>“My son’s impertinent folly shall be put a stop to -immediately,” he said, through closely compressed lips.</p> - -<p>“Bless me! there’s nothing that needs a rumpus -made about it, you understand. Only when it comes -to prating about being engaged, and promising to -marry him in goodness knows how many years, and -goodness knows what on—why, then it’s time us older -folk stepped in, I think, and I’m sure you’ll agree -with me.”</p> - -<p>“Do I understand that my son—without reference -to me, I may add—has asked Miss Duffle to do him -the honour of becoming his wife?”</p> - -<p>Mr. Duffle stared at the Canon blankly.</p> - -<p>“Ill though he seems to have behaved, you will hardly -expect me to accept, on his behalf, an entire rejection -of his suit, without reference to the young lady herself.”</p> - -<p>A resounding blow from Mr. Duffle’s open palm -onto his knee startled the Canon and made him jump -in his chair.</p> - -<p>“Good God!” roared the builder, causing Canon -Morchard to wince a second time, “is this talk out of -a novel? How in the name of all that’s reasonable -can the boy marry without a profession or an income? -I’ll do him the justice to say that I’ve never thought<span class="pagenum" id="Page_150">[150]</span> -him a fortune hunter. (He’s not got the guts for that, -if you’ll excuse me being so plain-spoken.) He’s besotted -about the girl, and not the first one either, though -I do say it myself. But my Olga is our only child, and -will get every penny I have to leave, and the fact of -the matter is that she’ll be a rich woman one of these -days, in a manner of speaking. Therefore, Canon, -you’ll understand me when I say that Olga can look -high—very high, she can look.”</p> - -<p>The Canon’s countenance did, indeed, show the most -complete comprehension of the case so stated. His -face, in its stern pallor, became more cameo-like than -ever.</p> - -<p>“Sir, do you accuse my son of trifling, of the unutterable -meanness of endeavouring to engage a young -lady’s affections without any reasonable prospect of -asking her in marriage like an honourable man?”</p> - -<p>“Bless me, Canon, I don’t accuse the young fellow -of anything, except of being a bit of an ass,” said the -builder. “I daresay it’s been six of one and half a -dozen of the other. He’s a nice-looking boy, and all -this play-acting has thrown them together, like; but -that’s over now, and Olga comes back to London with -us next week. But I thought I’d throw you a hint,” -said Mr. Duffle delicately, “so that there’s no nonsense -about following us to town, or anything of that sort. -Her mother’s going to speak to Olga about it, too. -Bless me, it’s not the first time we’ve had to nip a -little affair of this sort in the bud. The fellows are -round our little girl like flies round a honey-pot. We -give her a loose rein, too, in a manner of speaking, but -as the wife pointed out to me last night, it only keeps<span class="pagenum" id="Page_151">[151]</span> -off better chances if a girl is always seen about with -lads who don’t mean business.”</p> - -<p>The Canon groaned deeply, and Mr. Duffle, fearing -himself misunderstood, hastily interposed:</p> - -<p>“Don’t run away with the idea that I’ve anything -against the boy, now, Canon. I’m sure if he was only -a year or two older, in a good job, and with a little -something to look to later on, I’d be only too glad of -the connection. But as things are, I’m sure as a family -man yourself you see my point.”</p> - -<p>He looked almost pleadingly at the Canon as he -spoke.</p> - -<p>“You did perfectly right to come to me, Mr. Duffle; -you did perfectly right. Unspeakably painful though -this conversation has been to me, I fully recognize the -necessity for it.”</p> - -<p>If Mr. Duffle still looked perplexed, he also looked -relieved.</p> - -<p>“That’s right, Canon. I felt you and me would -understand one another. After all, we’ve been young -ourselves, haven’t we, and I daresay we’ve chased a -pretty pair of ankles or said more than we meant on a -moonlight night, both of us, once upon a time.”</p> - -<p>So far did Canon Morchard appear to be from endorsing -this view of a joint past that his visitor added -an extenuation.</p> - -<p>“Of course, before you turned parson, naturally, I -mean. I know you take your job seriously, if you’ll -excuse me passing a personal remark, and that’s not -more than’s needed nowadays. There’s no idea of -young Adrian going in for the clerical line, I suppose?”</p> - -<p>“What I have heard today would be enough to convince<span class="pagenum" id="Page_152">[152]</span> -me that it is out of the question,” said the Canon -bitterly. “But my son has evinced no such desire.”</p> - -<p>“H’m. There was some nonsense talked amongst -the young people about a fat living at Stear being -ready for him if he chose to step into it. I daresay -there was nothing in it but a leg-pull, as they say. In -any case, my girl wouldn’t look at a country parson. -No offence to you, Canon, but it’s best to have these -things out in plain English.”</p> - -<p>“Enough,” said the Canon with decision. “You may -rest assured that my son will cease this insensate persecution -of——”</p> - -<p>“Excuse me interrupting, but why make a mountain -out of a molehill? There’s been no persecution or any -of that talk out of books, in the case. Why, my Olga -can’t help making eyes at a good-looking lad, and letting -him squeeze her hand every now and then.”</p> - -<p>The Canon gave utterance, irrepressibly, to yet another -groan.</p> - -<p>Mr. Duffle looked at him with compassion.</p> - -<p>“Why make a mountain out of a molehill, as I said -before?” he repeated. “There’s been no harm done, -except maybe a little gossiping among the Admaston -lot, and if you tip the wink to your lad, and mother -and I trot Olga back to London again, we needn’t hear -any more of it. We’re old-fashioned people, and -brought up the child old-fashioned, and she’s not one -of these modern young women who can’t live at home. -I give her the best of everything, and a pretty long -rope, but she knows that as long as she’s living under -my roof and spending my money she’s got to obey me -and her mother when we <i>do</i> give an order.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_153">[153]</span>The builder’s face, momentarily dogged, relaxed -again and he laughed jovially.</p> - -<p>“Though I’m not saying the little puss can’t get most -things out of us by coaxing! But we’re set on a good -marriage for her, that I tell you straight.”</p> - -<p>“There is only one foundation for the sacrament of -marriage,” said the Canon sombrely, “and that is mutual -love, trust and esteem.”</p> - -<p>“Quite, quite; the wife always takes that line herself. -‘When the heart is given, let the hand follow,’ -she always says, and Olga knows well enough that -she’ll have a free choice, within reason. But love in -a cottage isn’t her style, and things being as they are, -there’s no reason, as I said before, why she shouldn’t -look high. She’s a sensible girl, too, and if there is -a bit of the flirt about her, she doesn’t lose her head. -I will say that for her.”</p> - -<p>“I wish that I could say the same of my son,” bitterly -rejoined the Canon.</p> - -<p>“Well, well, don’t be too hard on the lad. Human -nature is human nature all the world over, is what I -always say. All the parsons in Christendom can’t alter -that, if you’ll excuse the saying. It’s natural enough -your son should lose his head over a pretty girl like -my Olga,” said Miss Duffle’s parent indulgently. “All -I mean is, that it must stop there, and no nonsense -about being engaged, or anything of that kind.”</p> - -<p>“Do these unhappy young people consider themselves -bound to one another, as far as you know?”</p> - -<p>“Bless me, Canon, they’re not unhappy. At least, -my Olga certainly isn’t, and if your lad throws off a -few heroics, he’ll soon get over it. Why, I remember<span class="pagenum" id="Page_154">[154]</span> -threatening to blow out my brains—as I chose to call -them—when I was no older than he is, and all for the -sake of a lady ten years older than myself, and married -and the mother of three, into the bargain!”</p> - -<p>Mr. Duffle was moved to hearty laughter at this -reminiscence, although it failed signally to produce the -same exhilarating effect upon Canon Morchard.</p> - -<p>Perhaps in consequence of this, his mirth died away -spasmodically, with a rather apologetic effect.</p> - -<p>“Well, well, Canon, take a tip from me, if I may -suggest such a thing, and don’t take this business too -seriously. He’ll be head over ears in love with somebody -else before you can look round, and it’ll all be -to do over again.”</p> - -<p>Before this luminous vista of future amatory escapades, -the builder appeared to feel that the interview -had better be brought to its conclusion, and he rose.</p> - -<p>An evident desire to console and reassure his host -possessed him.</p> - -<p>“Get the young fellow a job of work, if I may -advise. It’s wonderful how it steadies them down. -He’ll have no time to run after the petticoats when he’s -tied by the leg to an office, or roughing it in one of the -Colonies.”</p> - -<p>“The choice of a career lies in my son’s own hands,” -said the Canon stiffly. “But you may rest assured, -Mr. Duffle, that he will be allowed no further occasion -for misusing his time and abusing other people’s hospitality -as he appears to have been doing. I am obliged -to you, painful though this conversation has been to -us both, for treating me with so much frankness in -the matter.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_155">[155]</span>“Don’t mention it,” said Mr. Duffle.</p> - -<p>The Canon bowed slightly and escorted his visitor -to the door.</p> - -<p>The Daimler car was in waiting, but the builder -paused with one foot on the step.</p> - -<p>“I’ll tell you one thing, Canon,” he remarked confidentially.</p> - -<p>The Canon, with extreme reluctance in his demeanour, -signified attention.</p> - -<p>“If you <i>should</i> think of having that little improvement -made to the place that I suggested—you know, -the electric light put in—I can tell you the very people -to go to—Blapton & Co. They’ve done a lot of work -for our firm, and they’ll do it as reasonable as you can -hope for. Don’t hesitate to mention my name.”</p> - -<p>He nodded, and got into the car.</p> - -<p>The Canon stood upon the front doorstep, his face -pale and furrowed, his lips compressed.</p> - -<p>“Stop!” shouted Mr. Duffle, suddenly thrusting his -head from the window of the slowly moving car.</p> - -<p>The Daimler stopped.</p> - -<p>Mr. Duffle descended from it nimbly and once more -approached the Canon.</p> - -<p>He looked, for the first time, heated and confused.</p> - -<p>“It slipped my memory that I wanted to give you -this trifle. Perhaps you’ll see to some of those poor -fellows who are out of work through no fault of their -own, having the handling of it for the wives and kiddies. -I’ve been lucky myself, and I never like to leave -a place without what I may call some sort of thanksgiving. -Not a word, please. Ta-ta.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_156">[156]</span>The Daimler made another <i>sortie</i>, and the Canon -was left, still standing motionless on the doorstep, with -the builder’s cheque for twenty-five pounds in his hand.</p> - - -<h3>(iii)</h3> - -<div class="blockquot"> -<p>“<span class="smcap">Dear Lucilla</span>,</p> - -<p>“I think you’d better not expect me till you see me, -if that’ll be all right. I may be going up to London -for a day or two when the party breaks up here tomorrow, -as I really must see about a job of some kind. -I’m sure Father will approve of this, so mind you tell -him it’s the reason. I hope he wasn’t frightfully sick -at the way we all played the fool the night of the show, -but really it was his own fault for coming, and if he -didn’t like it, he must just do the other thing.</p> - -<p>“Cheerio.</p> - -<p class="right"><span class="indentright">“Yours,</span><br /> -“<span class="smcap">Adrian</span>.”</p> -</div> - -<div class="blockquot"> -<p>“<span class="smcap">My Dear Adrian</span>,</p> - -<p>“It would be better if you could come back here -before deciding to go to London. Father is writing -to you, and you will probably see from his letter that -he particularly wants you at home. I hope you are -not in trouble, but Father is certainly upset about something, -and you will only make matters worse by going -off in a hurry. Besides, I think he would quite likely -follow you.</p> - -<p class="right"><span class="indentright">“Your affectionate sister,</span><br /> -“<span class="smcap">Lucilla Morchard</span>.”</p> - -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_157">[157]</span></p> -<div class="blockquot"> -<p>“<span class="smcap">Dear Lucilla</span>,</p> - -<p>“If you hear of me doing something <i>desperate</i>, you -may tell Father that he has only himself to thank! I -now know what he and old Duffle have been up to, -between them, and I may tell you that I do not intend -to put up with this sort of thing any longer. Father -doesn’t seem to realize that I am a <i>man</i>, and in grim -earnest over <i>some</i> things, and he and old Duffle have -now utterly scotched my chances of happiness for life, -although I daresay without realizing what they were -doing. Olga is the only girl I shall ever love, and if -I have lost her I do not care what I do or what becomes -of me, and you may tell Father so. If this is what -<i>religion</i> leads to, you can also tell him that I am utterly -off it for life. That is what they have done, by their -interference with my affairs, because I am almost sure -Olga would at least have become engaged to me, if she -had been let alone, and not bullied by her father and -mother, and threatened with <i>poverty</i> if she married -me. As you know, it needn’t have been anything of -the sort, if my plans had worked out all right, and we -could have had Stear, but I am <i>completely</i> off the -Church, in any shape or form, so that is what Father -has done, whether he knows it or not!!!</p> - -<p>“You will, I suppose, be upset at this letter being -so bitter in tone, but I may say that my faith in human -nature is utterly shattered for good and all, and this -has been done by my own father!! I am coming home -on Monday and <i>not before</i>, so it’s no use father dictating -to me.</p> - -<p class="right"><span class="indentright">“Yours,</span><br /> -“<span class="smcap">Adrian</span>.”</p> -</div> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_158">[158]</span></p> - - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>“<span class="smcap">My Dearest Adrian</span>,</p> - -<p>“I don’t understand why Lucilla tells me that you -are returning home on Monday, when you know it is -my wish, distinctly expressed in my letter to you two -days ago, that you should be here on Saturday, so that -we may spend the Sunday together. Unless you have -a very valid reason for disregarding my wishes, I must -insist, for your own sake, upon your complying with -them. I do so want you to be <i>considerate</i>, quite apart -from the question of <i>dutifulness</i>—for instance, it is -quite a little thing, but you don’t say what time you -are arriving here, and yet you surely know that this -makes a difference with regard to questions of meals, -etc., in a small household such as ours. It is only want -of thought, dear lad, but do try and correct this fault. -I have so often had to reprove myself for the like -small negligences that it makes me anxious to see the -same tendency in you. This is not a lecture, my dear -boy, but only a <i>reminder</i>, from one who has had to be -both mother and father to you.</p> - -<p>“I have other, and very much more serious, matters -to talk over with you when we meet, but all shall be -done in the spirit of love and confidence, I do trust, -and if I am obliged to inflict pain upon you, you must -remember that it is multiplied ten-fold upon my own -head.</p> - -<p>“I shall expect a line, sent either to myself or to -Lucilla, announcing the hour of your arrival on <i>Saturday</i>. -God by you, dearest of lads, until we meet.</p> - -<p class="right"><span class="indentright">“Your devoted</span><br /> -“<span class="smcap">Father</span>.”</p> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_159">[159]</span></p> - -<div class="blockquot"> -<p>“<span class="smcap">Dear Lucilla</span>,</p> - -<p>“On second thoughts, I shall come home on Saturday, -in time for dinner. Most likely I shall go straight -off to London on Monday morning, but you needn’t -say anything to Father about this. If you can, persuade -him to have up the port on Sunday night.</p> - -<p class="right"><span class="indentright">“Yours,</span><br /> -“<span class="smcap">Adrian</span>.”</p> -</div> - -<p>“Dear lad! He is all anxiety to do right, at bottom,” -said the Canon tenderly to Lucilla, when a censored -version of this communication had been passed on to -him. “You see how readily he submits to returning on -Saturday, in order to please me.”</p> - -<p>If Lucilla thought this act of submission inspired -by fear, rather than by a desire to please, she did not -say so.</p> - -<p>The Canon had said nothing to her of his interview -with Mr. Duffle, and made only one remark which -might be held to refer to his visitor:</p> - -<p>“We are all of us apt to set a false value on appearances, -I suspect. Aye, my daughters, in spite of his -‘forty years in the wilderness,’ it is so with your father. -Trivial vulgarities, or mere superficial coarseness, have -blinded one time and again, till some sudden, beautiful -impulse or flash of generous delicacy comes to rebuke -one. Well, well—each mistake can be used as a rung -of the ladder. Always remember that.”</p> - -<p>That trivial vulgarities and superficial coarseness -were characteristics of Mr. Duffle was undeniable, but -Lucilla deduced that these had been redeemed in the -manner suggested, since the builder’s prolonged visit<span class="pagenum" id="Page_160">[160]</span> -to her father had left him, though grave, singularly -calm. He had, indeed, summoned Adrian to St. -Gwenllian, but his manner showed none of the peculiar -restrained suffering that was always to be discerned -when the Canon felt one of his children to be in serious -fault.</p> - -<p>“It is more than time that Adrian found his vocation,” -said the Canon. “I have been to blame in allowing -him to drift, but it has been an unutterable joy to -have him with us, after these terrible war years. However, -there is no further excuse for delay. He and I -must have a long talk.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla could surmise only too well the effect of a -long talk upon Adrian, if his frame of mind might be -judged correctly from his impassioned letter to her.</p> - -<p>As usual, however, she said nothing.</p> - -<p>The Canon’s mood of mellow forbearance continued -to wax as the day went on, and he met his favourite -son with a benign affectionateness that contrasted -strangely with Adrian’s dramatically-restrained demeanour.</p> - -<p>Flora, as a rule utterly incurious, asked Lucilla what -was the matter.</p> - -<p>“I don’t quite know. Something to do with Olga -Duffle, I imagine. Probably Adrian has proposed to -her, or something foolish of the kind, and the Duffles -want it stopped.”</p> - -<p>“Has he said anything more about his idea of taking -Orders?”</p> - -<p>“I hope not,” said Lucilla rather grimly.</p> - -<p>She preferred not to imagine the Canon’s probable -reception of an ambition thus inspired.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_161">[161]</span>The long talk projected by Canon Morchard was -impracticable on a Sunday, always his busiest day, -until evening.</p> - -<p>As the Canon rose from the late, and scrupulously -cold, evening meal, he said:</p> - -<p>“Daughters, you will not sit up beyond your usual -hour. Adrian, my dear—come.”</p> - -<p>The door of the study shut, and Lucilla and Flora -remained in the drawing-room.</p> - -<p>Lucilla occupied herself with note-books and works -of reference, and Flora, in the exquisite copper-plate -handwriting that the Canon had insisted upon for all -his children, in close imitation of his own, wrote out -an abstract of her father’s sermon, as she had done -almost every Sunday evening ever since she could remember.</p> - -<p>The silence was unbroken till nearly an hour later, -when Lucilla observed:</p> - -<p>“Do you know, Flossie, that Father’s book is very -nearly finished? There are only two more chapters -to revise.”</p> - -<p>“‘Leonidas of Alexandria,’” said Flora thoughtfully.</p> - -<p>The subject of the Canon’s exhaustive researches -and patient compilations was known to the household.</p> - -<p>“He’ll publish it, of course?”</p> - -<p>“He hopes to. But Owen told me that there isn’t a -very great demand for that kind of work, nowadays.”</p> - -<p>Flora looked inquiringly at her sister.</p> - -<p>“I hope Father isn’t going to be disappointed,” she -said, half interrogatively.</p> - -<p>“I’m very much afraid that he is.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_162">[162]</span>On this encouraging supposition of Miss Morchard’s, -the conversation ended.</p> - -<p>In accordance with their father’s desire, both sisters -had gone upstairs before the conference in the study -came to an end.</p> - -<p>There came a knock at Lucilla’s door.</p> - -<p>She opened it.</p> - -<p>“Come in, Adrian.”</p> - -<p>“It’s all up,” said Adrian, in the eloquent idiom of -his generation, and made a melodramatic gesture of -desperation.</p> - -<p>Lucilla closed the door and sat down, seeming -undisturbed by so cataclysmic an announcement of -finality.</p> - -<p>“I’m off on my own, after this. Father has utterly -mucked up my entire life, as I think I told you in my -letter, and he can’t see what he has done!”</p> - -<p>Lucilla wondered whether Adrian had spent two and -a half hours in endeavouring to open his parent’s eyes -to his own work of destruction.</p> - -<p>“Would you mind telling me exactly what has happened?”</p> - -<p>Adrian embarked upon a tone of gloomy narrative.</p> - -<p>“Well, I don’t know whether you had any idea that -I am—was—well, frightfully hard hit by that girl -Olga. Not just thinking her pretty and clever, and all -that sort of thing, you know, though of course she -was—<i>is</i>, I mean. But simply knowing that she was -the one and only person I should ever care for. Of -course, I know now that I was mistaken in her, to a -certain extent, and I can tell you, Lucilla, that it’s very -hard on a man to be as thoroughly disillusioned as I’ve<span class="pagenum" id="Page_163">[163]</span> -been. It’s enough to shatter one’s faith in women for -life.”</p> - -<p>“But what did Father do?” said Lucilla, as her -brother seemed inclined to lose himself in the contemplation -of his own future mysogyny.</p> - -<p>“What did he <i>do</i>?” echoed Adrian bitterly. “He -and old Duffle had the—the audacity to meet together -and discuss my private affairs, and take upon themselves -to decide that anything between me and Olga -ought to be put an end to. I must say, I thought that -kind of thing had gone out with the Middle Ages, -when people walled up their daughters alive, and all -that kind of tosh. And how Olga, of all people, put -up with it I can’t imagine; but they seemed to have -pitched some yarn about my not being able to afford to -marry, and frightened her with the idea of my being -after her money, I suppose.”</p> - -<p>“But Adrian, had you asked her to marry you?”</p> - -<p>“No, of course not. But I did think we might have -been engaged. Then I wouldn’t have had to put up -with seeing a lot of other fellows after her,” said -Adrian naïvely.</p> - -<p>“And did you explain that to Father?” Lucilla inquired, -not without a certain dismay in picturing the -Canon’s reception of these strange ideals.</p> - -<p>“More or less; but you know what he is. He always -does most of the talking himself. I can quite understand -why we were so frightened of him as kids, you -know. He seems to work himself up about things, and -then he always has such a frightfully high-faluting -point of view. We might really have been talking at -cross-purposes, half the time.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_164">[164]</span>“I can quite believe it.”</p> - -<p>“Of course, I’m not exactly afraid of him now, but -it does make it a bit difficult to say what’s in one’s -mind.”</p> - -<p>“That’s just the pity of it, Adrian. He always says -that he does so wish you were more unreserved with -him. He does very much want you to say what’s in -your mind.”</p> - -<p>“But he wouldn’t like it if I did—in fact, he probably -wouldn’t understand it.”</p> - -<p>Few things could be more incontrovertible.</p> - -<p>“The fact is that father has quite a wrong idea of -me. He seems to expect me to have all the notions -that <i>he</i> had, when he was a young high-brow at Oxford, -about ninety years ago. As I told him, things -have gone ahead a bit since then.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla, for her consolation, reflected that few people -are capable of distinguishing accurately between -what they actually say, and what they subsequently -wish themselves to have said, when reporting a conversation. -It was highly probable that Adrian had been -a good deal less eloquent than he represented himself -to have been.</p> - -<p>“You didn’t say anything, did you, about your idea -of taking Orders?”</p> - -<p>“No,” said Adrian rather curtly. “I did begin something -about it, just to show that I hadn’t been the -unpractical ass he seemed to think I was, but he went -off at the deep end almost directly. I said something -about going into the Church, you see, and he didn’t -wait for me to finish, but started away about our all -being ‘in the Church’ from the day of our baptism,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_165">[165]</span> -and so on—splitting hairs, I call it. As if everyone -didn’t know what is generally meant by going into the -Church.”</p> - -<p>“Well, in this case, I really hope he didn’t know. -Flossie and I always told you that Father would be -very much shocked at your way of looking at the -priesthood.”</p> - -<p>“Anyhow, it’s all off now,” said Adrian gloomily. -“There wouldn’t be the slightest object in it, and besides -I’m thoroughly off religion at the moment, as I -think I told you. No, I shall go to London.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla looked further inquiry.</p> - -<p>“No, I’m not going after Olga; you can be quite -easy about that. In fact, I may say I don’t ever want -to set eyes on her again, after the way she’s let me -down. No, I’m going to try journalism, or something -like that. Anyhow, I mean to be a free lance for a -bit.”</p> - -<p>The first note of real resolution that Lucilla had -heard there, crept into Adrian’s young voice.</p> - -<p>“Father really can’t go on running the show for me -like this. It’s me that’s got to decide what to do with -my life, and I’m going to get a bit of experience on -my own. I know I had six months in France, but -that isn’t going to be the whole of my life. In fact, -Lucilla, I’ve decided, though I’m sorry in a way, to -say such a thing, that Father has got to be taught a -lesson, and it’s me that’s going to do the teaching.”</p> - -<p>Iron firmness, denoted by a closely compressed -mouth and a rather defiant eye fixed glassily upon Lucilla’s, -characterized Adrian’s announcement.</p> - -<p>“Listen,” said Lucilla.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_166">[166]</span>They heard a heavy footfall, eloquent of weariness, -outside the door. It was followed by the sound of an -imperative tap.</p> - -<p>Adrian’s face relaxed and a more normal expression -succeeded to the compelling one that had petrified his -gaze.</p> - -<p>“Adrian, my son, are you there?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, father.”</p> - -<p>“Dear lad, how thoughtless you are! Your sister -is tired, and it is already very late. Finish your talk -tomorrow, my dear ones.”</p> - -<p>There was a pause.</p> - -<p>Then Adrian said:</p> - -<p>“Well, I suppose Time <i>is</i> on the wing, as usual. -Good-night, Lucilla.”</p> - -<p>He went out.</p> - -<p>Lucilla heard the Canon bid him good-night, and his -voice held profound sadness, rather than the vexation -that she had feared.</p> - -<p>She moved swiftly to the door.</p> - -<p>“Father, I have found that reference in Origen.”</p> - -<p>The Canon’s face, drawn and tired, lightened on -the instant.</p> - -<p>“My indefatigable searcher after truth! Lucilla indeed -casts light into dark places—you were well named, -my daughter. That is good news indeed—good news -indeed.”</p> - -<p>“Should you like me to come down again, or are -you too tired?”</p> - -<p>“Nay, Lucilla, you heard me bid Adrian to his room. -Would you have me transgress my own regulations?<span class="pagenum" id="Page_167">[167]</span> -That would be inconsistent indeed. We will investigate -our Origen tomorrow.”</p> - -<p>“You are so near the end of it now, Father.”</p> - -<p>“Aye, the work has progressed wonderfully these -last few months. And I have been wonderfully blessed -in your help, my child—my right hand! It has been a -labour of love indeed.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla hoped that he would go to his room still -cheered by the thought of the book. But the Canon -lingered, to enquire sadly:</p> - -<p>“You have talked with Adrian?”</p> - -<p>“A little.”</p> - -<p>“Dear fellow, one must make all allowance for his -disappointment of his first fancy, but there is a want -of stability—what I can only call a levity of spirit—that -distresses one beyond words. He was all submission -and deference, but there was not the spontaneous -calling of deep unto deep that one somehow looked for.... -And yet Adrian is the one of you all from whom -I had hoped for the greatest unreserve, the most ideal -companionship....”</p> - -<p>Lucilla knew it, had always known it, only too well.</p> - -<p>Not one of his other children had been treated with -the indulgence that the Canon had always displayed -towards his youngest-born.</p> - -<p>The Canon’s next words chimed in oddly with her -thoughts.</p> - -<p>“Perhaps I have condoned too much in Adrian. It -is not a strong character—but the strongest are not -always the most lovable. He talks now of going to -London.”</p> - -<p>“So he told me.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_168">[168]</span>“One can only trust,” said the Canon with a heavy -sigh. “I must bid you good-night, dear daughter. It -is not right that you should be kept up in this fashion.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla was left to seek what repose she might.</p> - -<p>The next day at St. Gwenllian was one of constraint.</p> - -<p>Adrian was silent in his father’s presence, and full -of adamantine resolution in his absence. At meal -times, the subjects to be avoided—which now included -the Admastons, their theatricals, and the Duffle family, -as well as Valeria’s marriage—seemed unduly numerous. -In the evening, the Canon made a great and evident -effort, that struck Lucilla as infinitely pathetic, to -readjust matters.</p> - -<p>His show of laboured brightness could deceive no -one, but Lucilla and Mr. Clover seconded his attempts -at general conversation with determination, and Flora -was not more silent than was her wont. Adrian, manifestly -sulky at first, awoke presently to a change in the -atmosphere, and thereupon erred rather upon the side -of garrulity than on that of restraint.</p> - -<p>His face darkened, however, when the Canon after -dinner suddenly said with pseudo-heartiness:</p> - -<p>“I am about to call one of our old-time family councils, -young people. What say you, Adrian, to a little -friendly discussion of your future plans? Time was, -perhaps, when these things were settled rather in a -long, heart-to-heart talk between father and son; but -times change, and we must move with them—we must -move with them.”</p> - -<p>It was impossible to doubt that the Canon was, or -supposed himself to be, moving with the times rather -in the hope of pleasing Adrian, than from any personal<span class="pagenum" id="Page_169">[169]</span> -liking for the direction in which they appeared -to be taking him.</p> - -<p>“Perhaps some of these wiseacres may make a helpful -suggestion as to the future. Clover, you have been -guide, philosopher and friend to us all this many a -year. And Lucilla—Lucilla is gifted with a very level -head, as I sometimes tell her—a very level head. As -for my little Flora, whose head is sometimes in the -clouds, at least those who say least see most, eh Flora? -Let us to the with-drawing-room, children.”</p> - -<p>Seated in the lamp light, with Lucilla and Flora both -occupied with needlework—the Canon had long ago -decreed that no discussion need entail idle hands—Canon -Morchard looked wistfully at Adrian, leaning -against the marble mantelpiece with an air of embarrassment.</p> - -<p>“What are your wishes, dear lad—your hopes, your -plans?”</p> - -<p>To this singularly comprehensive enquiry, Adrian -seemed to find some difficulty in making an immediate -reply.</p> - -<p>“Your father is very anxious—we’re all anxious,” -said Mr. Clover pleadingly.</p> - -<p>“Why should you be?” Adrian demanded fretfully, -turning sharply towards the curate. “I’m quite old -enough to settle for myself what I’m going to do.”</p> - -<p>“But you haven’t settled it, Adrian,” said Lucilla -mildly.</p> - -<p>“That is why we all want to help you, if possible,” -the Canon observed. “Perhaps you may remember -some words that I am very fond of, and that have<span class="pagenum" id="Page_170">[170]</span> -found their way now and again into our pleasant confabulations -on life and letters in general:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="verse">There comes a tide in the affairs of men</div> -<div class="verse">That, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune.</div> -</div></div> - -<p>“There is, indeed, a higher Leading that I trust, and -indeed know, you would none of you disregard, but -opportunity may very often serve us as an indication—an -indication. It seems to me, dear Adrian, that some -such ‘tide’ has come in your affairs now, and it would -be pleasant indeed to feel that, taken at the flood, it -would lead on to fortune, in the best and highest sense -of the word.”</p> - -<p>There was a pause, and then Mr. Clover said:</p> - -<p>“Or at least independence.”</p> - -<p>“That’s what I want,” said Adrian ungraciously. -“Only never having been brought up to anything special, -it’s a bit hard to know what to go in for.”</p> - -<p>“You said something about journalism,” Lucilla -reminded him, aware that the word, which would certainly -be distasteful to the Canon, must be uttered -sooner or later.</p> - -<p>Adrian looked at his sister, and not at his father, -as he replied:</p> - -<p>“I think that’s really what I shall do.”</p> - -<p>“But who is going to employ you, Adrian?” Flora -enquired with simplicity.</p> - -<p>The boy frowned.</p> - -<p>“You don’t understand these things. I shall just -get up one or two things, and show them to the right -people, and if they’re any good at all I shall get taken -on somewhere.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_171">[171]</span>“The Press is a great force for good as, alas, for -evil, my son, but I confess that such a course would be -a disappointment to me. Have you no other ambition?” -asked the Canon wistfully.</p> - -<p>“I can’t think of anything else, Father.”</p> - -<p>“I thought—” breathed Flora to Lucilla.</p> - -<p>Lucilla shook her head, in repudiation of Adrian’s -erstwhile schemes of clerical life, and she heard from -Flora a sigh that probably denoted relief.</p> - -<p>“Then, my dearest fellow, so be it. You know that -we wish nothing but your highest good, and your -happiness here and hereafter. I will increase your -present allowance as far as I can do so without robbing -others, and that should enable you to maintain yourself -in London until you are earning enough to dispense -with it. Have you any definite starting point in your -mind?”</p> - -<p>“Not yet, but I can write to a fellow I know. I say, -Father—this is very good of you.”</p> - -<p>There was both surprise and genuine gratitude in -Adrian’s voice.</p> - -<p>The Canon, entirely regardless of anyone else as he -always was when deeply in earnest, rose and placed -his hand on the young man’s shoulder.</p> - -<p>“I have no wish but your truest and highest good, -dear lad, as I said before. If I have been weak enough -to indulge in plans and fancies of my own, they shall -not come between us now. I believe I may say that -I have learnt at last that whatever <i>is</i>, is best. Let us -go on, believing all things, hoping all things.... If -there has been weakness in the past, dear Adrian, I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_172">[172]</span> -<i>know</i> that you will justify my confidence in the future, -God helping you.”</p> - -<p>The Canon’s voice had grown husky over the last -few words. He bent his head and gently and solemnly -kissed Adrian’s forehead.</p> - -<p>Then he went out of the room.</p> - - -<h3>(iv)</h3> - -<p><span class="smcap">For</span> many months after Adrian’s departure, the monotonous -round of life at St. Gwenllian remained -undisturbed.</p> - -<p>News came from Canada of the birth of a son to -Valeria, and the Canon’s last resentment vanished, although -he still spoke of “our poor Valeria.”</p> - -<p>He derived unmistakable satisfaction from Owen -Quentillian’s presence at Stear, and the young man -received frequent invitations to the Vicarage, after a -first visit during which the host suffered infinitely more -than the guest, in the fear of reviving past associations.</p> - -<p>Adrian wrote occasionally, giving no very encouraging -accounts of his progress in journalism, and continued -to receive the increased allowance that his father -sent him with scrupulous regularity. He did not come -home again, even in the summer.</p> - -<p>Then one day the Canon, at his writing-table, laid -down his pen and said to Lucilla:</p> - -<p>“<i>Nunc dimittis</i>.... My book is done, Lucilla; -I can add no more to it. It has been a long task, and -at times a heavy one, for the flesh is weak—for all that -the spirit is willing, the flesh is weak. But it is over -now.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_173">[173]</span>His rapt, smiling gaze held Lucilla’s for a long -while, as she smiled back her congratulation.</p> - -<p>“And now, my dear one, to give our work to the -world!” He rubbed his hands together exultantly. -“For it is yours, Lucilla, almost as much as mine.”</p> - -<p>She shook her head, still smiling. The Canon’s -generosity, any more than his occasional injustice, did -not blind his daughter to the bald facts of a case as -she saw it.</p> - -<p>A shadow was across her genuine participation in -his joy, now.</p> - -<p>“What shall you do with it, Father?”</p> - -<p>“There is no more to be done,” repeated the Canon. -“All is copied, all is corrected. Your typescript is -admirable, Lucilla, and I trust that my few emendations -have not defaced it.”</p> - -<p>“Then is it going to the publishers?”</p> - -<p>“My practical Lucilla! Is your mind already in -search of an adequate supply of brown paper and sealing -wax? These things are not done so hastily as -impetuous youth would wish, however. There will be -a preliminary correspondence, my dear, even when I -have definitely decided which of the publishing houses -to approach. A work such as this one, which has taken -years of labour, is not sent lightly forth to take its -chance, as might be a work of fiction.”</p> - -<p>The Canon laid his hand lovingly upon the immense -pile of typescript before him. It represented, as he -had said, the labour of years.</p> - -<p>“Owen is in touch with several publishers, I believe.”</p> - -<p>“Possibly so, Lucilla.” The Canon’s tone was not<span class="pagenum" id="Page_174">[174]</span> -altogether pleased. “But such a work—on such a subject—requires -no casual introduction.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla wondered, not without foreboding, what it -did require. Owen Quentillian, who shared her own -inability to take optimistic views on principle, had -spoken discouragingly of the modern market for such -works as the Canon’s on “Leonidas of Alexandria.”</p> - -<p>The Canon himself appeared to entertain no misgivings, -until a few weeks later, when he handed a -letter silently to Lucilla.</p> - -<p>It was a courteously worded assurance from the -most eminent of theological publishing firms that the -probable sales of such a work as “Leonidas of Alexandria” -would not, in their opinion, justify the expenses -of publication.</p> - -<p>The Canon seemed more bewildered than dismayed.</p> - -<p>“I shall approach the Oxbridge Press,” he declared. -“I had decided against them, but this very unexpected -attitude leaves me no alternative.”</p> - -<p>The reply of the Oxbridge Press, although longer -delayed, was almost identical in substance with that -of its predecessors.</p> - -<p>“I do not understand it,” the Canon repeated, and -wrote to another publishing house.</p> - -<p>He still spoke as though the ultimate appearance of -the book were a certainty; even when confronted with -a third refusal, but he allowed Lucilla to consult Owen -Quentillian.</p> - -<p>As the result of a letter to Quentillian’s own publishers, -an offer came from them to produce “Leonidas -of Alexandria” if the author would advance a substantial -sum towards the cost of bringing out the book.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_175">[175]</span>“It’s more than I dared to hope for,” Owen told -Lucilla candidly, in private. “Only I’m afraid he’ll -still be disappointed, if the book appears and makes no -stir.”</p> - -<p>“He has thought of it for so many years,” said -Lucilla.</p> - -<p>“And always as a <i>magnum opus</i>—something that -the world would recognize?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I think so. But even so, I’m not certain -whether he’ll accept these terms.”</p> - -<p>“He won’t get better ones,” said Owen with conviction.</p> - -<p>They awaited the Canon’s reply. It came, calm and -very decided.</p> - -<p>“It cannot be. It is not within my power to accept -the terms suggested. Thank you, Owen, my dear—and -you Lucilla—but my work must await better days—better -days.”</p> - -<p>For the first time, Owen was struck by the singular -sweetness of the Canon’s smile, as he stood with his -hand resting on the great bulk of papers that stood -to him for the loving preoccupation of many years. -No faintest touch of bitterness accompanied his deep -disappointment.</p> - -<p>“I have had the great pleasure of the work, and -it has brought me into close association with many -writers, both living and dead. We have derived -great benefit from our toil, Lucilla, and if the fruits -of reward are to be denied us yet awhile, so be it. -You remember the old story of the dying man who -bade his sons dig for a treasure beneath the apple-tree. -They did so, and the natural yield of the fertile<span class="pagenum" id="Page_176">[176]</span> -earth was their reward—their own industry proved to -be their treasure. If it is to be so with my book, I am -content.”</p> - -<p>Quentillian’s stern sense of the futility of false hopes -kept him silent, but Lucilla said:</p> - -<p>“Is it any use to try another publisher?”</p> - -<p>The Canon shook his grey head.</p> - -<p>“This is neither our first attempt nor our second. -No doubt times have changed, and there is no longer -the same interest taken in these researches. The wheel -will come round in due course, young people, and I -make no doubt that Leonidas will yet be given to the -world, in God’s good time whether in my day or not. -I am very well content.”</p> - -<p>He put the heavy package into a drawer, of which -he turned the key.</p> - -<p>“You remember, Lucilla, the words inscribed upon -my front page—‘<i>Ad majorem Dei gloriam</i>’? Surely -we can trust the fulfilment of those words to Him, -and as surely He can justify them in obscurity as in -the notoriety of a day. We will say no more about -this, children.”</p> - -<p>He turned towards Quentillian, and smiled again.</p> - -<p>“Nay, dear fellow, there is nothing to look so blank -about. I will not deny a natural disappointment, but it -is no more than that—no more than that. These -things pass....”</p> - -<p>Even to Lucilla, in private, the Canon scarcely said -more. The one revelation that he did make, hardly -surprised her.</p> - -<p>“All else apart, I could not have paid the money to -that publishing firm. The dear Adrian must be my<span class="pagenum" id="Page_177">[177]</span> -first consideration at present, and with the increased -amount that he is receiving, the drain upon my purse -is too heavy to admit of a personal gratification. Some -day the dear fellow will pay it all back, I make no -doubt, though even were it not so—but it <i>will</i> be so. -And now, Lucilla, we will drop the subject. What I -have told you is between ourselves, and we need not -refer to it again.”</p> - -<p>A very little while later, the Canon began to make -minute and elaborate notes for a Commentary on the -Epistle to the Philippians.</p> - -<p>Lucilla, according to her wont, acted as his secretary -without comment.</p> - -<p>It was more difficult, however, to pursue this course -when the Canon, with a look of distress and perplexity, -handed to her several closely-written sheets of paper, -and observed:</p> - -<p>“As you know, I hold very strongly to the sacredness -of personal correspondence. It was, indeed, at -least partly on that account that I have said nothing -to you of a letter from Adrian that has caused me some -anxiety. He seems to me to be getting amongst a set -of people whom I can only call undesirable. They -may be leading him into foolish extravagance—I fear -it must be so. It seems to me my clear duty to write -to the boy very frankly, but God knows how carefully -I have weighed every word, for fear of saying too -much. I believe I am justified in letting you read it. -A sister’s influence can do much, more especially when -she has been obliged to enact the part of mother, and it -may even be that Adrian will listen to you more readily -than to me.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_178">[178]</span>The Canon sighed heavily.</p> - -<p>Although his sudden, sharp outbursts of anger had, -at one time or another, included each and every one of -his children, his tolerance was always longest where -Adrian was concerned. So, too, was his profound distress -when the shortcomings of his youngest-born -were made only too manifest.</p> - -<p>Lucilla read the letter with considerable inward disquiet.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> -<p>“<span class="smcap">My Dearest Adrian</span>,</p> - -<p>“First and foremost, I enclose a cheque, with which -you must <i>at once</i> discharge outstanding liabilities. You -must not, however, take this as an easy method of getting -out of difficulties into which you have placed -yourself. I shall stop this money out of your allowance, -in justice both to yourself and to me, in quarterly -instalments. And now, my son, you must bear -with me while I write of several things that seem to -me to be much amiss in your present way of life. Your -letters are so far from explicit (how I wish it were -otherwise!) that one can only guess at much which -is left unsaid, but your request for money, however -veiled, is an admission in itself. You write of ‘others,’ -but can you not see that it is absolute <i>dishonesty</i> to -give presents, stand host at various small outings, and -the like, when this implies the spending of money -that I give you for one purpose, on quite another? -No one knows better than myself the pleasure to be derived -from such little attentions to those whose kindness -calls for recognition, or to whom we feel drawn -by sympathy, and before whom we perhaps like to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_179">[179]</span> -pose in the light of a benefactor. Such gratifications -are harmless, and may even be beneficial, in themselves, -but they are at present amongst the things -which you <i>must</i> learn to deny yourself. How I wish -I could <i>say</i> this, instead of writing it! Could you not -come to us for a few days, and we would thrash all -these matters out together as one can only do in a long, -tête-à-tête evening talk over the fire, or perhaps a ten-mile -tramp far out into the country. Let me know -what hope there is of your getting down here, and -when.</p> - -<p>“In regard to the question of returning hospitality, it -does seem to me a most moot point how far such obligations -should bind us. Certainly they should not do -so <i>if entailing interference with work or prayer</i>. You -say nothing on these points, so do consider this question -next time you write. It is so disappointing to receive -short notes, written in haste, telling one nothing -of yourself, and with questions in home letters left unanswered. -<i>Do</i> write more fully of yourself—I am so -much disturbed about you, and cannot understand why -you should say that you have ‘nothing to write about.’ -<i>All</i> is of the deepest interest to those who love you so, -and you tell us so little! You give no account of your -Sundays, spiritual experiences, private readings and the -like, but if this does not come spontaneously, it is of -no use to try and force it.</p> - -<p>“I should like to hear something, however, of your -friends. With whom do you work, spend your Sundays, -evening leisure hours, etc.? All these details -would be of the greatest interest, and, although one has -no wish to press on that particular aspect of the case,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_180">[180]</span> -they are points upon which your father has every right -to information.</p> - -<p>“Why did you not tell me of your little sketch in -the <i>Athene</i>? Owen Quentillian brought it to my -notice, supposing me, naturally, to be aware of its -authorship. It seemed to me to be well and brightly -written, though perhaps a little trivial in conception, -but you have a slip in the first paragraph, line 4, where -you make ‘etomology’ do duty for ‘<i>en</i>tomology.’ If -this is a printer’s error, and you did not correct the -proofs yourself, draw your editor’s attention to it <i>at -once</i>. The final quotation from de Musset, is, I <i>think</i>, -incorrect, but I am not sure of this, and cannot verify -at present. He is not a writer about whom I care. Do -you read much of him?”</p> -</div> - -<p>At this point Lucilla laid down the letter and said -emphatically:</p> - -<p>“No, he doesn’t. Read de Musset, I mean. Probably -he got the verse he quotes out of a book of quotations.”</p> - -<p>The Canon looked surprised.</p> - -<p>“I am aware that modern methods are slip-shod, but -Adrian’s knowledge of French is much above the -average. Our evening readings-aloud have seen to -that.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla picked up the sheets of paper again, wondering -if there was very much more of the letter to come—a -wonder not infrequently felt by those with whom -Canon Morchard was in correspondence.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>“Do eschew the use of slang <i>absolutely</i>, at least in -writing! I quite consider that ‘stunt’ comes under this -heading, in your article. It is an Americanism, and so<span class="pagenum" id="Page_181">[181]</span> -ugly! These criticisms, if such they be, are only the -outcome, need I tell you, of my really intense desire -that you should do full justice to yourself, and to the -talent that I feel sure is in you. And let me repeat -again, my dearest lad, that this applies <i>doubly</i> to the -more serious fault-finding that I have been obliged, as -your father, to put into this letter. You must write to -me fully and freely if it seems to you that anything -which I have said is unjust, but I believe that your -own conscience, and the candour that I know is yours, -will endorse all that I have written. In that case, you -will know well where to seek for the <i>unfailing</i> strength -necessary to a fresh beginning and a full confession of -error.</p> - -<p>“I cannot tell you with what anxiety I shall await -your answer, and do make it a really open-hearted one, -as I well know that you <i>can</i>. There shall be no cloud -upon our meeting when we do meet, once things have -been made clear between us by letter, but I do feel that -for your own sake, far more than for mine, this -strange reticence on your part must not continue.</p> - -<p>“Look upon me as your best earthly friend, dear lad, -as well as your father, for no one can be more eager -to sympathize with you on every point than I am—and -have always been. It has always seemed to me -that the relationship of father and son could—and -should—be an utterly <i>ideal</i> one.</p> - -<p>“My love to you, as always, and do write <i>at once</i>. -I must not end this without reminding you that business-like -habits, which I am so anxious that you should -acquire, make it <i>obligatory</i> to acknowledge a cheque by -return of post, even were there not other reasons for<span class="pagenum" id="Page_182">[182]</span> -writing without delay. Anything that you wish treated -as confidential will of course be sacred—but that you -know already.</p> - -<p>“In all lovingness, dear Adrian, I remain your most -devoted father,</p> - -<p class="right">“F. L. M.”</p> -</div> - -<p>“Can I say more?” the Canon enquired sadly and -anxiously, as Lucilla laid down the letter. To which -Lucilla, with restraint, replied by a bald negative.</p> - -<p>“I have weighed every word,” her father repeated, -with, as she knew, only too much truth.</p> - -<p>“Perhaps Adrian may feel that you are taking him -too seriously altogether. He sometimes seems——”</p> - -<p>“Whom, and what, should I take seriously if not my -son, and his earthly and eternal welfare?” the Canon -interrupted her rather sternly. “You take a great deal -upon yourself, Lucilla, in speaking so. No doubt you -say to yourself: ‘I am young, I am of the period, it -is for me to act as interpreter between the parent, who -is of another generation, and the youth, who belongs -to mine.’ But if I read your thought correctly, my -child—and I have no doubt that I do—it is an arrogant -one, and altogether unworthy of you.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla did not explain that no such determination -had crossed her mind as the self-sufficient one ascribed -to her. She was aware, in common with all the -Canon’s children, that he was prone to attribute to -them occasionally motives and attitudes of mind -strangely and almost incredibly alien to anything to -which they could ever reasonably lay claim. Far more<span class="pagenum" id="Page_183">[183]</span> -often, did he credit them with aspirations and intentions -of a quite undeserved sublimity.</p> - -<p>Her inward fear, that Adrian would probably leave -the major part of his father’s letter unread, she did -not put into words.</p> - -<p>“Owen tells me that he is shortly going to London, -and I shall make a point of asking him to see our dear -fellow and bring me a full report,” said the Canon.</p> - -<p>He proffered his request shortly afterwards to -Quentillian, by whom it was received with no enthusiasm -whatever.</p> - -<p>“Will Adrian like it?” he enquired, although fully -conscious that Adrian would not.</p> - -<p>“Aye, that he will,” said the Canon with emphasis. -“It is just because we feel you to be so thoroughly -one of ourselves, dear Owen, that I am asking you to -act the elder brother’s part that would be David’s, were -he at home.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla could sympathize in the entire absence of -elation with which Quentillian took his departure, -under the new honour thus thrust upon him.</p> - -<p>There was a certain rueful amusement under his -discomfiture when he left St. Gwenllian.</p> - -<p>On his return, Lucilla discovered instantly that any -lurking amusement had been stifled under a perfectly -real anxiety.</p> - -<p>“What is it?” she almost involuntarily asked, as she -mechanically made her preparations at the tea-table for -the Canon’s entrance.</p> - -<p>“I’m afraid I have news that will distress you all, -about Adrian.”</p> - -<p>“Is he ill?” said Flora.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_184">[184]</span>“No. I’m sorry if I frightened you. He has taken -up some work that I’m afraid the Canon will disapprove -of—on the staff of Hale’s paper.”</p> - -<p>“What is that?” Flora asked, with grave, innocent -eyes.</p> - -<p>But Lucilla said at once: “That’s the new review -that has been so very much criticized for its attitude -towards the Church, isn’t it?”</p> - -<p>He nodded.</p> - -<p>“Oh!” Flora caught her breath, and her delicate -face expressed the violent and instinctive recoil of her -spirit.</p> - -<p>Owen looked at Lucilla.</p> - -<p>Her indignation took a line that was not altogether -what he had expected.</p> - -<p>“Well, surely Adrian need not have found a way -of asserting his independence that must run counter to -everything Father has ever taught!”</p> - -<p>“He isn’t exactly doing it out of the spirit of opposition. -Hale has taken a fancy to him, and it’s the -first chance Adrian has had of regular, paid work. -From a worldly point of view, he’d be a fool not to -have accepted it.”</p> - -<p>“A worldly point of view!” echoed Flora. “One -doesn’t expect that in Father’s son, somehow.”</p> - -<p>Theoretically, Quentillian felt, one didn’t.</p> - -<p>“Surely Adrian isn’t capable of controversial writing?” -Flora added, with a severity that saw apparently -nothing humourous in the suggestion.</p> - -<p>“Nothing of that sort will be required of him. He -will only write light articles, like that thing you saw in -the <i>Athene</i>. The point is that he is working for a man<span class="pagenum" id="Page_185">[185]</span> -like Hale, whose reputation—which is fairly considerable -in its own way—rests entirely upon his very anticlerical -attitude.”</p> - -<p>“But how can Adrian reconcile that with his duty as -a Church member?” said Flora tersely.</p> - -<p>“I didn’t ask him,” was Quentillian’s equally terse -reply.</p> - -<p>They all three remained silent.</p> - -<p>“Is Adrian going to write to Father, or has he -written already?” Flora asked at last.</p> - -<p>“He hasn’t written.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla’s short-sighted gaze, with the rather intent -look characteristic of a difficulty in focussing, rested -for a moment upon Quentillian’s face. Then she asked -quietly:</p> - -<p>“Did he ask you to tell Father for him?”</p> - -<p>“He did.”</p> - -<p>“How like Adrian,” said Lucilla.</p> - -<p>She made the statement very matter-of-factly, but -Quentillian knew it to be none the less a condemnation.</p> - -<p>“There was—is—no chance of making Adrian give -it up?” Flora asked.</p> - -<p>“None, I should think, at present. Hale is a man -of great personality, and Adrian is a good deal flattered, -naturally enough, at being taken up by him. Of -course he knows as well as you or I that it’s the thing -of all others to distress the Canon most. He’s genuinely -upset about it, in a way, but he struck me as being -rather childishly bent on showing that he can strike -out a line of his own.”</p> - -<p>“Poor, poor Father! He has had so much to bear -lately. Must he be told?” said Flora.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_186">[186]</span>“Of course he must. But I don’t think Owen is the -person to do the telling. Adrian should do it himself.”</p> - -<p>“So I told him,” Quentillian observed rather grimly. -“The utmost I could get out of him was a very short -note, that I am to give to the Canon when he knows -the facts.”</p> - -<p>No comment followed the announcement of so slender -an achievement, and they were sitting in silence -when Canon Morchard came in.</p> - -<p>He greeted Owen Quentillian affectionately, as he -always did, but said quickly:</p> - -<p>“I am afraid that you bear no very glad tidings, -dear fellow. No matter. We will have our talk later. -Let us forget grave subjects, and partake of ‘the cup -that cheers,’ which I can see that Lucilla there has -ready for us. What think you of this political crisis?”</p> - -<p>In the ensuing conversation the Canon, if not merry, -was at least gravely cheerful.</p> - -<p>Afterwards he took Owen into the garden, his arm -laid across the young man’s shoulders in the fashion -that he so often adopted.</p> - -<p>They remained out for a long while.</p> - -<p>Lucilla did not see her father again until evening, -when it was evident that a weight of unhappiness had -descended upon him.</p> - -<p>He read Prayers as usual, and the servants left the -room.</p> - -<p>“One moment, my daughters. It is right that you -should know the very grievous news I have learnt today. -Adrian has definitely adopted a career which -must cut him off from those of us who are living -members of the Church. He has cast in his lot with<span class="pagenum" id="Page_187">[187]</span> -an enemy of the Church—a man who makes his living, -and has acquired a disgraceful notoriety, by attacking -the Church. Your brother has been seduced into a -friendship with this man—he is working for him, -writing for his paper.”</p> - -<p>The Canon’s voice broke.</p> - -<p>“I am going up to seek him tomorrow, and plead -with him, but I have little hope. He does not answer -the letters that I write with such yearning anxiety and -love—I have lost my influence over him. If it is, as -I fear, then—‘if thy right hand offend thee, cut it off.’ -My dear children, I ask you to join with me here and -now in intercession for our erring one.”</p> - -<p>He broke down, and the tears ran down his face.</p> - -<p>It was as though Adrian’s defection cost him a double -pang: that to his own fatherhood, and that to the -ministry of the Church which he felt to be such a -living reality.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_188">[188]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">III<br /> - - -<small>DAVID AND FLORA</small></h2> -</div> - -<h3>(i)</h3> - -<p>“<span class="smcap">It</span> cannot be, my dear,” the Canon repeated. So -inexorable was his voice, in all its kindness, that his -daughter Flora felt that it could not, indeed be.</p> - -<p>But it was Lucilla who had launched the “it” in -question, and it was to Lucilla that the parental negative -had been already addressed no less than three times.</p> - -<p>“If I am thus patient with this strange persistence -of yours, Lucilla,” said the Canon, his voice deepening -after a fashion which indicated not at all obscurely -that he might not continue to be patient very much -longer, “if I am thus patient, it is because I do you -the justice to believe that it is sisterly affection for -our poor Valeria and her little one, and not a mere -restless desire for change, that has induced you to -put forward this astonishing proposal. But consider -the folly and selfishness of this scheme, my child. You -propose to spend money—which we can ill afford, any -of us—and sacrifice time and strength in a wild rush -overseas, an insensate dash through an unknown country, -in search of your sister’s new home. No doubt -you say to yourself ‘I am the winged Messenger of the -Gods. I fly to take help and comfort to our erring one.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_189">[189]</span> -I will assist this new little life that is coming into the -world.’ You picture to yourself a triumphal progress—a -rapturous welcome—the acclamations of a New -World. But you deceive yourself, Lucilla. You deceive -yourself grossly.”</p> - -<p>Flora felt herself colouring as she bent over her -needlework. A display of violent emotion as that into -which Canon Morchard was now working himself by -force of his own eloquence, was always distasteful to -her, and she felt a vicarious shame for Lucilla, convicted -of such presumptuous flights of fancy.</p> - -<p>Flora was astonished at the calm of her sister’s reply, -when it came.</p> - -<p>“But I don’t, Father. I hadn’t any idea of doing -anything but travelling to Canada in the ordinary way, -and being with Val when her new baby arrives. You -know, it is dreadfully soon after her first one, and she -really isn’t——”</p> - -<p>“Have a care, Lucilla! Who are you to question -the time and seasons appointed by the All-seeing Wisdom -for the bestowal of the infinite blessing of children?”</p> - -<p>If Lucilla represented an infinite blessing to Canon -Morchard, the fact was not over evident at the moment. -His brow was thunderous as he gazed at her.</p> - -<p>“It is Valeria’s own choice that has sent her into a -far country. She might have been at our very gates, -had she but willed it so.”</p> - -<p>“Well,” said Lucilla reasonably. “I don’t think if -Val had been so near us as all that, she would have -written and begged one of us to come to her. It’s -just because she’s out there, such a long way off, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_190">[190]</span> -with no one to help her, that she’s frightened. Why, -she may not even be able to get a servant.”</p> - -<p>“Poor child!” The Canon’s voice softened. “The -way of transgressors is hard. But two wrongs never -yet made a right, Lucilla. I recognize the generous -impulse that moves you—if I spoke sharply just now, -it was only from my intense wish to see you do justice -to your own <i>really</i> noble character, my child. Believe -me, your duty lies here, in the state to which it has -pleased God to call you.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla’s brows contracted slightly, after her short-sighted -fashion, but it was not at all with an effect -of vexation, but rather of some slight perplexity.</p> - -<p>At last she said:</p> - -<p>“Could Flora go?”</p> - -<p>Flora, startled, looked at her father. For a moment -it occurred to her that perhaps he would be willing -to spare her. Her heart leapt at the thought of seeing -Val, and Val’s babies. A vista of new experiences, of -hitherto undreamed-of independence, startled even -whilst it pleasantly excited her.</p> - -<p>Then her father said: “My dear, of what are you -thinking? Your zealous desire to befriend one sister -makes you strangely inconsiderate of the other. Flora -is neither accustomed to responsibility, nor is she very -robust in health. Certainly, were it a clear question -of duty, one could put all that aside—but the call would -have to be unmistakable, the leading beyond all question. -I can see no such indications here.”</p> - -<p>Flora, quietly bent over her needlework once more, -was ashamed of the realization that she was disappointed.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_191">[191]</span>Inwardly, she offered instant expiation for the rebellious -moment, consciously addressing herself to the -personal Divinity by whom, she had always been taught, -every hair of her head was numbered.</p> - -<p>The reflection came, in immediate consolation, that -she was not without her spiritual glory, by this very -act of resignation.</p> - -<p>“They also serve who only stand and wait,” she -thought.</p> - -<p>The Canon had often quoted this to Flora, and indeed -to any of his children who showed a desire for -alien activities.</p> - -<p>Flora might be said to have stood and waited for -some time now. It occurred to her that if Lucilla -went to Canada, responsibilities at home, other than -passive ones, would become her own portion. The -thought did not displease her. Flora, too, though far -less consciously than Valeria, had sometimes glimpsed -the sterility of her days.</p> - -<p>“Lucilla, you know where to seek counsel, I believe,” -said Canon Morchard gravely. “I make all due allowance -for your natural, loving impulse towards our poor -Valeria—all due allowance. If your heart bleeds for -her, how much more does not mine? But there are -times when we must do violence to our natural feelings -and I believe that some such necessity is upon you -now. Deny yourself, my daughter, and He will bless -the sacrifice both to you and to our dear one far -away.”</p> - -<p>“But who will look after her when her baby is -born?” said Lucilla reflectively.</p> - -<p>“Lucilla, where is your trust?”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_192">[192]</span>“Mostly in myself, I think,” said Lucilla gently. -“I really shouldn’t feel it right not to go to Val, Father. -I hope you will forgive me.” She spoke so gently, -with so simple a note of sincere regret in her quiet -voice, that the Canon, to Flora’s perceptions, appeared -to overlook the slightly blasphemous implication in the -first words of her sentence.</p> - -<p>“No man is more averse than myself from tampering -with another’s conscience,” he said, with gravity -and displeasure. “You are no longer a child, Lucilla, -but have a care lest self-will should blind you. I have -long since warned you of the danger of self-complacency. -I lay no commands upon you, but I do most -earnestly beg, my child, that you will submit your own -judgment to a higher Tribunal than any earthly one, -before coming to any decision. Commune with your -own heart, Lucilla, and be sure that self-seeking is -not lurking under the guise of loving-kindness.”</p> - -<p>The Canon went out of the room and Flora and -Lucilla were left together.</p> - -<p>It was evident that Lucilla saw no urgent necessity -for complying with her father’s advice and communing -with her own heart. She sat down at her writing-table, -wrote for a few moments, and read over what she had -written. Then she handed the half-sheet of notepaper -to Flora.</p> - -<p>It bore the announcement that a lady wishing shortly -to travel to Canada, would give her services on the -journey in return for part passage.</p> - -<p>“But you mean to go, then?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes.”</p> - -<p>“I thought Father advised you to think it over?”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_193">[193]</span>“I did think it over. Didn’t you hear me say just -now that I should think it wrong <i>not</i> to go to Val?”</p> - -<p>“You are setting your own judgment up above -Father’s,” Flora pointed out coldly.</p> - -<p>“I suppose so,” Lucilla assented, seeming rather -surprised, as though such an aspect of the case had not -hitherto presented itself to her.</p> - -<p>Flora softened.</p> - -<p>“I can’t help being glad you’re going to be with poor -Val when she wants you. And oh, Lucilla! You’ll -see little Georgie!”</p> - -<p>“I know. I wish you could, too.”</p> - -<p>“So do I.” She suddenly caught her breath. “Not -that I should do what you’re doing, for a moment. -I don’t see how you <i>can</i>, in direct opposition to Father’s -advice.”</p> - -<p>“I’m sorry you see it like that,” said Lucilla gently. -“Now, Flora, as I may have to take my passage when I -can get it, without much notice, I’d like to arrange one -or two things with you. Would you like me to give -Ethel a month’s notice? She’s a bad housemaid, but if -you’d rather she stayed on till——”</p> - -<p>“Lucilla, you talk as though it were all settled!”</p> - -<p>“My dear, it <i>is</i> all settled. I told you that my mind -was made up.”</p> - -<p>“You know that Father will miss you most terribly? -And, though he never speaks about it, he still grieves -dreadfully over Adrian.”</p> - -<p>“I know. That hasn’t really got anything to do with -it, though, has it? If you keep on Ethel, you will have -to make certain that she——”</p> - -<p>“I can’t talk about Ethel now, Lucilla. I’ll do the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_194">[194]</span> -best I can, if you really do go. Don’t think I’m unkind, -please. I do understand that it must be a great -temptation, after poor Val’s letter saying how much -she wants you. I daresay if she’d written like that to -me,” said Flora with an effort, “that I might have felt -it dreadfully difficult to refuse to go to her.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla paused on her way to the door, and looked at -her sister with friendly, reflective interest.</p> - -<p>“But you would have refused?”</p> - -<p>“Isn’t it always safest,” said Flora diffidently, and -yet with the implacable certainty of rightness, too, -“isn’t it always safest, when there’s a choice—or what -looks like a choice—to do whatever one likes least?”</p> - -<p>“Lucilla!” called the Canon’s voice.</p> - -<p>She opened the door.</p> - -<p>“No, I shouldn’t call that a very good rule, myself. -You’ll let me know about Ethel as soon as you can, -won’t you? Her month’s trial will be up next Wednesday.”</p> - -<p>“<i>Lucilla!</i>”</p> - -<p>“I’m coming, Father.”</p> - -<p>She went.</p> - -<p>Flora let her work drop into her lap and folded her -hands, allowing her thoughts to wander.</p> - -<p>Could it be right to feel that the wrong-doing of -another might prove to be one’s own opportunity, come -at last? She felt herself to have striven for so long -with the endeavour to prove faithful in that which was -least, all the time stifling resentment that no greater, -more heroic task should be set her. She had always -felt herself to be “little Flora” to her father, a child, to -be petted and sheltered, and in the minute introspection<span class="pagenum" id="Page_195">[195]</span> -of a nightly examination of conscience, she had -frequently to reproach herself bitterly for an ungrateful -longing to emerge sometimes from the shielded -into the shielding. If Lucilla went away, their father -would be alone, deserted except for Flora. David was -in India. He wrote very seldom, and then never of -coming home. Even his letters to Flora herself, always -his favourite sister, were neither confidential nor -frequent. Val was married, in Canada, and was claiming -Lucilla’s presence almost as a right. Adrian, in -London, was the subject of daily intercession at St. -Gwenllian but it was known to all his children that -the Canon would not again receive Adrian at home -until he should have severed all connection with the -atheist, Hale.</p> - -<p>How they had failed their father, all of them! -Flora resolved passionately that she herself would -never fail him. Prayer was the form of self-expression -most natural to her, and she made ardent inward -supplication that if Lucilla were permitted to follow -her own way, good might come of it, and she herself -prove worthy of her sacred filial charge. No such -exaltation of spirit could be indulged in when Lucilla’s -decision had been openly accepted, and her preparations -begun.</p> - -<p>She preserved all her usual even cheerfulness, and -her conversation was rather more severely practical -than before.</p> - -<p>“Don’t let the key of the storeroom out of your own -possession, Flossie, please. I’m sure both the maids -are trustworthy, but it’s no use breaking rules.”</p> - -<p>And:</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_196">[196]</span>“Remember <i>not</i> to order anything eggy when Mr. -Clover comes to a meal. He can’t eat eggs.”</p> - -<p>“I mean to do my very best for everyone while -you’re away. But of course it won’t be the same for -Father.”</p> - -<p>“I expect it will, if you’re careful,” said Lucilla -kindly. “Don’t let her put flavourings into everything, -though—he can’t bear them.”</p> - -<p>She seemed not at all preoccupied with less material -considerations.</p> - -<p>Even at the last, she bade them good-bye without -any of that aspect of remorse which Flora privately -considered that she ought to have worn.</p> - -<p>The Canon was very kind and forbearing, and said -at the last moment:</p> - -<p>“I hope and believe that you children understand -what is meant by large-mindedness, and that I myself -am the last man in the world to deny to each individual -the right of an independent judgment. You are acting -according to your lights, Lucilla, and I am willing—nay, -eager—to believe in the sincerity of your -motives. God bless you, my dearest one, and prosper -your mission.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla’s farewell was affectionate, but not at all -emotional, Flora was always undemonstrative by instinct, -and it was only the Canon whose eyes were -moist, and whose voice shook.</p> - -<p>Nevertheless, he turned to his remaining child after -a moment and spoke very firmly.</p> - -<p>“You may wonder, little Flora, that I have no reproach -for Lucilla. She is leaving home against my<span class="pagenum" id="Page_197">[197]</span> -advice, against my wishes. I believe that she deceives -herself. But Lucilla means well—she means well. As -we go through life, we learn to be very tolerant, very -patient, to understand better what is meant by forgiveness -‘unto seventy times seven’.”</p> - -<p>He smiled at her.</p> - -<p>“You and I must have some pleasant tête-à-tête -evenings, Flora, now that we are left to bear one another -company. I should like to rub up some of my -old Italian lore. Shall we undertake some such task -as Dante’s <i>Paradiso</i> for our leisure time?”</p> - -<p>Flora assented, gratified.</p> - -<p>Their days fell into a routine that suited her well, -and although in her daily and nightly prayers Flora -mentioned the names of both Adrian and Lucilla as -candidates for Divine Mercy, she was not really conscious -of any very earnest personal wish for the return -of either to St. Gwenllian.</p> - - -<h3>(ii)</h3> - -<p>“<span class="smcap">On</span> the 18th November, suddenly, at Bombay, -David, beloved elder son of Canon Morchard of St. -Gwenllian Vicarage....”</p> - -<p>Owen Quentillian was away from Stear when he -read the announcement, with a strong sense of shock.</p> - -<p>Why should David Morchard die?</p> - -<p>He wrote to the Canon, and also, after a little hesitation, -to Flora Morchard.</p> - -<p>As he half expected, Flora’s reply told him more -than the Canon’s numerous pages.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_198">[198]</span></p> - -<div class="blockquot"> -<p>“<span class="smcap">My Dear Owen</span>:</p> - -<p>“Thank you for your letter. We knew that you would -be sorry, and would understand what this must be to -my father, and all of us. He is so brave and good, and -everyone is kindness itself. We do not know anything -at all except the bare fact, which was cabled from -the Regimental headquarters, and it will probably be -another three weeks before letters can reach us. If -you like, I will write again when they do. We shall -want to see you very much when you get back to Stear. -Father speaks of you so often, as though it would be -a comfort to him to see you again.</p> - -<p class="right"><span class="indentright">“Yours sincerely,</span><br /> -“<span class="smcap">Flora Morchard</span>.”</p> -</div> - -<p>The Canon’s minute legible handwriting covered several -pages, and he, like Flora, but at far greater length, -emphasized the kindness shown to him.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>“My people here have shown feeling such as I -dare hardly dwell upon, lest I overset altogether such -composure as I may have won. Some of them, of -course, remember our dear, dear fellow well, young -though he was when he left us. But even those who -never knew him speak such words as well-nigh break -one’s heart with gratitude and pity and tenderness. I -tell myself that whatever is, must be best, and yet, -Owen, the longing, that I can only trust may not be -repining, to have had but one day—one hour—together, -before this blow fell! It was so long since we had -spoken together! And sometimes I reproached him for -his long silences, for the absence of the details that one -longed for, in his letters home. How could I, ah, how<span class="pagenum" id="Page_199">[199]</span> -could I, I now ask myself sadly, who will receive -no more letters from him again. How one learns to -be gentle, as the years go on, but the day comes when -each unloving word, each selfish thought, comes back -to break one’s heart! And yet, Owen, who could have -thought that <i>I</i> should be left, who have seen nigh on -three-score years, and that strong, gallant lad taken in -the very strength of his manhood. Truly, God’s ways -are not our ways.</p> - -<p>“It does not bear writing of. We must have many -long talks together, when you are with us again. What -a contrast to that first visit of yours, Owen, when our -numbers were yet unbroken, save indeed that first, -great gap that only Lucilla and the dear lad who is -gone, could realize. At least, their mother has one -with her!</p> - -<p>“When you first came to us after the war, it was to -give us direct news of our beloved boy. I seem to remember -some merry gatherings then, with Lucilla and -Flora ‘making musik,’ and Valeria all fun and brightness—I -can write of her freely, dear Owen, can I not—the -old wound is healed now?—and Adrian still the -veriest boy, the light and sunshine of the house.</p> - -<p>“You will find change and stillness and emptiness -about the old place, now. All are scattered, only Flora -left in the empty nest. I can find no words to tell you -what she has been, Owen. Friend, companion, daughter, -comforter! Of all my children, Flora and Lucilla -are the two who have never failed me, never failed -their own higher selves. And Lucilla, as you know, -is away from us at present. Poor child! What a -punishment for her self-will in leaving us.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_200">[200]</span>“Flora and poor Clover have spared me in every -possible way these days, and whilst I have them, I can -indeed never think myself wholly desolate. Letters will -not reach us yet awhile from India, and one longs, and -yet dreads, to receive them. There may be one from -our poor lad himself—yet why do I call him ‘poor,’ -when he is so far more blest than we who are left? We -can only conjecture that cholera or fever struck him -down, he said nothing of sickness in his last letter, and -whatever it was must have come upon him with fearful -suddenness. One can only hope and pray that the Infinite -Mercy allowed him time to meet the dread King -of Terrors as one knows that he would have wished -to do, but all, all is in other hands than ours.</p> - -<p>“I have said nothing of your letter, dear Owen, my -heart is too full. Let me answer it in person. Both -Flora and I look for your return with eagerness and -hope to persuade you to come to us at least for a day -or two. You knew our loved one, and it is not so long -since you and he met. How I envy you that meeting -now! We have heard of it all in detail, I know, but -you will have patience, and go over it all once more -with us. The only thing that gives one courage to -face the present (saving always that far-reaching Comfort -which one <i>knows</i> to be there, but which poor humanity -cannot always <i>feel</i>) is a mournful, tender lingering -over the past. Nor must you fear that I always -weep, dear Owen—there is often absolute rest and joy -in dwelling on the past happiness that one knows to -be only a shadow and faint forecasting of the Joy that -is to come.</p> - -<p>“Bless you, dear fellow, and though I have said so<span class="pagenum" id="Page_201">[201]</span> -little of thanks for all the sympathy and understanding -in your dear letter, do not think of me as anything -but profoundly touched and grateful.</p> - -<p class="right"><span class="indentright">“Sorrowfully and ever affectionately yours,</span><br /> - -“<span class="smcap">Fenwick Morchard</span>.”</p> -</div> - -<p>Quentillian folded the letter and put it away.</p> - -<p>He mentally visualized the silent and grief-stricken -house, and his heart contracted strangely.</p> - -<p>Valeria had gone, and would come back no more. -Her heart was given to her new life, to her new country. -Lucilla was with her. Adrian—the Adrian of -the Canon’s tender love and pride—had never been. -David, who had not wanted to come home, who had -left “long intervals” between his scanty letters—David -was dead.</p> - -<p>There was only Flora left at St. Gwenllian.</p> - -<p>He thought that he could see her, remote and austere, -either devoid of capability for human emotion, or regarding -emotional display as rebellion against Heaven. -He had never known which. Flora would move about -the cold, silent house, and write the letters, and give -the orders, and remember the sane, everyday things -that must be done. She would be helped by the eager, -anxious curate. Mr. Clover would remember things, -too, but he would not, like Flora, accomplish them in -silence. He would suggest, and remind, and humbly -and timidly deprecate his own efforts.</p> - -<p>Quentillian could see the Canon, too.</p> - -<p>The Canon would spare himself nothing, but he -would break down, with gusts of overwhelming sorrow -and bitter remorse for his own want of resignation.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_202">[202]</span> -He would write, and write, and write, in the -lonely study, often blinded with tears, yet deriving -his realest comfort from the outward expression of his -grief.</p> - -<p>Quentillian could accept that, now, could realize it -as the interpretation of a sincerity at least as complete -as his own.</p> - -<p>Within the fortnight, he went to St. Gwenllian. It -was all very much as he had pictured it to himself. -Only Flora was a little, a very little, less remote than -he had expected to find her.</p> - -<p>He thought that she dreaded the arrival of the letters -from India, and feared their effect upon her -father.</p> - -<p>When the mail did arrive, the letters were brief, and -said that David Morchard had died in hospital of -dysentery after three days’ illness. The colonel of the -regiment wrote in praise of a career interrupted abruptly, -and a parcel of effects was promised.</p> - -<p>There was no more.</p> - -<p>“Such letters have become so sadly common in the -last few years,” said the Canon wistfully. “How can -one hope that in each individual case the writer will -realize the yearning with which one looks for one -personal touch—one word to show that all was well.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps they will write from the hospital—the -chaplain or the matron,—when they send the things,” -Quentillian suggested.</p> - -<p>He, too, was faintly disappointed and puzzled at the -reticence of the letters.</p> - -<p>Flora’s face, set in its sad composure, told him -nothing of her feelings.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_203">[203]</span>But the day following brought him enlightenment -from Flora herself.</p> - -<p>They were sent out for a walk together.</p> - -<p>“Take her for a walk, dear Owen,” said the Canon -solicitously. “Flora is pale, and cold. She has shut -herself up too much of late. Go, my child, I shall -do very well, and can find only too much to occupy -me. Enjoy the fresh air.”</p> - -<p>Flora made no protestations of inability to enjoy -herself, nor any assumption of indispensability at -home. It was the Canon, again, who suggested an -errand to a distant cottage, and she acquiesced without -comment.</p> - -<p>It was a cold, grey day, with swiftly moving masses -of cloud and a chill in the wind. Flora and Owen -walked quickly, and at first neither spoke. Then Flora -said:</p> - -<p>“How much, exactly, were you a friend of -David’s?”</p> - -<p>His own surprise made Quentillian realize afresh -how very seldom it was that Flora initiated any topic -of a personal nature.</p> - -<p>“We were not intimate,” he replied.</p> - -<p>“It was more the time that you spent with us here, -when you were a little boy, than anything else, that -established a relationship between you?”</p> - -<p>“I suppose it was.”</p> - -<p>“I think you are very much interested in people, and -Lucilla says that you are very observant,” said Flora, -smiling a little. “Would you mind telling me, quite -dispassionately, if David was popular with other men—the -officers in his regiment, for instance?”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_204">[204]</span>He did not understand at what her question aimed, -but replied with unhesitating candour.</p> - -<p>“I should say he was very popular. He was a good -sportsman, and everyone liked him, although as far -as I know he wasn’t a man of intimate friendships. -That type isn’t.”</p> - -<p>“No. You see, Owen, there have been no letters -from people who were in India with him, although you -say he was popular. Only just those few lines from -the Colonel. And I was afraid before—and I’m afraid -now—” She stopped.</p> - -<p>“Of what?”</p> - -<p>“That it wasn’t dysentery, or anything like that. -That they’re keeping the truth from us out of pity, -or to save some scandal. I—I can’t get it out of my -mind, Owen.”</p> - -<p>He heard her with something that was not altogether -surprise. Subconsciously, he felt that his own -uneasiness had been only dormant.</p> - -<p>“Have you anything beyond intuition, to go upon?”</p> - -<p>“No.”</p> - -<p>“Why have you told me?”</p> - -<p>He felt certain that she had not spoken merely in -order to be reassured, nor in order to find relief. -Speaking was no relief to Flora, so far as Owen could -see.</p> - -<p>“I want you to try and find out definitely.”</p> - -<p>“Yes. And supposing I do, supposing that what you -fear is true—” he hesitated.</p> - -<p>“That David took his own life?” said Flora, shuddering. -“Then, don’t you see, Owen, I shall have<span class="pagenum" id="Page_205">[205]</span> -to tell Father—or else to make it absolutely certain -that no one will ever tell him.”</p> - -<p>“You can’t,” said Owen gently.</p> - -<p>“But I must,” she told him, with the same intensity. -“He’s had a great deal to bear already, and this would -be worse than anything. Suicide is a mortal sin. -Bodily separation, one can resign oneself to—he <i>is</i> -resigning himself, poor Father, to separation from -nearly all those whom he loves,—but suicide would -mean eternal separation. It would be worse than -anything—the loss of David’s soul.”</p> - -<p>“I see.”</p> - -<p>Quentillian did indeed see.</p> - -<p>“Val, and Adrian, and David—they’ve all gone -away from him,” said Flora. “Only he knows there -is another life, so much more real and enduring than -this one, to which he looks. It means everything to -him. If David did do—that—then the hope of meeting -him again, in eternity, is gone.”</p> - -<p>Quentillian felt the force of her low-spoken, -anguished statement.</p> - -<p>“You are taking it for granted that a suspicion—which -after all, rests on very little indeed—is true.”</p> - -<p>“You see, if I am to safeguard my father from this -thing, I can’t very well afford to wait and do nothing, -just because there’s quite a big chance that it isn’t true -at all. The chance that it <i>is</i> true, may be infinitesimal—the -hundredth chance, if you like—but it’s that -which I’ve got to think about, not the other. Optimism -doesn’t carry one far enough, in preparing a line -of defence.”</p> - -<p>“I agree with you.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_206">[206]</span>“I don’t think that either you or I are optimists, -Owen,” said Flora, faintly smiling.</p> - -<p>“No.”</p> - -<p>“That’s why I want you to help me. Can you make -enquiries at any of the headquarter places in London -where they might know something?”</p> - -<p>“I can try.”</p> - -<p>“Thank you very much,” said Flora, as though his -unenthusiastic assent had closed the subject.</p> - -<p>They went along the muddy road in silence.</p> - -<p>It was from no sense that it was necessary to break -it, that Quentillian spoke again at last.</p> - -<p>“Will Lucilla come back to England at once?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t think so. She promised to stay till the -spring. You know Val has another little boy? I wish -we could see them, but Father will never really be happy -about Val, I’m afraid. He forgave her, long ago, but -he doesn’t forget things, ever, I don’t think.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t consider that the Canon had anything to -forgive,” said Quentillian in tones of finality.</p> - -<p>“But <i>he</i> does.”</p> - -<p>If Quentillian had expected a certain meed of recognition -for the magnanimity of his point of view, he -was not destined to be gratified. Flora spoke rather -as one giving utterance to an obvious platitude.</p> - -<p>“Is Val happy?”</p> - -<p>“Very. She has exactly what she always really -wanted. Sometimes they have a servant, but most of -the time she does everything herself, and has occasional -help. She is so happy with the two little boys, too, all -her letters are about them, and about the house, and -all they’re doing to improve it. She’s got the life that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_207">[207]</span> -she was really meant for, and after all, isn’t that what -makes happiness?”</p> - -<p>“I suppose it is. She was meant for the primitive -things, you think?”</p> - -<p>“Lucilla always said so. There is the cottage, Owen. -Will you wait outside, or come in?”</p> - -<p>“I should like to come in with you.”</p> - -<p>Life was inartistic, Quentillian reflected whimsically, -while Flora delivered her father’s message to a middle-aged -woman in an apron.</p> - -<p>To accord with all literary conventions, there should -have been a sick child in the cottage, and Flora’s tender -soothing of its fretfulness should have proved a revelation -of the unfulfilled maternal instinct within her.</p> - -<p>But there was no sick child to provide a <i>clou</i> for -Quentillian’s observations in psychology, and he was -by no means assured of Flora’s powers of soothing. -Rather would she urge the silence of resignation.</p> - -<p>He was convinced that never in her life had Flora -Morchard been the centre of a pretty picture. That -her personality seldom dominated any scene was not, -he felt, from any conscious effacement, but from an -innate and instinctive withdrawal of her forces to some -unseen objective, to her infinitely worth while. He -reflected with dismay on his own undertaking to make -enquiries concerning the death of David Morchard. -But he did not think that Flora, whatever the result of -the enquiries, would be dismayed. Dismay implied -mental disarray, a quality of taken-abackness. Flora, -as she would herself have told him, was strong in a -strength not her own.</p> - -<p>They walked back together almost in silence.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_208">[208]</span>“Your little expedition did Flora good,” the Canon -told Quentillian that evening. “I am grateful to you, -dear fellow, very grateful. Let us see something of -you still, from Stear. It means a great deal to us -both. There must not be ‘good-bye’ between us, save -for the beautiful old meaning of the word, ‘God by -you.’ God by you always, dear Owen.”</p> - -<p>Quentillian went to London, made no discoveries at -all, and wrote to Flora.</p> - -<p>She replied, thanking him, in the briefest of notes. -A week later he received another letter from her.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> -<p>“<span class="smcap">My Dear Owen</span>:</p> - -<p>“The Indian mail came in yesterday, and brought -me a letter from David, written a week before he died. -He asked me to break it to my father that a Major -Carey, in his regiment, was on his way home to take -divorce proceedings against his wife, citing David as -co-respondent. David asked me in the letter to do -anything I could for Mrs. Carey, as she is by herself, -with no relations in England. The case was to be undefended, -and David had decided to leave the Army -and come to England as soon as possible to marry -Mrs. Carey. I gather that he was very unhappy, especially -at having to leave the regiment. I still do not -know whether he found a dreadful solution to the -whole question, in taking his own life.</p> - -<p>“Mrs. Carey has written to Father, a strange note, -which he showed me. She says nothing of the divorce -proceedings, but only writes as a great friend of -David’s, imploring to be allowed to see us. Naturally, -Father is only too anxious to see her, and as she says<span class="pagenum" id="Page_209">[209]</span> -that she is on her way to Scotland at once, we are coming -to London on the 10th so as to meet her.</p> - -<p>“I have told Father nothing whatever of David’s -letter to me. I cannot imagine that Mrs. Carey will -want to make the facts known to him, but I shall be -able to judge better when I have seen her, which I -have decided to do, by myself, before the appointment -with Father.</p> - -<p>“I can arrange this a great deal better with your help -than without it, therefore will you come and see us on -the evening we arrive—Thursday the 10th, at about six -o’clock, Carrowby’s Hotel?</p> - -<p>“Please destroy this letter.</p> - -<p class="right"><span class="indentright">“Yours sincerely,</span><br /> - -“<span class="smcap">Flora Morchard</span>.”</p> -</div> - -<p>Quentillian, as he read Flora’s unvarnished statements, -felt a sensation as of being appalled.</p> - -<p>He could not believe that Flora, fanatically single-minded -as her determination to shield her father from -the knowledge of the truth might be, had any conception -of the difficulties that probably lay before her, and -he asked himself also whether she had in any degree -realized what the consequences must be to the Canon, -far more than to herself, of a deception that should -break down half way.</p> - -<p>His absolute conviction of Flora’s inflexibility, and -his own strong sense of the impertinence, in both the -proper and the colloquial sense of the word, of offering -unasked advice, were not enough to restrain him from -the mental composition of several eloquent and elaborate -expositions of opinion. But they sufficed to restrain<span class="pagenum" id="Page_210">[210]</span> -him from transferring the eloquence to a sheet -of notepaper.</p> - -<p>He went to Carrowby’s Hotel, to keep the appointment -summarily made by Flora.</p> - -<p>“You dear man!”</p> - -<p>The Canon’s exclamation of pleasure rang through -the dingy hotel sitting-room in which Quentillian -found them. He always showed the same pleasure in -seeing Owen, and Owen’s old sense of inadequacy had -insensibly given place to a rather remorseful gratitude.</p> - -<p>“Is this the doing of Flora? She told me that she -should notify you of our coming, but it is good to -meet with a friend’s face so early. Our stay is to be a -very brief one. I have to return home for the Sunday. -I cannot leave all in Clover’s hands. Besides, I trust -there will be no need. You know the errand on which -we are come?”</p> - -<p>“I told him in my letter,” said Flora.</p> - -<p>“This lady, this Mrs. Carey, had seen much of our -dear fellow in India and her letter is full of feeling—full -of feeling. She heard nothing of our tragedy until -she landed in England. It seems that she had been -in ill-health for some time, she writes of complete -prostration, and is on her way to Scotland now. So -you will understand our hasty journey hither. Has it -not indeed been with us, ‘Ask and ye shall receive’? -Flora, here, knows what my yearning has been for one -word with those who knew him, who had been with -him recently. And behold! it has been given unto me, -‘full measure, heaped up, pressed down and running -over’.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_211">[211]</span>The Canon leant back. He looked very tired and -old.</p> - -<p>“Do you see her tomorrow morning, sir?”</p> - -<p>“We go to her, Owen. She is good enough to receive -us on Saturday morning, and I understand that -she leaves that evening. Tomorrow I have a conference -in the afternoon, but the morning is our own.”</p> - -<p>He gazed wistfully at Owen.</p> - -<p>“I had thought of a memorial window to the beloved -David, and this is an opportunity which may -not come again. I have the name of a place to which -I half thought of going, if it be not too trying for -little Flora.”</p> - -<p>“Let me accompany you,” said Quentillian.</p> - -<p>It was evidently what the Canon wished.</p> - -<p>“Will you, dear lad? I own that I should be glad -of your arm, aye, and your presence. Flora is overwrought -and overtired.”</p> - -<p>She did indeed look very ill, not at all to Quentillian’s -surprise.</p> - -<p>“She has been taking too much thought for me, dear -child,” said the Canon, Quentillian could not help -thinking with more truth than he realized. “I wish -Flora to take some rest. Let the expedition tomorrow -be yours and mine, Owen. Tell me, my daughter, -what time am I free?”</p> - -<p>“Tomorrow morning, till twelve o’clock. Your conference -is at two.”</p> - -<p>“Flora is my deputy secretary,” said the Canon smiling. -“I trust it all to her, and her memory is unfailing. -She is indeed my right hand.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_212">[212]</span>“Will you come at ten o’clock tomorrow, Owen, and -start from here?” said Flora abruptly.</p> - -<p>He assented, determined to obtain an opportunity -of speaking to her alone. If he was to assist Flora in -a scheme of concealment against which he inwardly revolted -strongly, he must at least know of what that -scheme consisted. His indignation waxed in proportion -to his anxiety, until Flora said to him with deliberation:</p> - -<p>“Ought we to keep you any longer, Owen? I’ll ring -for the lift.” The suggestion took them both out of -the room, and she closed the door after her.</p> - -<p>“What is it you’re doing?” said Quentillian, his -urgency too great for a choice of words.</p> - -<p>She leant against the passage wall, white and -rather breathless, but spoke low and very distinctly, -as though to impress her facts upon him.</p> - -<p>“Listen—I want you to be quite clear about it. The -appointment with Mrs. Carey is for tomorrow—Friday -morning. I’m going to her house. I’m certain -from her letter, that she’s not a woman to be trusted. -I don’t know why she wants to see us, but I think it’s -to tell us things—things about David. I shall know -when I’ve seen her.”</p> - -<p>“But your father thinks the appointment is for Saturday?”</p> - -<p>“I told him it was. I wrote the letter to arrange it.”</p> - -<p>“And how are you to prevent his going there on -Saturday?”</p> - -<p>“She leaves for Scotland on Friday night.”</p> - -<p>“You know that for certain?”</p> - -<p>“Of course I do, Owen. One doesn’t leave these<span class="pagenum" id="Page_213">[213]</span> -things to chance. But I shall telephone on Saturday -and find out if she’s really left.”</p> - -<p>“I still don’t understand altogether. How can you -explain to the Canon that this lady isn’t there, when -he goes by appointment to see her?”</p> - -<p>“I shall have made a mistake. I’m keeping his engagements -written down for him. And I shall have -written down this engagement for Saturday, instead of -for Friday. He will go exactly one day too late.”</p> - -<p>“Flora, you can’t do it.”</p> - -<p>She lifted tired eyes to his face, overwrought to the -point of fanaticism.</p> - -<p>“Don’t waste time. Only tell me if I can count on -you. All I want you to do is to keep Father out, with -you, tomorrow morning. I shall be at Mrs. Carey’s at -half-past ten and I promise to be back here before one -o’clock.”</p> - -<p>“Suppose this lady is not what you think her, and -you find that she will be—discreet—is your father to -be disappointed of his hopes of seeing her?”</p> - -<p>“I may be able to arrange something. Perhaps she’d -put off going to Scotland, and see him on Saturday -after all. It would be all right then, wouldn’t it? Or -I might even be able to tell her the whole thing,” said -Flora wistfully. “It isn’t very likely, though.”</p> - -<p>He did not think that it was.</p> - -<p>“You see, you didn’t see her original letter, and I -did. It was the letter of a very hysterical person. She -might say almost anything, I imagine and—well, -there’s a good deal that mustn’t be said, isn’t there?”</p> - -<p>It was incontrovertible, but Quentillian said roughly:</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_214">[214]</span>“I detest maneuvering, it’s utterly unworthy of you. -All this juggling with dates and letters——”</p> - -<p>“It’s no use doing things by halves,” said Flora -stubbornly. “Yes or no, Owen, are you going to back -me up if necessary?”</p> - -<p>“If I say no, will it deter you from going through -with this insane performance?”</p> - -<p>“Of course it won’t.” She actually smiled. “What -would be the sense of making up one’s mind if it’s to -be unmade again just because one’s friends don’t agree -with one?”</p> - -<p>“Very well.” He shrugged his shoulders as one in -desperation.</p> - -<p>She evidently accepted it as the assent, however ungracious, -that he meant it to be.</p> - -<p>“Thank you very much,” said Flora with brief -finality.</p> - - -<h3>(iii)</h3> - -<p><span class="smcap">Flora</span> followed Mrs. Carey’s maid upstairs, feeling -as though the beating of her heart were causing each -breath she drew to crowd thickly upon the next one.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Carey’s house—she supposed it was Mrs. -Carey’s house—was a very tiny one indeed, and looked -tinier by reason of the number of pictures, draperies, -and flowers that covered every available corner of the -steep staircase and the small landing.</p> - -<p>The drawing-room was small, too, and so dark that -the maid turned on the rose-shaded electric lights as she -ushered Flora into the empty room.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_215">[215]</span>“Mrs. Carey isn’t down yet. I’ll tell her you’re here, -m’m.”</p> - -<p>“Mrs. Carey is expecting me. Please say that it is -Miss Morchard.”</p> - -<p>The maid went away.</p> - -<p>“Unpunctual,” reflected Flora. “She said half-past -ten.”</p> - -<p>She gazed round the room, which confirmed the impression -of Mrs. Carey’s personality that Flora had already -received from her pale mauve notepaper, her -methods of expressing herself in writing, and that -which she knew of her relations with David Morchard.</p> - -<p>Nearly everything in the room was rose-colour, except -the walls, which were grey, and laden with -sketches, brackets, and a shelf on which stood innumerable -framed and unframed photographs, nearly all -of them of men.</p> - -<p>A minute writing-table, set corner ways, overflowed -with papers, and more photographs, including one that -Flora recognized instantly, although it had never been -sent to St. Gwenllian.</p> - -<p>The chair in front of the table supported a number -of illustrated papers.</p> - -<p>“Untidy,” was Flora’s next verdict.</p> - -<p>She had resolutely closed the avenues of her mind -to emotion and speculation alike. The habits of observation, -which she mentioned in private spiritual consultation -with her father as her own tendency towards -a lack of charity, she knew subconsciously to possess -a steadying effect.</p> - -<p>A quantity of cigarette ash in a small receptacle, presumably -placed there on the previous evening, and a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_216">[216]</span> -general atmosphere of unopened windows, did not -serve to modify Flora’s already unenthusiastic judgments.</p> - -<p>Neither did Mrs. Carey’s delay in making her appearance.</p> - -<p>When she at last came in, it was difficult to see what -could possibly have delayed her, since she had apparently -only stepped out of bed into a wadded silk -kimono, a lace boudoir cap, and fur-bordered bedroom -slippers.</p> - -<p>She looked younger than Flora had expected her to -be, and her little pallid face was pretty enough, with -violet semi-circles under big, light blue eyes and a -general air of fragility. Although nearly as tall as -Flora herself, she was slight enough to produce an -effect of daintiness, the adjective that Flora immediately -felt certain would appeal to her most.</p> - -<p>A short, thick plait of fair hair fell over her shoulders, -and a certain babyish plaintiveness of utterance -made Flora think of Olga Duffle.</p> - -<p>“I’m sure you’re David’s sister,” said Mrs. Carey, to -which proof of intuition her visitor offered no reply, -thinking the fact sufficiently self-evident.</p> - -<p>“Oh, do sit down. You must forgive me coming -in like this, but I’m not strong, and I arrived worn out -after an awful voyage—and then to get this news! -Do you smoke?”</p> - -<p>“No, thank you.”</p> - -<p>“Do you mind if I do? I smoke too much, but my -nerves are in an awful state. A doctor friend of mine—the -dearest thing—made me promise faithfully never -to inhale, but I’m afraid I do. It was the ship’s doctor,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_217">[217]</span> -on the way home, as a matter of fact. There were one -or two nice men on board, but the women were dreadful. -Miss Morchard, I should think other women generally -confide in you, don’t they, and like you most -awfully. Now, I’m <i>not</i> enormously popular with other -women. I don’t mean that I haven’t got women-friends, -devoted ones, who’d do anything in the world -for me—but most of my very best pals have been men. -It’s funny, isn’t it? Your brother was one of my -<i>dearest</i> friends.”</p> - -<p>The blue eyes looked warily at Flora.</p> - -<p>“That’s why I felt I had to see you, and oh! you are -so like him! It’s hardly like talking to a stranger at -all!”</p> - -<p>It certainly was not, Flora reflected.</p> - -<p>“I feel I’m so dreadfully in the dark—I know nothing. -Only the awful, awful fact. When I got the -cable—it was cabled to me, by a dear friend at Government -House—when I read it, I simply didn’t believe -it. I said, ‘It can’t be true.’ But it was.”</p> - -<p>Flora did not feel it incumbent upon her to reply.</p> - -<p>“When your father got my letter, I daresay he was -astonished, but I’m frightfully impulsive, Miss -Morchard, and I felt I <i>must</i> know more or I should -go mad. That’s why I begged you to let me see you. -I’m a thoroughly unconventional woman, as you may -perhaps have guessed, and I always act on impulse.”</p> - -<p>Flora looked at the frightened, furtive little face, -and wondered what purpose and what concealment lay -behind the flood of words.</p> - -<p>“I’m going to be perfectly frank with you, because<span class="pagenum" id="Page_218">[218]</span> -I feel I can trust you. May I call you Flora? My -name is Maisie—a silly little name, isn’t it, but my -friends all say it suits me. I don’t know why. Tell -me, did David write to you about me? He said he was -going to, but it was such a—such a short time before——”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Carey’s tongue moistened her lips as though -they were dry.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know whether you’ve ever lived abroad, but -if you haven’t, you don’t know what the East is like -for people who have to live there. There’s a frightful -amount of slander and gossip going on, and people put -a wicked construction on all sorts of innocent things. -It’s awful. It used to make me simply miserable. You -see, live and let live has always been my motto. I like -to go my own way, and have my own friends, and not -do any harm to anybody, but simply be happy in my -own little way. After all, it’s what God meant for all -of us, isn’t it? But in India one can’t do that. My -dear, you wouldn’t believe what it’s like. I went out -when I was awfully young—I was married at twenty—and -I know for a fact that the most beastly things -have been said about me. You see, I feel I can tell you -this quite frankly, Flora, because of your being David’s -favourite sister. I know you’ll understand, and that I -can trust you.”</p> - -<p>Again that anxious, furtive glance was shot at her -from under Mrs. Carey’s long lashes.</p> - -<p>“I’ve had heaps of men friends, of course—especially -in the Regiment. I’m going to be <i>perfectly</i> honest -with you, and own up that one or two of them got -rather silly, and fancied themselves in love with me.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_219">[219]</span> -That wasn’t my fault, was it? I just wanted to be -friends, you know. A nice woman can do such a lot -for young men. I couldn’t help it—possibly—if they -went and fancied themselves in love with me. Now -could I? But would you believe it, people—it was -mostly women, I must say, and some of them -actually called themselves my friends—went and invented -the most disgusting lies about me. Out of jealousy, -you know. I was a good ten years younger than -any of them, as it happened, and you’d have thought -the Colonel’s wife, or anyone like that, might have -wanted to mother me a little bit. (I lost my own -mother when I was only fourteen, and had a rotten -time at home.) But instead of that, my dear, <i>instead</i> -of that, they simply spread these filthy stories about -me and all my best friends. However, I don’t want to -go into all that. It was soon after I first went out, and -of course nobody who really knew me believed for an -instant that there was anything in it. They heard -something about it at Government House, you know, -and the Governor was simply furious, I believe. My -friend in the Secretariat told me about it. The Governor -said that Mrs. Carey was the only real lady in -the place, as well as being the prettiest woman in India. -Of course, that may have been nonsense, because I happen -to know that he did like me most awfully—personally, -I mean—but I know I was most awfully -touched at his taking up the cudgels for me like that. -It showed what the people who really <i>mattered</i> thought -of me, didn’t it, and after all, the Governor of a place -does represent the King, doesn’t he?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Flora.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_220">[220]</span>It was the first appeal to which she had felt able to -give any assent.</p> - -<p>“You said that so like David!” cried Mrs. Carey -clasping her hands together. “We were the greatest -friends, and he used to come to me about everything. -I used to tell him to marry....”</p> - -<p>Another pause, and another look.</p> - -<p>“I always want my young-men friends to marry. -That just shows, doesn’t it, what nonsense it is for -anyone to talk as though there were anything wrong -about it? I don’t know whether your brother ever -hinted anything to you, in his letters, about any horrid -gossip. Between ourselves, he used to get angry, I -know, at the things that were sometimes said, and of -course he knew that I wasn’t—well, very happy. -You’re not married, I know, so perhaps you won’t understand -what it means to a woman, especially a very -sensitive one, which I am, to have a husband who is -jealous. I’m not blaming Fred, exactly, I suppose he -can’t help it, and he was madly in love with me when -we married. Of course, I was much too young and -ignorant of life to marry, but I had an awfully unhappy -home, and if it hadn’t been Fred, it would have -been somebody else—men were always pestering me, -somehow. Besides, people made mischief between us. -How people can be wicked enough to come between -husband and wife, I can’t think! I’ve been through -hell once or twice in my life, I can tell you!”</p> - -<p>Looking at the fear and the craftiness and the -sensuality written on Maisie Carey’s small, ravaged -face, Flora could believe it without difficulty.</p> - -<p>“I don’t really know why I’m telling you all this,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_221">[221]</span> -exactly. It’s not like me. I’m terribly reserved, really. -But you’ve got such an awfully nice face, somehow, -and you’re David’s sister. I can’t tell you how fond -I was of David—we were just tremendous chums. It -upset me awfully, that he should die in that sudden -way.”</p> - -<p>She began to cry in a convulsive, spasmodic way.</p> - -<p>Flora still remained silent.</p> - -<p>“I wish you’d tell me if he ever wrote anything to -you about me,” sobbed Mrs. Carey.</p> - -<p>In the midst of the tears which seemed to be really -beyond her own control, Flora caught a glimpse as of -a terrible anxiety. She suddenly knew that in the answer -to that last, sobbed-out question lay, for Mrs. -Carey, the crux of their interview.</p> - -<p>“He did write,” said Flora. “But what he wrote is -safe with me. It will never go any further.”</p> - -<p>The figure in the gay silk kimono seemed to cower -further back into the armchair, but there was no self-betraying -exclamation.</p> - -<p>“I suppose he told you about Fred and me?”</p> - -<p>“And about himself too,” said Flora.</p> - -<p>“Men are all alike! Why did he want to tell you?”</p> - -<p>“So that I could tell my father and sister. David -was afraid of Father.”</p> - -<p>“Your father knows?” This time the note of alarm -was undisguised.</p> - -<p>“No. The letter was only found and posted after -the ones that told us of David’s death. And I have -told my father nothing.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Carey broke into vehement, hysterical speech.</p> - -<p>“There’s nothing to tell! You people at home make<span class="pagenum" id="Page_222">[222]</span> -such mountains out of molehills. I swear to you that -there was nothing between us, that I never——”</p> - -<p>Flora interrupted her.</p> - -<p>“He told me everything,” she repeated. “He told -me that the case would be undefended, and that he -was coming home to marry you. So you see I know.”</p> - -<p>“You! What can you, who’ve never married, never -seen anything of life, know of things? You see evil -where none exists—you’re like all these good and holy -people ... intolerant....” Tears poured -unchecked down her face, making streaks across the -white powder. “You don’t even <i>begin</i> to know what -I’ve gone through. My husband is a beast—a <i>beast</i>. -You don’t know what that means.”</p> - -<p>She flung herself backwards, almost prone, and wept -hysterically.</p> - -<p>“What are you going to do?” said Flora.</p> - -<p>“Kill myself!”</p> - -<p>The rhetorical answer came almost automatically.</p> - -<p>Flora waited for a moment and then said very -gently:</p> - -<p>“As you say, I don’t know anything about these -things, but perhaps you would tell me what you want. -We might think of some way of making things better. -And you can see for yourself that your secret—and -David’s—is safe with me. I’ve deceived my father, -sooner than let him guess. I don’t think he need -ever know, now.”</p> - -<p>“Why don’t you want him to know?” said Mrs. -Carey with sudden curiosity that seemed to check her -crying.</p> - -<p>“It would make him very unhappy. He was proud<span class="pagenum" id="Page_223">[223]</span> -of David and he thinks that David had a career before -him. Perhaps you’ve read in books,” said Flora, -speaking as though to a child, “about people thinking -death is better than dishonour. Well, my father is -like that.”</p> - -<p>“He’s a parson, isn’t he?”</p> - -<p>“Yes.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Carey shrugged her shoulders.</p> - -<p>“Where is your husband now?” Flora enquired. She -felt that she could ask this woman questions without -fear or rebuff, but she thought that it would be for her -to disentangle the truth from the false in Mrs. Carey’s -replies.</p> - -<p>“Fred’s in Scotland. He’s staying with his mother. -She’s a beastly old woman and I hate her. If she’d -been a decent sort, you’d think she’d have used her -influence to put things right between us, now wouldn’t -you? But she’s never let Fred alone ever since we -married. Always telling him tales about me, and saying -I’m extravagant, and a flirt, and wanting to know -why I’ve never had a baby. It’s not my fault if I’ve -got rotten health, now is it? I’ve always been delicate. -I’m sure I only wish I had got a child. It might -have made Fred nicer to me, and I should have had -something to care for.”</p> - -<p>She began to cry again.</p> - -<p>“I’m sure I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. -Perhaps you think I’m mad.”</p> - -<p>“I’m dreadfully sorry for you,” said Flora truthfully.</p> - -<p>“You’re a dear.” Mrs. Carey dropped the hostility -out of her voice abruptly. “No one knows what I’ve<span class="pagenum" id="Page_224">[224]</span> -gone through. And now about David—it’s simply -awful!”</p> - -<p>“Did you really mean to marry David, after your -divorce?”</p> - -<p>“I’d better tell you the whole story, I suppose,” said -Mrs. Carey. She dried her eyes and her voice insensibly -hardened from self-pity into tones of satisfaction.</p> - -<p>“I suppose I’ve always been attractive to men. I -can’t help it, after all. And I daresay I’ve played the -fool, in my time—in fact I don’t deny it. But David -and I were simply tremendous friends, to begin with. -He was frightfully sorry for me, too. Everybody knew -that Fred was simply hateful to me, and made a scene -if I so much as went out riding with another man. He -quite liked your brother, though, at first, I will say -that for him. We used to have him to dinner pretty -often, and one of the subalterns to make a fourth, and -play Bridge. Well, I never guessed that your brother -did more than just like me as a great friend, as heaps -of men did—how could I? I used to advise him to -marry, often and often. Some nice girl at home, who’d -come out and look after him. Those boys all drink -more than is good for them, out there, if they’ve no -wife to look after them. And David used to talk nonsense -about having no use for girls, and having met -his ideal too late, but of course I never took it seriously. -Heaps of men say things like that to one, now don’t -they? We used to go out riding together a good deal, -and of course I danced with him. (That’s another of -the ways in which Fred is so frightfully selfish. He -can’t dance himself ever since he was wounded in the -war, so he hates me to.) Then people began to say the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_225">[225]</span> -usual horrid things. The women out there are all cats, -and besides, a good many of them wanted David for -themselves. I didn’t take any notice. I think it’s so -much more dignified not to, don’t you? As I said to -the Colonel’s wife, when she had the impertinence to -speak to me about it, I never <i>have</i> taken any notice of -gossip, and I’m not going to begin now. I simply go -my own way, and let people say what they choose. It -doesn’t matter to me if they’ve got horrible minds. It’s -themselves that are hurt by it, I always think, not me. -But I think women are much braver and more unconventional -than men, don’t you? David minded ever so -much more than I did, when he found people were -talking about us. Well, things were going from bad -to worse between Fred and me, and one night he was so -perfectly hateful to me that I got frightened. He was—not -drunk, but not altogether sober. And I ran -into the compound and down the road to David’s bungalow. -He shared it with another man, but the other -man was away shooting. You see, I was so frightened -and upset that I didn’t know what I was doing, and -I just felt I must go to someone who’d take care of -me.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Carey swallowed, as though something in her -throat were hurting her, and lit another cigarette with -a hand that trembled.</p> - -<p>“It was a frightfully imprudent thing to do, I suppose, -but I’ve never pretended to be a particularly -prudent woman. I daresay I should have been much -happier if I’d been less impulsive, all my life, but after -all, one can’t change one’s nature, can one? Besides, -I was nearly out of my mind. Fred came to find me<span class="pagenum" id="Page_226">[226]</span> -next morning. I was far too miserable and terrified -to go back to him that night. We had scene after scene, -after that, and he threatened me with divorce proceedings.”</p> - -<p>She glanced at her motionless auditor.</p> - -<p>“I may have been a careless fool, and I’ll go as far -as to say that I’ve flirted with other men, but it was -wicked of Fred to think of such a thing as divorce—to -ruin my reputation, and spoil David’s career.”</p> - -<p>“Why was the case to be undefended?” said Flora -steadily.</p> - -<p>“Why—why, don’t you see, when it all came to a -crisis, I told David how utterly wretched my whole -life was, and how I couldn’t bear it and should kill -myself, and we had to talk things over, and see what -could be done with Fred, who was like a madman. -And then it all came out—I mean David said I was -the only woman he could ever care for, and if I was -free, wouldn’t I marry him, and let him try to make -up to me for everything.”</p> - -<p>“Why was the case to be undefended?”</p> - -<p>“It would make less of a scandal if it was all done -quietly. I—I didn’t feel I could face the other.”</p> - -<p>In the truth of that last assertion, Flora could believe -absolutely.</p> - -<p>“I think I know the rest,” she said. “David was -going to send in his papers, and come home to England -as soon as possible after you and Major Carey, -and you’d promised to marry him when the decree had -been made absolute.”</p> - -<p>“How do you know those legal terms?” said Mrs.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_227">[227]</span> -Carey, pouting like a child that is trying to show -displeasure.</p> - -<p>Flora did not pursue the irrelevance. She was following -a chain of thought in her own mind.</p> - -<p>“David <i>was</i> in love with this woman. Otherwise -he wouldn’t have written and asked me to do anything -I could for her. As for leaving the case undefended—well, -they probably hadn’t got a defence to put up. -He meant to marry her—probably wanted to marry her. -Besides he’d have felt that he owed it to her. And -though he was afraid of Father, and very unhappy -about sending in his papers, and though he may have -had glimpses of what she really is—David wasn’t the -sort to let her down. <i>He didn’t kill himself.</i>”</p> - -<p>The certainty came to Flora with a rush of relief -so profound that she could almost have thanked little -Mrs. Carey for unwittingly bringing her to it.</p> - -<p>It was characteristic of her that, instead, she glanced -at her watch and said:</p> - -<p>“I can only stay another twenty minutes, and we -shall probably not meet again. Are you going to Scotland -tonight?”</p> - -<p>“Indeed I am. Fred is there now, at his mother’s, -telling her all sorts of horrible things about me, I -suppose. They’ve both written to me.”</p> - -<p>“What is your husband going to do?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know.” She began to cry again. “His -mother, for once in her life, wants to patch things up -between us. She’s one of your religious people, and -she thinks divorce is awful.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know whether a divorce is still possible, now -that David——”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_228">[228]</span>Mrs. Carey broke into a sort of howl that, in its -reminiscence of a beaten animal, made Flora feel -sick.</p> - -<p>“That’s just it—Fred <i>is</i> a beast! He thinks there -were other people—other men—as well.”</p> - -<p>“Oh,” said Flora, and shuddered violently.</p> - -<p>“You’ve been rather a dear, so I don’t mind telling -you that your brother is out of it now, whatever happened. -Oh, I don’t know what’ll happen. I never -cared for anybody like I did for David—never. I was -ready to go through anything for him, and we could -have started fresh somewhere, and no one would have -thought anything of it. People aren’t so narrow-minded -as they used to be. He’s the only man I’ve -ever loved!”</p> - -<p>Flora felt no inclination to point out to the unhappy -woman the inconsistency of her various statements.</p> - -<p>She even found it easy enough to believe that Maisie -Carey for the moment thought herself to be speaking -the truth when she said that David was the only man -she had ever loved.</p> - -<p>“I’m sorry for you,” she said gently. “And I’m -grateful to you, because you’ve taken a great weight -off my mind. My brother asked me to do anything I -could for you. Is there anything?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know what <i>you</i> could do, I’m sure. It isn’t -even as though you were married. Not that you -haven’t been sweet to me, listening like this. You do -believe in me, don’t you? Even if you hear beastly -stories about me, ever, you’ll know they aren’t true, -won’t you?”</p> - -<p>She put out a hand that still trembled, to Flora, but<span class="pagenum" id="Page_229">[229]</span> -she went on speaking rapidly, as though not daring to -wait for an assent that might not come.</p> - -<p>“You’re awfully like David, in some ways, you know. -It’s been a comfort to see you. Don’t tell your father -about my troubles. Just say I was a friend of David’s, -you know. I’m glad he didn’t come with you. I hate -parsons, if you’ll excuse me for saying so, and I’m so -frightfully nervous and upset that I might have said -anything. I wish you could have seen Fred—he always -says I haven’t got any decent women-friends. Perhaps -you could have made him give me another chance.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t you think he will?”</p> - -<p>“How do I know? He’s written me a horrid letter, -and pages and pages of cant from my mother-in-law. -I believe if I promised to live at their hateful place, -right away in Scotland, and keep within my allowance, -and never have any fun at all, Fred would chuck the -army and manage the estate for his mother. Can you -see me in thick boots and a billycock hat, trudging up -and down those hills to go and carry tracts to some -wretched old woman in a cottage?”</p> - -<p>She laughed melodramatically.</p> - -<p>“No,” said Flora, “I can’t see you doing that. But -I shouldn’t think you’d have to. Couldn’t you come -here, for part of the year?”</p> - -<p>“I suppose I could. I don’t know. Fred got this -house to please me, when we were first married. He’d -have done anything for me, then. I little knew what a -life he was going to lead me later on!”</p> - -<p>Flora rose.</p> - -<p>“I’ve got to go. I will burn the letter that David -wrote me, about you. Only one person knows what<span class="pagenum" id="Page_230">[230]</span> -was in it, besides myself, and he will never repeat it.”</p> - -<p>“Was that your father?”</p> - -<p>“No, oh, no. My father <i>mustn’t</i> know, ever.”</p> - -<p>Flora paused for a moment, then judged that it -would be useless to make any appeal to Mrs. Carey’s -discretion. For her own sake, she might keep silence -as to her relationship with David Morchard, and a -fresh emotional disturbance would eventually displace -the episode—to her, it could be no more—from her -mind.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Carey looked at her curiously.</p> - -<p>“Of course, I remember you told me that your father -didn’t know. Then are you engaged?”</p> - -<p>“No,” said Flora, colouring slightly.</p> - -<p>“All men are beasts—you’re quite right to have -nothing to do with them. I’ve had such a rotten time, -what with Fred’s jealousy, and other men never letting -me alone, that I sometimes wish I’d stayed an old -maid, like you,” said Mrs. Carey.</p> - -<p>Flora recognized the impulse that sought to inflict -a scratch, where Mrs. Carey’s self-revelation had left -her vanity disturbed with the instinctive fear that she -had not been taken at her own valuation.</p> - -<p>She said good-bye to her.</p> - -<p>“I’ll let you know what happens,” Mrs. Carey promised. -“I feel you really <i>do</i> care, you know. I shall -think of you when I’m taking that horrid journey tonight -all the way to Scotland. Perhaps I really will -settle down there, if Fred is willing to make it up, and -if he lets me have a decent allowance, and part of the -year over here.”</p> - -<p>She no longer looked desperate, and she bent over<span class="pagenum" id="Page_231">[231]</span> -the banisters and waved to Flora with the little handkerchief -that was still drenched by the tears she had -been shedding.</p> - -<p>Flora did not suppose that she should ever hear -from her. Impressions made upon Mrs. Carey seemed -to be transient affairs.</p> - -<p>She was conscious of nothing so much as of extreme -physical fatigue, and the intense relief of her new certainty -that David had not, after all, sought the last -desperate remedy. She could be certain of that, now.</p> - -<p>“Perhaps Owen won’t understand why I’m so positive -of that now,” she reflected. “But after all, I knew -David. She counted on him, and he’d promised to -marry her. David would never have failed her deliberately—it -wasn’t in him. And he was taken away -from committing a frightful sin. Besides, who knows -how much he repented, poor boy?”</p> - -<p>Within a few yards of the hotel, Flora met Quentillian.</p> - -<p>He turned and accompanied her to the door.</p> - -<p>“David didn’t take his own life, Owen. It was what -they said—he must have been taken ill suddenly.”</p> - -<p>“You know for certain?”</p> - -<p>“For certain.”</p> - -<p>He told her that he understood her relief, but his -next words were:</p> - -<p>“And do you still think you were right, about going -alone to this woman?”</p> - -<p>“Whether I was right or not, I’m thankful I did. -She would have broken my father’s heart. She was -a sort of—emotion-monger. She’d have spared him -nothing.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_232">[232]</span>“She spared you nothing, then, Flora?”</p> - -<p>“It’s different, for me. I would do anything in the -world, for my father’s sake. That’s my only excuse, -possibly, for deceiving him.”</p> - -<p>“Do you want excuses?”</p> - -<p>“No, I don’t. You’re right,” she said gravely. “I’ve -planned it all deliberately, and I’ve got to see it -through.”</p> - -<p>“I think you’re wrong, all along the line, and I want -to talk it over with you. It will be a bitter disappointment -to the Canon to be told that he has missed seeing -Mrs. Carey.”</p> - -<p>“Yes.”</p> - -<p>“But you’re going to leave it at that?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, more than ever. Owen, when do you go to -Stear?”</p> - -<p>“As soon as possible.”</p> - -<p>“Then could you travel down with us tomorrow? -We go by the three o’clock train. I think it may do -him good, to have you, and you see, he’ll be thinking -that the whole expedition has been a failure. It will -be easier for both of us, if you’re there.”</p> - -<p>“Very well, I’ll come.”</p> - -<p>They parted, and Flora went to seek her father. -Except from a certain curiosity, it could not be said -that Quentillian looked forward to an agreeable journey.</p> - -<p>By the time that he joined Canon Morchard and his -daughter at the railway station, he was beginning to -feel as though the whole of the involved deception perpetrated -with such a conviction of righteousness by -Flora, must have been a figment of imagination. One<span class="pagenum" id="Page_233">[233]</span> -glance at the Canon’s sombre and pallid face dispelled -the illusion.</p> - -<p>Flora looked pallid also, but her expression was one -of rapt intensity, as though only her own strange -vision, that Quentillian felt to be so singularly perverted, -were before her. She had, undeniably, shielded -her father from knowledge that must have appalled -him, and in that security, remained calm.</p> - -<p>The Canon, out of his lesser awareness, had not, -however, remained calm at all.</p> - -<p>“I have been angry, Owen,” he admitted, as they -paced the platform together, at the Canon’s own invitation. -“My disappointment has been very bitter. -This lady, this Mrs. Carey, the friend of my dear -boy David, left for Scotland last night. I went to her -house this morning, only to find her gone. Flora, -whom I trusted, had made a mistake of incredible -carelessness. I could not have believed it, in a matter -which <i>must</i> touch us all so nearly, which lay so close -to my own heart. Poor child, she has been highly -tried of late, and I have thought her looking ill. I -should not have trusted to her accuracy. Lucilla, who -has been my right hand, my secretary ever since her -childhood, could never have failed me thus. I forgot -that her sister was younger, unaccustomed to the task, -less to be relied upon. But it has been a cruel disappointment, -and I vented my first grief upon the culprit. -Is there <i>no</i> stage of the journey, Owen, when one can -see the undisciplined impulse driven underfoot, the -hasty word bridled? I, who have striven all my life, -I have again shown anger and violence—to my own -child!”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_234">[234]</span>The Canon’s peculiar predilection for making an -amateur confessor of Quentillian, was by force of -repetition ceasing to seem anything but natural.</p> - -<p>Quentillian said: “Flora looks overwrought, sir,” -and inwardly hoped that the train would arrive -shortly.</p> - -<p>“Aye, poor Flora! She was David’s especial favourite, -his best correspondent. This stroke has fallen -heavily upon Flora, Owen. And I, who should have -made all allowance, I turned against her! In my sharp -disappointment, I uttered those strong expressions that -come back to one, when the moment’s passion has -cooled, as they must have sounded to the unhappy sinner -by whom they were provoked.”</p> - -<p>It was the same piteous round of self-reproach, remorse -and profound depression to which Owen had so -frequently listened. He hoped that he might be of some -assistance, however, incomprehensibly to himself, in -listening yet once again.</p> - -<p>“I have written to Mrs. Carey. She must indeed -have thought my behaviour strange, ungrateful, unnatural -even. That matters little enough, yet it adds -its feather weight to the burden—its feather weight to -the burden. That I should have appeared careless, indifferent, -where news of David was concerned! I, who -would have given my heart’s blood, for one hour’s intercourse -with him since he left us for the last time! -Ah, well, it does not bear dwelling upon.”</p> - -<p>Nevertheless, the Canon dwelt upon it until it became -necessary to rejoin Flora and enter the train.</p> - -<p>During the journey he remained silent, with a profound<span class="pagenum" id="Page_235">[235]</span> -and unhappy silence. His manner towards his -daughter was peculiarly gentle and melancholy.</p> - -<p>Presently he leant back in the corner, the sad lines -of his face relaxing, and slept.</p> - -<p>Flora spoke to Quentillian in a low voice.</p> - -<p>“I’m so glad he’s asleep. Last night I heard him -walking up and down his room for such a long while.”</p> - -<p>“He is very much distressed,” said Quentillian -severely.</p> - -<p>“I know.” She acquiesced apathetically in the truth -of the statement.</p> - -<p>“Do you know that he has written to Mrs. Carey?”</p> - -<p>“Yes.”</p> - -<p>“How are you going to prevent her replying, and exposing -the fact that you have seen her?”</p> - -<p>Flora whitened perceptibly, but she answered him -with sudden spirit.</p> - -<p>“You have no right to question me, Owen, or to -demand explanations from me in that tone.”</p> - -<p>“I have this right, that you have made me a passive -partner in your extraordinary schemes.”</p> - -<p>Owen, too, was conscious of a rising anger.</p> - -<p>“I feel like a traitor to your father, Flora. What -are you going to do next?”</p> - -<p>“I am going to see it through,” said Flora doggedly. -“At least you will admit that to do a thing like this -by halves, is a great deal worse than useless. I have -saved my father from what must have broken his -heart.”</p> - -<p>“You have done evil that good may come,” he quoted -grimly.</p> - -<p>“If you like to put it so.” Flora was inexorable.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_236">[236]</span>“He has suffered too much already.”</p> - -<p>“You mock your own God,” said Quentillian, with -sudden, low vehemence. “You profess to believe in -Him, to trust Him, and yet you deceive and manoeuvre -and plot, sooner than leave your father to his dealings. -I have small belief in a personal God, Flora, but I can -see no justification in endeavouring madly to stand between -another soul, and life.”</p> - -<p>She gazed at him piteously.</p> - -<p>“Do you think I am not unhappy—that I have not -been torn in two? He was angry, Owen, when he -thought I had made a mistake about the appointment, -and oh, the relief of it! I should have welcomed it if -he had hit me—I deserved it all, and far more besides. -If I am doing wrong, I am suffering for it.”</p> - -<p>Quentillian, looking at her haggard, tragic face, felt -sure that she spoke literal truth.</p> - -<p>“When does Lucilla come home?” he suddenly asked.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know. Soon, I hope.”</p> - -<p>Quentillian hoped so too. It seemed to him that -only Lucilla’s normality could adjust to any sort of -balance the mental atmosphere of St. Gwenllian.</p> - -<p>Flora gazed at her father.</p> - -<p>“Think what it would have been to him to know, -now, that David had sinned, even that he contemplated -going through the form of marriage, with that poor -thing! The world’s standards of honour are not those -of my father.”</p> - -<p>“Nor yours either,” Quentillian had almost said, but -he checked the cheap retort as it rose.</p> - -<p>An impulse made him say instead:</p> - -<p>“Promise me at least, Flora, that if this becomes<span class="pagenum" id="Page_237">[237]</span> -too much for you, if it all breaks down, you will let -me share it with you. You owe it to me, I think, having -let me be partly responsible. Will you promise?”</p> - -<p>“You are very good,” said Flora, her mouth quivering -for the first time. “But I don’t mean to fail.”</p> - -<p>It was evident enough that her whole being was -strung up to the accomplishment of her purpose, and -that she was incapable of seeing beyond it.</p> - -<p>Quentillian, at his own station, parted from Canon -Morchard and his daughter with the direst forebodings. -Insensibly, he, too, had almost come to feel -that anxious preoccupation with the Canon’s peace of -mind that exercised the Canon’s daughters.</p> - -<p>Within a fortnight of his return he went over to -St. Gwenllian and found there no trace of catastrophe -such as he had half expected, but the usual atmosphere -of calm melancholy.</p> - -<p>He had no conversation with Flora, but she told -him briefly that there would be no correspondence between -her father and Mrs. Carey, and Quentillian -was left to surmise by what peculiar methods Flora had -achieved her ends.</p> - -<p>On the whole, he preferred not to dwell upon the subject. -He had a certain unwilling respect for Flora, -even if none for her casuistries, and he had no wish -to dwell either upon her astonishing machinations or -his own complicity.</p> - - -<h3>(iv)</h3> - -<p><span class="smcap">In</span> the spring Lucilla came back to St. Gwenllian.</p> - -<p>The first time that Owen saw her was in the presence -of the Canon.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_238">[238]</span>In his relief at her return, Canon Morchard had evidently -forgotten that he had thought it undutiful of her -to go.</p> - -<p>“You see I have my right hand once more,” he said -fondly. “Owen here can tell you that you have been -sadly missed, my daughter. Little Flora did her best, -but she is not my housekeeper, my experienced secretary. -Neither she nor our poor Valeria can equal -Lucilla there.”</p> - -<p>Quentillian took his advantage and asked Lucilla -for news of Valeria. The Canon, habitually, seemed -only too much inclined to view any mention of Valeria -and her husband as a rank indecency in the presence of -her quondam betrothed.</p> - -<p>“Val is very well and very busy,” said Lucilla. -“George is doing well, on the whole, though it’s a struggle, -but the land there is wonderful. I should like to -show you the photographs of their little farm, and the -children.”</p> - -<p>“Lucilla is our photographer,” said the Canon forbearingly, -as though in extenuation of what Quentillian -felt certain that he regarded as Lucilla’s indiscretion.</p> - -<p>Not for the first time, Quentillian suspected that -Lucilla was the only one of the Canon’s children able -to contemplate the Canon by the light of a sense of -humour, that detracted not at all from her affection -and respect.</p> - -<p>“They are not thinking of a visit to England, I -suppose?”</p> - -<p>“No. Expense is a consideration, and there are -the children.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_239">[239]</span>“My grandsons!” said the Canon. “I should like a -sight of my grandsons, but there could not be unalloyed -joy in the meeting. Nay, I ask myself sometimes -if there can be any unalloyed joy here below. Are not -the warp and woof intermingled even in the nearest -and dearest relationships? And the manner of poor -Valeria’s leaving home was such as to make one’s -heart ache, both for her and with her. But enough of -reminiscences, my children. I am in no mood for them -tonight. I wish to rest, and perhaps read. You may -some of you remember a very favourite old story of -mine,” said Canon Morchard genially. “That of the -famous saying, ‘We are none of us infallible, <i>not even -the youngest</i>.’”</p> - -<p>This terrible pronouncement, however historical, seldom -amused the juniors of its <i>raconteur</i>, and Flora -and Lucilla only accorded to it the most perfunctory -of smiles. Owen Quentillian remained entirely grave.</p> - -<p>“No one has more admiration than myself for the -quality of infallibility,” the Canon continued, humourously -“(always provided that it is not that which is -claimed by the Pope of Rome), but I must confess that -I am not amongst those who take the modern craze for -youthful intellectuals very seriously. This being so, -dear Owen, you will forgive me in that I have not yet -read anything of yours. Tonight I have a free hour—a -rare treat—and I am going to rectify the omission. -Will you read aloud to us of your work, or is that too -much to ask?”</p> - -<p>It was indeed too much to ask, Owen felt.</p> - -<p>He could have read his own work aloud with comparative -complacency to any critic capable of taking<span class="pagenum" id="Page_240">[240]</span> -it seriously, but to Canon Morchard the slight, cynical -epigrams, the terse, essentially unsentimental rationalism -of Owen’s views upon God and man, must come -either as wanton impertinence, or as meaningless folly.</p> - -<p>It was impossible to suppose that the Canon would -keep either opinion to himself, and Quentillian felt it -unlikely that he would either find himself capable of -listening to him tolerantly, or be given an opportunity -for demolishing his views.</p> - -<p>“I think I had rather not inflict my trivialities upon -you at all, sir,” he remarked, with truth, and yet -with an absence of sincerity of which he felt that -Lucilla, at all events, was quite as well aware as he -was himself.</p> - -<p>“I assure you that I’m not worth reading.”</p> - -<p>“I shall judge of that for myself,” said the Canon -kindly. “Was there not something in that Review that -was sent to you, Flora?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Flora unwillingly.</p> - -<p>“Fetch it, my dear.”</p> - -<p>Quentillian cast his mind over his more recent productions, -and was invaded by a grim dismay.</p> - -<p>His opinion of the Canon’s literary judgment, where -writings not directly connected with Church matters -were concerned, was of the slightest, but he disliked -the thought both of the pain that the elder man would -feel in reading that which would offend his taste, and -of the remonstrance that he would certainly believe it -his duty to make.</p> - -<p>It was a relief to him when Flora returned without -the Review, and said:</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_241">[241]</span>“There is someone who wants to speak to you in -the hall, Father. I’m so sorry.”</p> - -<p>The Canon rose at once.</p> - -<p>“‘The man who wants me is the man I want’,” he -quoted, and left the room.</p> - -<p>When the door had closed behind him, Flora said to -her sister, with a certain ruthless disregard of Quentillian’s -presence that at least established the earnestness -of her concern:</p> - -<p>“What shall we do?”</p> - -<p>“Nothing,” said Lucilla laconically.</p> - -<p>“But we can’t let him see that Review. Adrian sent -it to me—it’s got something in it by that man Hale. -Father would hate the whole thing.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla looked at Quentillian.</p> - -<p>“He won’t like my article, and I should very much -prefer him not to read it,” said the author candidly.</p> - -<p>She smiled slightly.</p> - -<p>“It’s the one on the Myth of Self-Sacrifice?”</p> - -<p>Owen nodded.</p> - -<p>“It might have been worse,” said Lucilla. “It might -have been the one in which you said that the parental -instinct was only another name for the possessive instinct. -And now I come to think of it, that one was -called The Sanctification of Domestic Tyranny, wasn’t -it?”</p> - -<p>“It was,” said Quentillian, in a tone which struck -himself as being rather that of a defiant child to its -nurse.</p> - -<p>“Well, Father would have liked that even less than -the Myth of Self-Sacrifice, I imagine.”</p> - -<p>She spoke without acrimony, without, in fact, any<span class="pagenum" id="Page_242">[242]</span> -effect at all of personal bias, but Quentillian said dispassionately:</p> - -<p>“You dislike the modern school of thought of which -my writings are a feeble example. May I ask why you -read them?”</p> - -<p>“But I don’t dislike it, Owen,” she returned with -a calm at least equal to his own. “As for what you -write, I think you’re very often mistaken, but that -doesn’t prevent my being interested.”</p> - -<p>Quentillian was slightly taken aback at being considered -mistaken, and still more at being told so. He -had always respected Lucilla, both morally and intellectually, -and he would have preferred to suppose the admiration -mutual.</p> - -<p>“Owen, haven’t you got anything else that he could -have to read?” broke in Flora.</p> - -<p>“Nothing that he would—care for,” answered Quentillian, -who had very nearly said “Nothing that he -would understand.”</p> - -<p>“Father has asked for the Review, Flossie, and you’d -better get it. You needn’t work yourself up about -it. He knows its general character quite as well as -you do.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t think he ought to be allowed to make himself -needlessly unhappy,” said Flora obstinately.</p> - -<p>“You can’t prevent it.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose it would be wrong to say that I don’t -know where the Review is?”</p> - -<p>“It would be foolish, which is worse,” said Lucilla -curtly. Her un-moral pronouncement closed the discussion.</p> - -<p>Flora, looking grave and unhappy, left the room,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_243">[243]</span> -and presently returned with the instrument of destruction, -as she evidently regarded the production.</p> - -<p>“Let us hope that Canon Morchard will continue to -be detained,” said Quentillian, not altogether ironically.</p> - -<p>Flora made no reply.</p> - -<p>In less than a quarter of an hour’s time, the Canon -came back again, picked up the Review and made a -careful scrutiny of the table of contents.</p> - -<p>“The <i>Myth</i> of Self-Sacrifice?” he enunciated, with -a strongly-enquiring inflexion in his tone, as though -prepared to receive the writer’s instant assurance that -he was not responsible for so strange a heading.</p> - -<p>Owen desired to leave the room, but was mysteriously -compelled to remain in it, glancing at intervals at -the all-too expressive face of his reader.</p> - -<p>The Canon read very attentively, pausing every now -and then to turn back a page or two, as though comparing -inconsistencies of text, and sometimes also turning -on a page or two ahead, as if desirous of establishing -the certainty that a conclusion was eventually to be -attained. His eyebrows worked as he read, after a -fashion habitual with him.</p> - -<p>There had been evenings when Flora had made the -slightest of pencil sketches, hardly caricaturing, but embodying, -this peculiarity, for her father’s subsequent -indulgent amusement. But no such artistic pleasantry -was undertaken tonight. The atmosphere did not lend -itself to pleasantry of any kind.</p> - -<p>At last the Canon closed the volume, laid it down, -and removed his glasses with some deliberation.</p> - -<p>“Dear lad, I am disappointed.”</p> - -<p>“I was afraid you would be.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_244">[244]</span>“Is this quite worthy of you?”</p> - -<p>Owen felt that a reply either in the affirmative or in -the negative, would be equally unsatisfactory, and made -none.</p> - -<p>“You have adopted the tone of the day to an extent -for which I was by no means prepared,” the Canon -said gently. “I am sorry for it, Owen—very sorry. I -think you have heard me speak before of my dislike -for the modern note, that emphasises the material -aspect, that miscalls ugliness realism, and coarseness -strength. Forgive me, dear Owen, if I hurt you, but -this—this trivial flippancy of yours, has hurt <i>me</i>.”</p> - -<p>Owen had no doubt that Canon Morchard spoke the -truth.</p> - -<p>“How emphatically he belongs to the generation that -took the errors of other people to heart,” Quentillian -reflected.</p> - -<p>He felt no great sympathy with such vicarious distresses.</p> - -<p>“There is so much that is sad and bad in life, that -one longs to read of happiness, and hope, and beauty,” -said the Canon. “Why not, dear Owen, seek out and -write of the ‘something afar from the sphere of our -sorrow’?”</p> - -<p>“Because to my way of thinking, only first-hand impressions -are of any value. The only value that any -point of view of mine can lay claim to, must lie in its -sincerity.”</p> - -<p>“Words, words! You delude yourself with many -words,” said the Canon sadly, rousing in Quentillian -a strong desire to retort with the obvious <i>tu quoque</i>.</p> - -<p>“Do not misunderstand me, dear fellow—there is<span class="pagenum" id="Page_245">[245]</span> -talent there—perversely exercised, if you will, but talent. -I cannot but believe that life has many lessons -in store for you, and when you have learnt them, then -you will write more kindly of human nature, more -reverently of Divine.”</p> - -<p>Hope was once more discernible in the Canon’s voice -and on his face, and as he rose he laid his hand affectionately -upon the young man’s arm. “Hoping all -things—believing all things,” he murmured, as he left -the room.</p> - -<p>Quentillian was left to the certainty that his brief -exposition of his literary <i>credo</i> had entirely failed to -convey any meaning to the Canon, and that the long -list of the Canon’s optimistic articles of faith now included -his own regeneration.</p> - - -<h3>(v)</h3> - -<p>“<span class="smcap">Father</span>, I think Flora looks ill.”</p> - -<p>Canon Morchard gazed with concern at Lucilla as -she made the announcement, and at once devoted himself -to the anxious analysis that he always accorded -to any problem affecting one of his children.</p> - -<p>“I have thought her altered myself, by the great grief -of last year. Spiritually, it has developed her, I believe. -But there is a sustained melancholy about her, -an absence of all hopeful reaction such as one looks for -from youth, that is certainly not wholly natural. You, -too, have observed it?”</p> - -<p>“Yes.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla had observed a great deal more besides, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_246">[246]</span> -she was at a loss for a definition of her secret, latent -fears.</p> - -<p>“Flossie has become very irritable,” she said at last, -voicing the least of her anxieties.</p> - -<p>“My dear, is that perfectly kind? Flora has had -much to try her, and your own absence in Canada -threw a great deal for which she is scarcely fitted, upon -her shoulders. I do so want you to overcome that -<i>critical</i> spirit of yours, dear Lucilla. It has very often -disturbed me.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla thought for a moment, and decided, without -resentment as without surprise, that it would be of no -use to say that her observation had not contained any -of the spirit of criticism at all. She said instead:</p> - -<p>“She doesn’t sleep well, and she is always up very -early.”</p> - -<p>“She is always at the early Celebration, dear child,” -said the Canon tenderly. “Our Flora’s religion is a -very living reality to her—more so than ever, of late, I -think.”</p> - -<p>“It’s a pity that it should make her unhappy, instead -of happy.”</p> - -<p>“What are you saying, Lucilla?” the Canon enquired -in highly-displeased accents.</p> - -<p>“It is perfectly true. She is very restless, and very -unhappy, and the more she goes to church, the less -it seems to satisfy her.”</p> - -<p>“And who are you, to judge thus of another’s spiritual -experiences? You mean well, Lucilla, but there -is a materialism about your point of view that has -long made me uneasy—exceedingly uneasy. You were -encumbered with household cares very young, and it<span class="pagenum" id="Page_247">[247]</span> -has given you the spirit of Martha, rather than the -spirit of Mary. Leave Flora to my direction, if you -please.”</p> - -<p>“I should like her to see the doctor.”</p> - -<p>“Has she complained of ill-health?”</p> - -<p>“No, not at all. She resents being asked if she is -well.”</p> - -<p>“Most naturally. She is not a child. You take too -much upon yourself, Lucilla, as I have told you before. -Leave Flora’s welfare in Higher hands than -ours, and remember that it is not the part of a Christian -to anticipate trouble. Where is your faith?”</p> - -<p>Lucilla was not unaccustomed to this enquiry, and -did not deem any specific reply to be necessary. Whatever -the whereabouts of that which the Canon termed -her faith, it did not serve in any way to allay her -anxiety.</p> - -<p>She watched Flora day by day.</p> - -<p>She saw her increasing pallor, her gradual loss of -weight, the black lines that deepened beneath her eyes. -Above all, she saw the mysterious sense of grievance, -that most salient characteristic of the neurotic, gather -round her sister’s spirit.</p> - -<p>After a little while, she ceased to talk of her visit -to Canada, of Valeria, and Valeria’s children, because -she saw that Flora could not bear these subjects.</p> - -<p>“She’s <i>jealous</i>,” thought Lucilla, with a sick pang -of pity.</p> - -<p>“I’m sorry for poor Val, living right away from civilization, -and absorbed by commonplace things all the -time,” said Flora.</p> - -<p>She went to church more frequently than ever.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_248">[248]</span>Lucilla wondered very often if anything had happened -while she was away.</p> - -<p>One day she asked Owen Quentillian.</p> - -<p>“There was the shock of David’s death,” he said -rather lamely.</p> - -<p>“Yes. Father says it affected Flora terribly for a -long while.”</p> - -<p>“Do you find her much changed, then?”</p> - -<p>“I find her very unbalanced,” said Lucilla with her -usual directness.</p> - -<p>“I think she <i>is</i> an unbalanced person,” Quentillian -assented, levelly.</p> - -<p>“I wish she could leave home for a time.”</p> - -<p>But Flora, when this was suggested to her, said that -she did not wish to leave home. Her manner implied -that the suggestion hurt her.</p> - -<p>At first the Canon was pleased, assuring Lucilla that -the pleasant home-life at St. Gwenllian, even if robbed -of its old-time joyousness, would best restore Flora -to herself. But after a time, he, too, watched her with -anxiety.</p> - -<p>“Little Flora is not herself,” he began to say.</p> - -<p>“Let me send for the doctor, Father,” Lucilla urged.</p> - -<p>“We will see, my dear, later on. The unsettled -weather is trying to us all just now—no doubt things -will right themselves in a day or two, and we shall smile -at our own foolish, faithless fears.”</p> - -<p>Meanwhile, however, no one at St. Gwenllian evinced -any desire to smile at anything, and Flora became subject -to violent fits of crying.</p> - -<p>Her dignity and her delicate reticence seemed alike -to have deserted her. She cried in church, and sometimes<span class="pagenum" id="Page_249">[249]</span> -she cried at home, regardless of the presence of -her father and sister.</p> - -<p>“My dear, what is it?” the Canon enquired at last, -long after Lucilla had given up asking the same question -in despair.</p> - -<p>“Nothing,” said Flora.</p> - -<p>“It is not right to prolong your sorrow for your -dear one in this fashion,” said the Canon. “Can we -not trust dear David to the Everlasting Arms, and fulfil -our own appointed days here below?”</p> - -<p>His daughter made no reply.</p> - -<p>“This is reaction, Flora,” said Canon Morchard decisively. -“When this heavy blow first fell upon us, -you were my courageous daughter, my comforter—so -far as that was humanly possible. Do not falter -now—remember that whom He loveth, He chastizeth.”</p> - -<p>“I do remember,” she said, her face a mask of misery.</p> - -<p>“You are not well,” said the Canon tenderly. “I -shall no longer allow you to exert yourself as you have -been doing. Lucilla here will arrange that your class -shall be temporarily given over to other management, -and no doubt she can herself arrange to replace you -at the choir-practices.”</p> - -<p>“I can arrange it,” Lucilla said, “but——”</p> - -<p>She looked at her sister.</p> - -<p>Flora broke into a tempest of tears.</p> - -<p>“Don’t take away what work I <i>can</i> do,” she sobbed -out. “My life is useless enough, in all conscience.”</p> - -<p>“Flora!” the Canon thundered. “Have a care! Such -a thought is perilously near to being a blasphemous -one.”</p> - -<p>She hid her face in her hands.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_250">[250]</span>“You are unstrung, my poor child,” said her father. -He took to treating her almost as an invalid, and -failed to perceive that his watchful and incessant solicitude -produced upon Flora’s nerves an effect that was -the very reverse of soothing.</p> - -<p>“She ought to go right away from home,” said -Lucilla to Quentillian. “But it’s difficult to suggest it -again, she was so much upset when I spoke of it before. -Will you try what you can do, Owen? She -is a great deal more likely to listen to someone who is -not one of the family. It’s one of the symptoms.”</p> - -<p>“Symptoms of what?”</p> - -<p>“Of hysteria,” said Lucilla succinctly, facing the -word as she had already faced the fact.</p> - -<p>Quentillian admired her directness, but it did not -breed in him any desire to adopt the measure suggested, -and speak to Flora.</p> - -<p>At last, however, he did so. They had scarcely been -alone together since the day when she had told him -of her visit to Mrs. Carey.</p> - -<p>“Is that business on your mind, Flora?”</p> - -<p>He had thought for some time that it might be.</p> - -<p>“What?”</p> - -<p>“Mrs. Carey, I mean.”</p> - -<p>She coloured deeply.</p> - -<p>“I did what I thought right at the time, Owen. Is -there any necessity to discuss it again?”</p> - -<p>“Not if you don’t wish to, certainly. I had an idea -that it might be a relief. I suppose no one knows besides -ourselves?”</p> - -<p>“No one. She never wrote to me, you know, and -I feel sure she never will. She was the sort of person<span class="pagenum" id="Page_251">[251]</span> -to be thoroughly absorbed by her impressions of the -moment. I sometimes wonder what happened to her, -in Scotland.”</p> - -<p>“It is not very difficult to guess what <i>will</i> happen, -sooner or later, from what you told me. People like -Mrs. Carey live from one emotional crisis to another.”</p> - -<p>She gave him a curious look.</p> - -<p>“At least it’s living—not stagnation. That interview -with Mrs. Carey seems like a dream, almost, nowadays—something -quite apart from the rest of my life. -I suppose it’s because it’s the only thing I’ve ever done -entirely by myself, without any of the family knowing -about it. I’ve never even seen anyone else at all like -Mrs. Carey—it was impossible to get into touch with -her, really. She was like a painted cardboard figure, -with no back to it—nothing solid.”</p> - -<p>“But you’ve turned down that page, now—it’s finished -with?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” she said, looking down.</p> - -<p>He had wondered whether that which he sometimes -thought of as Flora’s Jesuitical plotting had come to -prey upon her mind.</p> - -<p>Evidently, if it did, he was not to be told so.</p> - -<p>In the end he could think of no more subtle enquiry -than:</p> - -<p>“Why are you unhappy?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know,” she said with a trembling lip.</p> - -<p>“I feel I’m of no use in the world. Wouldn’t you be -unhappy, if you felt like that—that nobody really -needed you in any way, and you had nothing to do?”</p> - -<p>“Not in the least,” said Quentillian reflectively. “I -am quite sure that nobody does need me, and it doesn’t<span class="pagenum" id="Page_252">[252]</span> -distress me. As for having nothing to do, I imagine—if -you will forgive me for saying so—that one can always -find something if one looks far enough.”</p> - -<p>“It’s different for a man.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps.”</p> - -<p>Quentillian went away still undetermined whether -Flora’s conduct of the <i>affaire</i> Carey was the cause or -the result of her present deplorable condition.</p> - -<p>That she had all the makings of a fanatic, he had -long suspected, and the Canon’s determination to treat -her as an invalid, in need of rest and complete inaction, -seemed to him to be a singularly ill-advised one.</p> - -<p>In spite of his disapproval of her methods, Quentillian -had come to feel a certain affection for Flora, -and he could not avoid a sense of complicity that drew -him to her, even while it chafed his self-righteousness.</p> - -<p>With an entire lack of originality, he informed -Lucilla that he thought her sister would be better away -from home.</p> - -<p>“Well, so do I. But even to go away for a few weeks -would only be a half-measure. Owen, I’m frightened -about Flora—far more than I’ve ever been about anyone -before.”</p> - -<p>He could partly apprehend her meaning.</p> - -<p>“Don’t you think that perhaps this—phase—is only -another manifestation of the same spirit that made -Val want to go and work somewhere?”</p> - -<p>“In a sense, yes. You see, all the intellectual interests, -and the mental appreciations, to which we were -brought up, although those things did fill our days—at -least before the war—were only superimposed on<span class="pagenum" id="Page_253">[253]</span> -what Val and Flossie and Adrian really were, in themselves. -Not essentials, I mean, to either of them.”</p> - -<p>Quentillian wondered what Lucilla’s own essentials -might be. She had given him no hint of them, ever, -and yet he suspected her of an almost aggressive neutrality -with regard to the imposed interests of which -she had spoken.</p> - -<p>The odd contradiction in terms seemed to him expressive -of the difference that he felt certain existed between -Lucilla’s daily life, and the personal, intimate -standpoint from which she all the time regarded that -life.</p> - -<p>Something of the same ruthlessness of purpose that -had once characterized Flora, he had always discerned -in Lucilla, but he felt very certain that her essential -sanity and humour would have kept her forever from -the strange and tortuous means adopted by Flora to -safeguard those interests of which she apparently felt -herself to be a better judge than her Creator.</p> - -<p>Lucilla would neither juggle with fate, nor see any -justification for tampering with other people’s correspondence.</p> - -<p>“Flora thinks, now, that she doesn’t want to go away -from home.”</p> - -<p>“It’s a pity, perhaps, that she didn’t go to Canada -instead of you.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, but you see Father didn’t really want either -of us to go, and Flossie wouldn’t have disobeyed him.”</p> - -<p>Flora’s conscience! Owen felt as impatient at the -thought of it, as he had frequently felt before. He had, -however, long ago sufficiently assimilated the atmosphere -of St. Gwenllian to refrain from pointing out<span class="pagenum" id="Page_254">[254]</span> -that Flora had been for some years of an age to act -for herself, independently of the parental sanction. He -did not, indeed, suppose that Lucilla needed to have -anything so self-evident put before her.</p> - -<p>“Do you think Flora would consent to see a doctor?”</p> - -<p>“No.”</p> - -<p>Miss Morchard’s unvarnished No-es and Yes-es always -took him slightly by surprise, especially after -any time spent with the Canon.</p> - -<p>“The fact is,” said Lucilla vigorously, “that Flora -needs something to occupy her mind. She is preying -on herself, and unless something happens to take her -out of herself, Owen, I think she will go mad.”</p> - -<p>He instinctively paid the homage due to her habitual -precision of expression, by taking the startling phrase -literally.</p> - -<p>“Have you told anyone?”</p> - -<p>“Not yet.”</p> - -<p>“But you must. If you really think that, you must -tell the Canon so.”</p> - -<p>“I know.” Her voice was rather faint, but she repeated, -more strongly and with entire acceptance in -her voice, “I know I must.”</p> - -<p>It reminded him of the long past days when one of -the St. Gwenllian children had been naughty, and the -task of taking the culprit before the Canon had invariably, -and as a matter of course, devolved upon -Lucilla.</p> - - -<h3>(vi)</h3> - -<p>“<span class="smcap">Flora</span> is treading the thorny way that saints have -trodden. If your own spirituality, which is in its infancy—in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_255">[255]</span> -its cradle, I may say—does not enable you -to understand that <i>via dolorosa</i>, at least refrain from -trivial interpolations and misrepresentations, Lucilla, I -beg.”</p> - -<p>Canon Morchard’s tone rather suggested commanding, -than begging, and his large eyes seemed to flash -with indignation as they looked, from beneath corrugated -brows, at Lucilla.</p> - -<p>She was rather paler than her usually colourless -wont.</p> - -<p>“I am afraid that Flora is suffering from a very -common form of hysteria, father, and I thoroughly -distrust any inspiration of hers in her present state -of health.”</p> - -<p>“She has told me herself that she is in her usual -health, and that she positively objects to the idea -of seeing a medical man. I see no reason for disbelieving -her own statement.”</p> - -<p>“Well, I do.”</p> - -<p>“Lucilla, you forget yourself.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla and the Canon looked at one another, each -seeming momentarily to despair of the other.</p> - -<p>At last Lucilla said:</p> - -<p>“A little time ago, you thought she was ill, too.”</p> - -<p>“Mind and body react upon one another, no doubt, -and our little Flora is highly strung. I do not recognize -it as being in any way incumbent upon me to explain -to you my treatment of any soul in my charge, -Lucilla, but I may say that I have now come to the -conclusion that Flora’s malady was of the soul. With -that, you must rest content.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla did not rest content at all.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_256">[256]</span>A philosophical acceptance of the inevitable had -long been part of Miss Morchard’s life, but in the -weeks that followed she came nearer to the futility -of the spoken protest than ever before.</p> - -<p>From seemingly eternal weeping, however, Flora -presently passed to a tense exaltation of spirit that -found its culmination in long hours spent upon her -knees.</p> - -<p>Lucilla made only one appeal to her.</p> - -<p>“Flossie, won’t you tell me what’s happening? I -can’t help knowing that you’ve been very unhappy.”</p> - -<p>“I’m not unhappy now,” said Flora quickly. “At -least, not like I was before. You know I’ve put myself -absolutely under father’s direction, Lucilla? How -wonderful he is!”</p> - -<p>“He has made you happier?”</p> - -<p>“Not he himself. He has shown me where to find -peace, at last.”</p> - -<p>“If you mean Church, I should have thought you’d -known about it ever since you were born, very nearly.”</p> - -<p>If the faint hint of impatient derision latent in her -sister’s tone was perceptible to Flora, she showed no -resentment at it.</p> - -<p>She flushed deeply and looked earnestly at Lucilla.</p> - -<p>“I wish I could make you understand. But some -things are too sacred to be described, even if one could. -The only thing I can say is that I was unhappy, I felt -I was wasting my life, and that nobody cared. And -I was full of remorse for a wrong I had done. I can’t -tell you what it was, Lucilla, nor anyone else, ever, -and I can’t undo it, now, but at least I can expiate it, -and all my other failings.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_257">[257]</span>“Expiation?” Lucilla spoke the word unenthusiastically. -“But if you can’t undo whatever it was you did—and -really, Flossie, I can’t believe it was anything -so very desperate—will it be a good plan to go on being -miserable about it for the rest of your life, all to no -purpose?”</p> - -<p>“‘The heart knoweth its own bitterness,’” Flora -replied gently.</p> - -<p>Lucilla was left to apply the truth of the adage to -her own condition of mind.</p> - -<p>She was very unhappy about her sister.</p> - -<p>Nevertheless, Flora had ceased to weep, and although -she ate less than ever and rose early for the purpose of -going to church, she looked rather less ill. Only the -strained look in her eyes remained, ever increasing, to -justify Lucilla’s feeling of sick dismay.</p> - -<p>That it was entirely unshared by Canon Morchard, -she knew already, but she was not altogether prepared -for the announcement that he presently made.</p> - -<p>“I am very happy about dear Flora—peculiarly -and wonderfully so. What think you, Lucilla, of this? -Flora is turning her thoughts towards the Sisterhood -at St. Marychurch.”</p> - -<p>It was never Miss Morchard’s way to respond over-emphatically -to an invitation from her father to state -her thoughts freely, experience having long since taught -her what a tangled web we weave when first we practice -speaking the truth inopportunely.</p> - -<p>“Has she only just started the idea?”</p> - -<p>“Nay, she tells me—and I can readily believe it—that -the grace of God, according to its mysterious -wont, has been working within her for a long while<span class="pagenum" id="Page_258">[258]</span> -now. There has been a period of darkness for Flora, -undoubtedly, but she is emerging more and more into -the light—that light that shineth into the Perfect Day!”</p> - -<p>The Canon seemed rather inclined to forget himself -in profound musings.</p> - -<p>“It implies losing her,” said Lucilla.</p> - -<p>“Humanly speaking, yes, and it is hard to eradicate -the human element. But once that is done—and done -it <i>shall</i> be—what remains is altogether joyful. I shall -see her go, if go she does, with feelings far other than -those with which I saw our poor Valeria leave home!”</p> - -<p>Lucilla thought so, too, and would emphatically have -given the preference to Valeria’s method of inaugurating -an independent career.</p> - -<p>“I <i>cannot</i> be anything but glad that one of mine -should be dedicated!” the Canon exclaimed, as though -the exclamation broke from him almost irrepressibly.</p> - -<p>“But does Flora mean to go away at once?”</p> - -<p>“She wishes it greatly, and I should hardly feel -justified in restraining her. Flora is not a child, and -her own desire, as she says herself, is to feel that wayward, -wayless will of hers at safe anchorage at last. -Dear child, her one regret is for me.”</p> - -<p>Tears stood in the Canon’s eyes.</p> - -<p>“The grief of last winter greatly developed Flora, -I believe. There has been a tendency to dreaminess, -to a too great absorption in her music, that I confess -has made me anxious in the past. But she speaks most -rightly and nobly of her certainty that a call has come -to her, and if so, it is indeed a vocation that must -not be gainsayed. She is all ardour and anxiety to -begin, and if all is well, she and I go to St. Marychurch<span class="pagenum" id="Page_259">[259]</span> -to view the establishment there next week, and enter -into the necessary arrangements.”</p> - -<p>“What sort of life will it mean for her?”</p> - -<p>“One of direct service, dear Lucilla, of shelter from -the temptations of this world, of close personal union -with Christ Himself, I trust. All indeed are not called -to such union, but I believe with all my heart that our -Flora is amongst the chosen few, and grievous though -it be to lose her from our sadly diminished home-circle, -I cannot but rejoice for her, and with her.”</p> - -<p>The Canon’s voice trembled very much as he spoke, -but his smile was one of single-hearted sincerity.</p> - -<p>“But <i>does</i> she rejoice?” said Lucilla rather faintly.</p> - -<p>“Indeed she does. I confess that Flora’s earnest -desire for self-immolation, her ardent spirit, have taken -me by surprise. She is of the stuff of which the -martyrs were made. No austerity has any terrors for -her—she is already far advanced upon the way of the -mystic.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla wrung her hands together.</p> - -<p>“What is it, my dear one?” said her father gently.</p> - -<p>She could not tell him. She felt unable to voice the -terror and the profound distrust that possessed her at -the thought of Flora, fanatically eager for discipline -of her own seeking, finding in religious emotionalism -an outlet for instincts that she had not dared, so far as -Lucilla could judge, to call by their right name.</p> - -<p>“One can only let other people go their own way, -then?” she murmured, more to herself than to the -Canon.</p> - -<p>“Say, rather, the way appointed for them, dear -Lucilla. Yours and mine may lie together yet awhile<span class="pagenum" id="Page_260">[260]</span> -longer, I trust, but I am no longer young, and these -repeated partings tell upon me. It is a sacrifice for -you, too, to make, but let us do so cheerfully—aye, -and right thankfully, too. Our little one has been -chosen for the Bride of Heaven, as the beautiful old -devotional phrase has it.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla was only too conscious that the beautiful -old devotional phrase awoke nothing in herself but -a shuddering distaste.</p> - -<p>She could not doubt, however, that its effect upon -Flora was far otherwise.</p> - -<p>Although she saw, as time went by, that no outside -influence would have power to shatter the vision -so clearly before the Canon’s eyes and to which he so -unfalteringly directed Flora’s gaze, it brought to her -a slight sense of personal relief when the Canon, after -inditing a letter of his usual unbridled length and -meticulous candour, informed her that he had besought -Quentillian to spend at St. Gwenllian that which he -emphasized as Flora’s last evening at home.</p> - -<p>“It will make it easier for us all, to have that dearest -of dear fellows amongst us. He is so truly one of ourselves, -and yet the mere presence of someone who -does not always form part of our familiar little circle, -will prevent overmuch dwelling upon the tender associations -of the past that are well-nigh beyond bearing, -at such a time as this.”</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Owen, laconic as Lucilla herself, made no attempt to -conceal either his personal dislike of the solution to -Flora’s problem, or his innate conviction of her complete<span class="pagenum" id="Page_261">[261]</span> -right to any form of self-slaughter that she might -select.</p> - -<p>They exchanged no opinions, but he found occasion -to say to her in private:</p> - -<p>“One thing, Flora. Will you leave me to deal with -the Mrs. Carey equation, if it ever comes to be necessary?”</p> - -<p>“I hope it never will.”</p> - -<p>“So do I. But make it your legacy to me, so that if -ever it has to be thought of again, I may do as seems -best to me.”</p> - -<p>Flora smiled, her shadowy, tremulous smile.</p> - -<p>“Wouldn’t you do that anyway?”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps I should. But I would rather have your -permission. And after all, you know, Flora—you -won’t be able to pull strings from your Sisterhood.”</p> - -<p>It was the last, almost the only, reference that he -would permit himself, and both could smile at it -faintly.</p> - -<p>“Very well, Owen. I don’t want to remember it -ever again, and I shall only think of Mrs. Carey now -in one way.”</p> - -<p>She lacked the Canon’s capacity for outward expression, -even now, and her colour rose as she spoke.</p> - -<p>Only in earnest and uncondemnatory intercession -would Mrs. Carey find place again in Flora’s thoughts.</p> - -<p>Owen knew it as well as though she had told him -so.</p> - -<p>The evening was mild and beautiful, and the Canon -sat at the open window, leaning back as though greatly -fatigued, and asked Flora for some music.</p> - -<p>“Shall I sing?” she asked.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_262">[262]</span>“Are you able to, my dear?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, indeed,” she said earnestly, and Quentillian -could surmise that she was instinctively eager for the -form of self-expression most natural to her, as a vent -for her own mingled emotions.</p> - -<p>Her voice was more beautiful than ever, with a -depth of feeling new to it.</p> - -<p>Quentillian was indignant with himself when he -found that this perfectly traditional setting for a -pathetic situation was unmistakably affecting him.</p> - -<p>The only light round them was that of the summer’s -evening, and Flora’s voice came with strength and -sweetness and purity from her scarcely-seen figure at -the far end of the room, in well-remembered and intrinsically-exquisite -melody. She was part of his childhood—she -was going away—they would none of them -ever again see Flora, as they had known her, any -more....</p> - -<p>Quentillian, in a violent endeavour to react from -an emotion that he unsparingly qualified as blatant, -turned his eyes away from the singer.</p> - -<p>He looked at Lucilla, and saw that she sat very still. -He reflected that for a face so sensitive, and possessed -of so much latent humour, hers was singularly inexpressive -of anything but acceptance. Nevertheless it -was an acceptance that had its origin, most unmistakably, -in a self-control acquired long since, rather than -in an absence of any capacity for strong feeling.</p> - -<p>He wondered, not for the first time, what her life -had taught Lucilla.</p> - -<p>He looked at Canon Morchard.</p> - -<p>The Canon had closed his eyes and his face, on<span class="pagenum" id="Page_263">[263]</span> -which the lines were showing heavily at last, was white -with the grey pallor of age. Nevertheless he, too, -showed the deep, essential placidity of a conscious acceptance, -and for the first time Quentillian perceived a -fundamental resemblance between the Canon and his -eldest daughter.</p> - -<p>As though aware of the scrutiny fixed upon him, the -Canon opened his eyes, and smiled as they met Quentillian’s.</p> - -<p>“That harmony will be lost to us for a time, perhaps,” -he said softly. “But is it not a foretaste of -that great Song of Praise that will have no ending, and -in which all, all, will be able to join together? I -think so, Owen.”</p> - -<p>He turned his head slightly, his finger-tips joined -together in the position habitual to him.</p> - -<p>“Flora, my child, my dear daughter, will it be too -much if I ask for ‘Lead, Kindly Light,’ as you have -so often given it to us on long-ago Sundays when we -have been all together—all together?”</p> - -<p>For answer, she struck the opening chords very -gently.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="verse">“Lead, kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom</div> -<div class="indent">“Lead thou me on</div> -<div class="verse">“The night is dark, and I am far from home</div> -<div class="indent">“Lead thou me on ...</div> -<div class="indent3">.... “Till, the night is gone</div> -<div class="verse">“And with the morn those Angel faces smile</div> -<div class="verse">“Which I have loved long since and lost awhile.”</div> -</div></div> - -<p>Flora’s voice was rapt and unfaltering.</p> - -<p>Lucilla did not move, nor raise her eyes.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_264">[264]</span>It was Owen Quentillian, poignantly and unwillingly -conscious of pathos, who set his teeth in a profound -and intense resentment at the obvious emotional appeal -that he found himself unable to ignore.</p> - -<p>He unspeakably dreaded the breakdown of the -Canon’s composure that he foresaw, when Flora’s last -note had died away into silence.</p> - -<p>He could not look up.</p> - -<p>“Flora!”</p> - -<p>The Canon’s voice was steady and gentle.</p> - -<p>“Thank you, my child. Bid me good-night, and go, -now. You must have some rest, before your journey -tomorrow.”</p> - -<p>She came to him and he blessed and kissed her as -usual, only letting his hand linger for a moment on -her head as he repeated as though speaking to himself:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="verse">“And with the morn those Angel faces smile</div> -<div class="verse">“Which I have loved long since and lost awhile.”</div> -</div></div> - -<p>“Good-night, Owen. Goodbye,” said Flora.</p> - -<p>She left the room, and the Canon raised himself -with difficulty from his low chair and said:</p> - -<p>“I have some preparations to make for tomorrow. I -will leave you for a little while.”</p> - -<p>When he had gone, Owen felt the relaxation of his -own mental tension.</p> - -<p>For the first time, and with a sincerity that left him -amazed, he found himself making use of the phrase -that from others had so often aroused rebellion in -himself:</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_265">[265]</span>“He is wonderful!”</p> - -<p>Lucilla raised her eyes now, and looked full and -gravely at Quentillian.</p> - -<p>“Yes. I’m glad you see it at last, Owen.”</p> - -<p>“At last?” he stammered, replying to her voice -rather than to her words.</p> - -<p>“He is very fond of you. He has always been very -fond of you, ever since you were a little boy. And -it has—vexed me—very often, to see that you gave -him nothing in return, that, because he belongs to another -school, and another generation, you have almost -despised him, I think.”</p> - -<p>Owen was conscious of colouring deeply in his sudden -surprise and humiliation.</p> - -<p>“Although you are so clever, Owen,” she said in -the same grave, un-ironical tone, “it has seemed as -though you are not able, at all, to see beyond the surface. -I know that my father’s religious sentiment, -sentimentality even, his constant outward expression of -emotional piety, his guileless optimism, have all jarred -upon you. But you have had no eyes for his pathetic -courage, his constant striving for what he sees as the -highest.”</p> - -<p>“Lucilla—in justice to myself—although what you -say may be true, if I have judged your father it has -been far more on account of his children—of what I -have seen of their lives.”</p> - -<p>“You were not called upon to constitute yourself -the champion of his children. Valeria, even, had no -claim on your championship. It was not you whom -she loved, and you, too, tried to make Val what she -was never meant to be. When Val threw you over,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_266">[266]</span> -if my father tried to force upon you what you could -only see as the conventional <i>beau geste</i> of renunciation, -it was because he was incapable of believing that you -could have asked a woman to marry you without loving -her, body and soul. His forgiveness of Val, -whether you thought him entitled to forgive or not, -lay between him and her. And when you speak of our -lives, Owen, can’t you see that Val and Adrian and I, -and perhaps in a way even Flora, too, have come to -what we were meant for? No one can stand between -another soul, and life, really.”</p> - -<p>He was oddly struck by the echo of words that he -had himself once used to Flora.</p> - -<p>“You admit that he tried, to stand between you and -life?”</p> - -<p>“I do,” she said instantly. “But if he had succeeded, -the fault would have been ours.”</p> - -<p>She suddenly smiled.</p> - -<p>“Isn’t it true that to face facts means freedom? -That’s why I’m not an optimist, Owen. I am willing -to face all the facts you like. But you, I think, in -judging my father, have only faced half of them.”</p> - -<p>“You find me intolerant!” he exclaimed, half-ironically. -Never before had such an adjective been presented -to his strong sense of his own impartiality, his -detached rationalism.</p> - -<p>“Not exactly. Only, I’m afraid—a little bit of a -prig.”</p> - -<p>She uttered the strange, unimposing accusation, not -rudely, not unkindly, but almost mournfully.</p> - -<p>“Christianity has been accused of intolerance very -often, and with only too much reason, but those outside<span class="pagenum" id="Page_267">[267]</span> -the Churches, who frankly claim to be agnostic, -often seem to me to be the most intolerant of all, of -what they look upon as superstition. Why should you -despise my father for beliefs that have led him to lead -an honourable life, and that have given him courage -to bear his many sorrows?”</p> - -<p>“You have said, yourself, that the facing of facts -means freedom. I can see no freedom, and therefore -no beauty, in living in illusion.”</p> - -<p>“Not for yourself, perhaps. Illusions could never -be anything but conscious, for you.”</p> - -<p>“Nor for yourself, Lucilla,” he retorted swiftly.</p> - -<p>“But how does that entitle us to despise another for -holding them?” she demanded, quite as swiftly. Nevertheless -Owen detected a lessening of severity, in so far -as she had coupled them together in her speech.</p> - -<p>“Tonight,” he said gravely, “I admired your father -with all my heart.”</p> - -<p>“I’m glad.”</p> - -<p>On the words, the same as those with which Lucilla -had begun their brief and rather amazing conversation, -the Canon returned into the room.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_268">[268]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">IV<br /> - - -<small>THE DEATH OF AN OPTIMIST</small></h2> -</div> - -<h3>(i)</h3> - -<p><span class="smcap">Quentillian’s</span> next and final summons to St. -Gwenllian came some months after Canon Morchard -had taken Flora to her Sisterhood, and returned alone.</p> - -<p>Owen was unprepared for the change in the Canon’s -appearance, although he knew him to be ill.</p> - -<p>“Aye, dear lad! It’s the last stage of the journey. -I have thought that it was so for some time, and they -tell me now that there is no doubt of it. This poor -clay is worn out, and the spirit within is to be set free. -Verily, I can still repeat those favourite words of mine: -‘All things work together for good, to those that love -God.’ If you but knew the number of times during -these last few years that I have cried out within myself -‘O for the wings of a dove, that I might fly away -and be at rest!’ And now it has come! and I hope to -keep my Christmas feast among the blest. They tell -me that it cannot be long.”</p> - -<p>Quentillian looked the enquiry that he felt it difficult -to put into words.</p> - -<p>“I can take very little. Soon, they tell me that even -that little will have become impossible. See how even -the crowning mercy of preparedness is vouchsafed to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_269">[269]</span> -me! I have put my house in order as well as may be, -and have no care save for my poor Lucilla. She will -be alone indeed, and it is for her sake, Owen, that I -want you to do a great kindness to a dying man.”</p> - -<p>“Anything, sir. Do you want me to stay?”</p> - -<p>“You have it, Owen.” The Canon laid his hand, -thin now to emaciation, upon Quentillian’s.</p> - -<p>“Stay with us now until the end comes. It cannot -be far off. I have outlived my brothers, and Lucilla’s -remaining aunt is old and infirm. It is not fit, even -were it possible, that she should come here. She will -receive Lucilla most tenderly after I am gone—of that -I am assured. But there is no one to uphold her, to -spare her needless distress, when the time comes.”</p> - -<p>“I will do everything that I can to help her.”</p> - -<p>“I know it, dear fellow—I know it. Thank you -from the bottom of my heart. It seems natural to treat -you as a son.”</p> - -<p>The Canon paused and looked wistfully at Quentillian -upon the word.</p> - -<p>“Perhaps Adrian will come home. I have written -to him—a long letter. He need not be afraid of me.</p> - -<p>“I have written to my three absent children: To -Valeria—my blessing for her little sons—I would have -given much to see them before going—aye, and their -mother, too, my merry Valeria, as I once called her! -I have missed Valeria’s laughter in this quiet house, -that was once full of merriment and children’s voices.</p> - -<p>“And I have written to Flora, my Flora, who chose -the better part. May she indeed be blessed in her -choice—little Flora!”</p> - -<p>He sank back, looking exhausted.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_270">[270]</span>“I will stay as long as you wish me to stay, and I -will do all that I can for Lucilla,” repeated Quentillian.</p> - -<p>“I know it. The last anxiety has been allayed. Aye, -Owen, I have ceased to concern myself with these -things now, I hope. If Adrian comes to me, and if -Lucilla can count upon you as upon a brother, then I -am well satisfied indeed. My affairs are in good order, -I believe. My will is with my solicitors—Lucilla knows -the address. What there is, goes in equal shares to -Lucilla, Valeria, and Adrian. Flora has received her -portion already. My books, dear Owen, are yours. -All else—personal effects, manuscripts, and the rest—are -Lucilla’s. She has been my right hand. There -are mementos to Clover, to one or two old friends -and servants—nothing else. I have thought it well to -make Lucilla sole executrix—she has helped in all my -business for so long!</p> - -<p>“So you see that my temporal concerns are over and -done with. In regard to the spiritual, I have had the -unutterable honour and pleasure of a visit from the -Bishop himself. He was all fatherly goodness and -kindness. The dear Clover is always at hand for reading, -and I can depend on him utterly for those last -commendations that are to smooth my way down the -Valley of the Shadow. There is nothing wanting. -And now you have come!”</p> - -<p>The Canon’s wasted face was both radiant and -serene.</p> - -<p>The grief that had so often shown there seemed to -have passed away, and Quentillian found it almost -incredible that he had ever seen the Canon angry, or -weighed down by a leaden depression of spirits.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_271">[271]</span>“Is he really happy, all the time?” Quentillian asked -Lucilla.</p> - -<p>“Yes, all the time. Even when he has pain. But -they say there won’t be any more pain, most likely, -now. He will just sink, gradually. If you knew how -very little he is living on, even now, you would be -surprised.”</p> - -<p>“Are you doing the nursing?”</p> - -<p>“He wants a trained nurse. One has been sent for. -He thinks that it will spare me,” said Lucilla, smiling -a little.</p> - -<p>In the days that followed, Owen saw how difficult -Lucilla found it to be so spared.</p> - -<p>The nurse was an efficient and conscientious woman, -and the Canon quickly became dependent upon her. He -begged Owen to spend as much time as possible with -Lucilla, who remained downstairs, replying to the innumerable -letters and the enquirers who came to the -house.</p> - -<p>She was now only with her father for a brief morning -visit, and the hour in the afternoon when the nurse -took her exercise out of doors. Very often Quentillian, -at the Canon’s request, was also with them then.</p> - -<p>“Lucilla and I have long ago said our last words, -such as they are,” the Canon told him with a smile. -“We understand one another too well to need to be -left alone together.”</p> - -<p>Time slipped by with monotonous regularity, the -changes in the Canon almost imperceptible to the onlookers.</p> - -<p>Then, preceded only by a telegram, Adrian came -home.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_272">[272]</span>“My father isn’t really dying, is he?” he asked -piteously.</p> - -<p>“He can’t take anything at all, now. It’s a question -almost of hours.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla took him upstairs to where his father lay, -propped upon pillows, and they were left alone together.</p> - -<p>“You know, it is very bad for Canon Morchard to -have any agitation,” the nurse anxiously pointed out -to Lucilla, when the interview had lasted a long while.</p> - -<p>“Can it make any real difference?”</p> - -<p>“It may reduce his strength more quickly.”</p> - -<p>“He would say that it was worth it. He has not -seen this son for a long while.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla kept the woman out of the room as long as it -was possible to do so.</p> - -<p>At last Adrian came downstairs.</p> - -<p>That evening the Canon said to Quentillian, with -tears in his eyes:</p> - -<p>“Adrian has promised me to give up his work for -that man. Is it not wonderful, dear Owen? All, all -added unto me. If this pain of mine is to be the price -of my boy’s awaking to his own better nature, how -gladly shall I not pay it!”</p> - -<p>It was the only time that Quentillian had ever heard -him allude to having suffered physical pain.</p> - -<p>“I have not been so much at rest about Adrian since -he was a little boy,” said the Canon. “He was always -the most affectionate of them all. And he cried like -a little child, poor fellow, this afternoon, and voluntarily -passed me his promise to leave that man.”</p> - -<p>Quentillian’s own involuntary distrust of the promise -given by a weak nature, under strong emotional stress,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_273">[273]</span> -was profound, but he gave no sign of it. It no longer -caused him any satisfaction to be aware of a deeper -insight in himself than in the Canon. He could not -share that guileless singleness of vision, and felt no -envy of it, and yet he paradoxically desired that it -should remain unimpaired.</p> - -<p>He asked Lucilla if she knew of Adrian’s promise.</p> - -<p>“He told me. He was crying when he came down. -He can’t believe even yet that father is dying, poor -Adrian! And yet he must believe it, really, to have -made that promise.”</p> - -<p>“The Canon is so thankful for it.”</p> - -<p>“I know. He wanted it more than anything in the -world. Everything has come to make it easy for him -to go, Owen.”</p> - -<p>Something in her tone made him say gently:</p> - -<p>“Poor Lucilla!”</p> - -<p>“Even if the impression is only temporary with -Adrian, it will be a comfort to him afterwards. He is -very unhappy now, that there should have been any -estrangement between them.”</p> - -<p>It was evident enough that Lucilla, also, had no great -reliance upon Adrian’s stability of purpose, although -his present reaction had brought such joy and comfort -to the dying man.</p> - -<p>That night for the first time the Canon’s mind wandered. -He spoke of his children as though all were -once more of nursery age, and at home together.</p> - -<p>“Little Adrian can take my hand, and then he can -keep up with the others. Less noise, my love—a little -less noise.... Valeria’s voice is too often raised, -too often raised—although I like its merry note, in fit<span class="pagenum" id="Page_274">[274]</span> -and proper season. My merry Valeria! Now are we -ready? The sketch-book, Flora, the sketch-book.... -I want to see that pretty attempt at the Church finished.”</p> - -<p>Then he said with an apologetic note in his voice:</p> - -<p>“Flora lacks perseverance, and is too easily discouraged, -but we hope that she may show great feeling for -art, by and bye. Lucilla’s <i>forte</i> lies in more practical -directions. She is my housekeeper—my right hand, -I often call her. Look, children, at that effect of sunlight -through the beech-leaves. Is it not wonderful? -Come, Adrian, my man—no lagging behind....”</p> - -<p>Presently a puzzled, distressed look came over his -face and he asked: “Is not one missing? Is David -here?”</p> - -<p>Lucilla bent over him to say, “Yes, father,” but the -distressed look still lingered.</p> - -<p>“Where is David?” said the Canon. “Was there -not some sadness—some trouble between us? No—no—all -a dream.”</p> - -<p>His face lightened again. “David is safe home. I -shall see David tonight.”</p> - -<p>By and by he asked to be told the time.</p> - -<p>It was nine o’clock.</p> - -<p>The Canon’s voice had become a weak whisper.</p> - -<p>“I thought it was morning, and that I had them all -again—little children. Such trustful little hands lying -in mine ... and the children have grown up and -gone away.... No ... Lucilla, you are there, -are you not, my dear love? And Owen—Owen, that -was like a third son to me. My own sons are there, -too—David is safe home ... only a very little way<span class="pagenum" id="Page_275">[275]</span> -on ... and Adrian, little Adrian—he promised -... ah, all things work together for good....”</p> - -<p>His voice trailed thinly away into silence, his wan -face was smiling.</p> - -<p>“He will sleep,” whispered the nurse, and her words -were verified almost instantly.</p> - -<p>Owen took Lucilla away.</p> - -<p>There was a strong sense upon him that the summons -would not be long delayed now.</p> - -<p>Lucilla went downstairs and quietly opened the outer -door into the garden. They walked up and down -there, Owen watching the red spark waxing and waning -from his own cigar. The night was extraordinarily -still, the dark arch of the sky powdered with -stars.</p> - -<p>Neither spoke directly of that which occupied their -minds most, but Quentillian said by and bye:</p> - -<p>“Where shall you go, eventually?”</p> - -<p>“Torquay, perhaps. There is an old aunt there—father’s -sister. I shall have just enough not to be -dependent upon her, even if I make my home with her.”</p> - -<p>“Will that be congenial?”</p> - -<p>Lucilla gave a little low, sad laugh.</p> - -<p>“I don’t think there’s much alternative, is there? -This house, of course, goes to the next incumbent. If -Mr. Clover is appointed—and we very much hope that -he will be—he would probably buy a good deal of the -furniture (which is just as well, as it would certainly -drop to pieces if we tried to move it). I couldn’t -possibly afford to set up house for myself, in any case. -And I must have something to do. Aunt Mary would -find plenty for me to do.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_276">[276]</span>“I daresay,” said Quentillian without enthusiasm.</p> - -<p>“Perhaps you are thinking of my taking up an occupation -or a profession seriously, but you know, Owen, -it isn’t really a practical proposition, though one feels -as though it ought to be. Just think for a minute, and -tell me what I’m fit for—except perhaps being someone’s -housekeeper.”</p> - -<p>“My dear Lucilla, with your education and the literary -training your father has given you, surely anyone -would be glad of your services.”</p> - -<p>“Not at all. I can’t write shorthand. My typing, -which I taught myself, isn’t nearly as good or as quick -as that of any little girl of sixteen who has learnt it -properly, and can probably use half a dozen different -makes of machine. I’ve never learnt office routine—filing, -indexing, bookkeeping, the use of a dictaphone. -I believe all those things are necessary nowadays. I -don’t suppose, if I did learn them all now, I should -ever be very good or very quick.”</p> - -<p>“I’m not suggesting that you should become a City -clerk at forty shillings a week.”</p> - -<p>“A private secretary, then? I can’t honestly see why -anyone should employ a woman with no experience, -when there are so many experts wanting work. Languages -might be an asset, but most people know -French. German isn’t likely to be wanted now, and I -don’t fancy there is any great demand for Latin or -Greek. Even for teaching, schools want diplomas and -certificates, besides proficiency in games.”</p> - -<p>“But the higher professions are all open to women -of education nowadays,” he protested. “You’re not -restricted to the kitchen or the nursery.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_277">[277]</span>“Do you really think that I could work up, now, -for a stiff legal or medical examination, and pass it?” -she demanded with a sort of gentle irony. “You don’t -realize, Owen, that I’m nearly forty.”</p> - -<p>He had not realized it, and it silenced him momentarily.</p> - -<p>“I think my chances went by a long time ago,” said -Lucilla. “I’ve never told anyone about it, but I think -I’d like to tell you now, because I don’t want you to -think of me as a victim.”</p> - -<p>Quentillian registered a silent mental appreciation -of a reason diametrically opposite to the reason for -which the majority of confidences are bestowed.</p> - -<p>“Before Val and Flossie grew up, it was obvious -that I should stay at home and look after the house. -Besides, I liked doing it. My father was—and is—the -whole world to me. But there was a time, just -once, when Val grew up, and David had gone away, -when I wanted to go away, too. Of course I’m talking -of a good many years ago, and there weren’t so many -openings to choose from. But I wanted very much to -go to college. Father could just have managed it, without -being unfair to any of the others.”</p> - -<p>“You told him, then?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes; I told him.”</p> - -<p>“Would he not consent?” inquired Owen, as she -paused.</p> - -<p>“He promised to consent if I still wished it, after -thinking it over.”</p> - -<p>“But he persuaded you not to wish it any more?”</p> - -<p>“No, it wasn’t that. It’s a little bit difficult to explain. -He did ask me what I should gain by it, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_278">[278]</span> -whether it wasn’t just restlessness and seeking a vocation -to which I was not called. You remember hearing -him say that about Val, too?”</p> - -<p>“I remember.”</p> - -<p>“Well, that was all. He didn’t say anything more. -Of course I knew he wouldn’t like my going away -from him, without being told. But it was I who decided -that it was an occasion for making what I’m -afraid I thought of as a sacrifice.”</p> - -<p>She surprised him by a little laugh.</p> - -<p>“You see, Owen, I think <i>now</i> that I was quite -wrong.”</p> - -<p>“Quite wrong,” he echoed gravely.</p> - -<p>“It was an odd, muddled sort of time for some years -after that. I suppose I was resenting my own decision, -and yet trying to buoy myself up all the time by thinking -of my own self-abnegation and generosity. It had -seemed rather a beautiful thing to do at the time—to -sacrifice my own life to my widowed father and my -motherless brothers and sisters. At first, I remember -thinking that there would be something almost sacred -about my everyday life at home.”</p> - -<p>“When people begin to think that things are sacred -to them, it generally means that they’re afraid of facing -the truth about them.”</p> - -<p>“Exactly. It was a long time before I told myself -the truth. But in the end I did, when I saw that no -one was likely to want to marry me, and that my life -was going to be exactly what I had decided to let it -be. And of course from the minute I faced it fair and -square—after the first—it all became a great deal -easier. Besides, there were compensations, really.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_279">[279]</span>He made a sound of interrogation.</p> - -<p>“Well, it’s really a great thing to have a home. I’ve -always felt sorry for women who lived in their boxes, -and had nowhere of their own. And being mistress -of the house all these years—I’ve liked that, and been -fairly interested in it. And I’ve got imagination enough -to see that books, and music, and a garden, to anyone -brought up as we were especially, are quite important -items. You know, women who have a career don’t -generally get those other things thrown in as well, -unless they’re exceptionally fortunate.”</p> - -<p>“You set them against independence and your own -freedom?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t say that, but they <i>do</i> count,” she said steadily. -“If it comes to a question of relative values, of -course they take second place. But once I’d admitted -to myself, quite honestly, that I’d relinquished my -chance of the best things of all, then I could quite see -those other things as being intrinsically worth something—a -very good second best. They’re really only -unsatisfactory when one tries to think of them as substitutes. -Taken at their own value—well, I’ve found -them helpful, you know.”</p> - -<p>There was a silence before she spoke again.</p> - -<p>“Most of all, there was Father.”</p> - -<p>“That relationship has been the biggest factor in -your life, of course.”</p> - -<p>“Yes.” She paused, and then in a tone resolutely -matter-of-fact, said: “I think perhaps I won’t talk -about that now. But I know just as well as you do -that in the course of nature, those particular links can -only be expected to endure for a certain number of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_280">[280]</span> -years. They’re breaking now, for me, and it means -that part of my life goes too.”</p> - -<p>He could not contradict her.</p> - -<p>“Is Adrian any use?”</p> - -<p>“Poor Adrian! He says now that he and I must -keep together, and make a home for one another. He -wants to comfort me, and he knows Father would be -glad; but you can see for yourself that it wouldn’t -be fair to take him at his word. Perhaps we may be -together for a little while—till things have worn off -a little bit, for him. Adrian is emotional, isn’t he? I -don’t know what he’ll do, eventually.”</p> - -<p>The recollection of Adrian’s promise to the Canon, -that he would relinquish his work, was evidently not -a factor that Lucilla took into serious consideration. -By tacit agreement neither of them alluded to it.</p> - -<p>“Valeria will hardly be able to come home, I suppose?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no. It’s out of the question. She couldn’t -leave the two babies, nor very well bring them with -her.”</p> - -<p>“Flora?”</p> - -<p>Already, Owen realized with faint surprise, he had -come to remember Flora’s corporeal existence only by -an effort. He could scarcely feel her to be less separated -from the realities of life than one who had died -in youth, and been long forgotten.</p> - -<p>Lucilla only shook her head.</p> - -<p>“They are all gone. Whatever anyone may say, -Owen, they didn’t shirk their chances. They said Yes -to Life as they saw it.”</p> - -<p>“Can you be glad of that?”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_281">[281]</span>“Very glad. Even selfishly, I can be glad. Think -of three—unfulfilled—lives to be spent side by side, -held together by affection if you like, but fundamentally -built on an artificial basis! No, no”—her smile -held humour, rather than conscious valour, though -Owen saw it as valiant too—“I’m glad to have faced -my facts at last, though it ought to have been done -long ago, when I made my choice. I’m not optimistic -now, but I—I’m free.”</p> - -<p>As they turned, at the end of the garden path, a -dark figure sped across the grass towards them. -Adrian’s voice reached them, low and urgent:</p> - -<p>“Come!”</p> - - -<h3>(ii)</h3> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> Canon lay back against his pillows and it did -not need the nurse’s gesture to Lucilla to tell them that -he was dying. His breath came loud and fast and his -eyes were closed.</p> - -<p>Adrian had flung himself on his knees at the bedside -and was sobbing, his face hidden in his arms. Quentillian -stood beside Lucilla, who held her father’s hand -in hers.</p> - -<p>“Is he conscious?” Lucilla asked.</p> - -<p>The nurse shook her head.</p> - -<p>“Can anything be done to make it easier?” Lucilla -said then.</p> - -<p>“No, my dear. I’ve sent messages for the doctor -and Mr. Clover, but——”</p> - -<p>Her face completed the sentence.</p> - -<p>They remained motionless, Adrian’s irregular sobs<span class="pagenum" id="Page_282">[282]</span> -and the Canon’s heavy breathing alone cutting intermittently -across the silence.</p> - -<p>Quentillian never knew how long it was before -Canon Morchard opened his eyes and spoke, articulating -with great difficulty.</p> - -<p>“All safe—all happy ... verily, <i>all</i> things work -together for good!”</p> - -<p>He smiled, looking straight across at Owen Quentillian, -and suddenly said with great distinctness:</p> - -<p>“<i>Mors janua vitæ!</i>”</p> - -<p>Owen could hear the cry still, ringing through the -room, in the time of dumb struggle that followed.</p> - -<p>It seemed a fitting epitome of the spirit that had -been Fenwick Morchard’s.</p> - -<p>Just before the first hint of day dawned into the -room, Lucilla and the nurse laid back on to the pillows -the form that they had been supporting.</p> - -<p>Adrian was crying and shivering like a child.</p> - -<p>“Take him downstairs and give him something hot -to drink,” the nurse commanded Owen. “There’s a fire -in the kitchen.”</p> - -<p>Quentillian looked at Lucilla.</p> - -<p>“Please go,” she said.</p> - -<p>He went downstairs with Adrian.</p> - -<p>“If only I’d been better to him! He was awfully -good to me, really,” sobbed Adrian. “He used to -make an awful fuss of me when I was a little chap, -and I wasn’t half grateful enough—beast that I was!”</p> - -<p>“Drink this.”</p> - -<p>“I can’t.”</p> - -<p>“Of course you can. Try and be a man, Adrian, -for your sister’s sake.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_283">[283]</span>“It’s worse for me than for any of them,” said -Adrian ingenuously, “because I’ve got things to be -remorseful about, and they haven’t. And now it’s too -late!”</p> - -<p>“You were here in time,” said Quentillian, abominably -conscious, and resentful, of his own triteness.</p> - -<p>“And I promised him I’d chuck my job. I think -it comforted him.”</p> - -<p>“I’m sure it did.”</p> - -<p>“It was a sacrifice, in a way, to throw the whole -thing up, when I was doing well and keen on it, and -all that sort of thing; but I’m thankful now that I -did it. Perhaps it made up to—<i>him</i>—for my having -been such a hound, often and often.”</p> - -<p>It was oddly evident that Adrian was torn between -genuine grief and shock and a latent desire to make -the most of his own former depravity.</p> - -<p>“I daresay you’re thinking that having been through -the war and everything, I ought to be used to the sight -of death,” he said presently; “but it’s quite different -when it’s like this. One got sort of hardened there, -and everybody was running the same risk—oneself included. -But my father—why, it seems like the end -of everything, Owen. I must say, I think I’m a bit -young to have my home broken up like this, don’t -you?”</p> - -<p>“Very young,” repeated Quentillian automatically, -and yet not altogether without significance.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know what will happen, but of course Lucilla -and I have to leave St. Gwenllian. It’s hard on -her, too. I thought we ought to keep together, you -know, for a bit. It seems more natural. I shall have<span class="pagenum" id="Page_284">[284]</span> -to look for a fresh job, and I don’t know what Hale -will say to my chucking him.”</p> - -<p>Adrian was silent, obviously uneasy, and it was evident -enough that it was the strong revulsion from that -anxiety which prompted his next sudden outburst.</p> - -<p>“I’m so awfully thankful that I had the strength to -make that promise about leaving Hale. It’ll always -be a comfort to me to feel that I made a sacrifice for -the dear old man, and that he—went—the happier for -it. Mind you, I don’t agree with him about Hale and -Hale’s crowd. Father had the old-fashioned ideas of -his generation, you know, and of course all progress -seemed a sort of vandalism to him. I daresay if he’d -ever met Hale he’d have had his eyes opened a bit, -and seen things quite differently. Hale was always -jolly decent about him, too—he’d read some of his -stuff, and had quite a sort of admiration for it, in a -way. Said it was reactionary, and all that, but perfectly -sound in its own way, you know—scholarly, and -all that kind of muck.”</p> - -<p>“Have you written to Hale?”</p> - -<p>“No. Of course, in a way it’s an awfully awkward -situation for me, having to tell him why I’m not coming -back to him, and so on. I thought I’d pop up -and see him as soon as it could be managed. Of course -there are arrangements to be made——”</p> - -<p>The boy broke off, in a fresh access of bewilderment -and grief.</p> - -<p>“I simply can’t realize he’s gone, Owen. I say—you -do think he was happy, don’t you?”</p> - -<p>“Yes.”</p> - -<p>“That promise of mine meant a lot to him. I’m so<span class="pagenum" id="Page_285">[285]</span> -thankful that I’ve got that to remember. You might -say, in a way, considering how much he always thought -of us, that some of his children had rather let him -down, in a way. I mean, Lucilla and I were the only -two there, out of the five of us. Of course, David, -poor chap, had gone already, and Val and Flossie -couldn’t very well help themselves—and yet there it -was! Do you suppose that when he said—<i>that</i>—about -‘all safe, all happy’—he was thinking of us?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I do.”</p> - -<p>“It’s a comfort to know his mind was at rest. He -wouldn’t have said that if I hadn’t made that promise, -you know,” said Adrian.</p> - -<p>“Look here, Adrian, hadn’t you better try and get -some sleep? There’ll be things to be done, later, you -know, and you and I—if you’ll let me help—must try -and take some of it off Lucilla’s hands.”</p> - -<p>All the child in Adrian responded to the transparent -lure.</p> - -<p>He drew himself up.</p> - -<p>“Thanks awfully, Owen. I shall be only too glad of -your help. There’ll be a good deal for me to see to, -of course, so perhaps I’d better lie down for an hour -or two while I can. What about Lucilla?”</p> - -<p>“Would you like to come and find her?”</p> - -<p>The boy shuddered violently.</p> - -<p>“Not in there—I couldn’t,” he said piteously.</p> - -<p>They went upstairs together.</p> - -<p>As they passed the door of the Canon’s room, it was -cautiously opened and the nurse came outside and spoke -to Adrian.</p> - -<p>“The doctor should be here presently. I want him<span class="pagenum" id="Page_286">[286]</span> -to see Miss Morchard. She turned faint a little while -ago, and I’ve got her into her room, but I’m afraid -she’s in for a breakdown. I’ve seen them like this -before, after a long strain, you know.”</p> - -<p>The woman’s tone was professionally matter-of-fact.</p> - -<p>“Had I better go to her?” said Adrian, troubled, and -seeming rather resentful at the fresh anxiety thrust -upon him.</p> - -<p>“I shouldn’t, if I were you. It’ll only upset her. -She’s broken down a bit—hysterical. It’ll relieve her, -in the end. I shan’t leave her now, till the doctor -comes.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla hysterical!</p> - -<p>Owen, almost more amazed than concerned, watched -the nurse depart to what she evidently looked upon as -a fresh case.</p> - -<p>“Well, I can’t do anything, I suppose,” said Adrian -miserably.</p> - -<p>“Go to bed,” Quentillian repeated. “Shall I draft -out some telegrams for you, and let you see them before -they go? It’s no use sending them to the post-office -before eight.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t you want to sleep yourself?”</p> - -<p>“Not just now, thanks.”</p> - -<p>“Well, I’ll relieve you at seven. Send someone to -call me, will you?—though I don’t suppose I shall -sleep.”</p> - -<p>The boy trailed into his room, disconsolate and -frightened-looking.</p> - -<p>Owen Quentillian, searching for writing materials, -found them on the table in the Canon’s study, a table -scrupulous in its orderliness, each stack of papers docketed,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_287">[287]</span> -each article laid with symmetrical precision in its -own place.</p> - -<p>Owen would not sit there, where only the Canon -had sat, under the crucifix mounted on the green velvet -plaque. He went instead to another, smaller table, in -the embrasure of a window, and sat there writing until -the morning light streamed in upon him.</p> - -<p>Then he laid down the pen, with a sense of the futility -of activities that sought to cheat reflection, and -let his mind dwell upon that which subconsciously -obsessed it.</p> - -<p>Canon Morchard had died as he had lived—an optimist. -An invincible faith in the ultimate rightness of -all things had been his to the end, and perhaps most -of all at the end.</p> - -<p>Quentillian envisaged the Canon’s causes of thankfulness.</p> - -<p>He had seen his children as “safe” and “happy.” -Was it only because he had wanted so to see them?</p> - -<p>David, who was dead, had been mourned for, but -the Canon had been spared the deepest bitterness of -separation. He had known nothing of the gulf widening -between his own soul and that of his eldest -son....</p> - -<p>A fool’s paradise?</p> - -<p>He had seen Lucilla as safe and happy.</p> - -<p>And yet Lucilla’s life was over, unlived. As she -herself had said, her chances had gone by. Torquay -remained. It was not very difficult to imagine her -days there. An old lady—the placid kindness accorded -by the aged to the middle-ageing—the outside interests -of a little music, a few books, a flower-garden—the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_288">[288]</span> -pathetic, vicarious planning for scarcely-seen nephews -and nieces—the quick, solitary walks, cut short by the -fear of being missed, and then, as years went on, more -solitude, and again more solitude.</p> - -<p>Lucilla had said: “I’m not an optimist now—but I’m -free.”</p> - -<p>From the bottom of his heart Owen recalled with -thankfulness the fact of Lucilla’s freed spirit.</p> - -<p>It was the best that life would ever hold for her now.</p> - -<p>His thoughts turned to Flora.</p> - -<p>Quentillian could not envisage her life: eternally secluded, -eternally withdrawn. She was lost to them, as -they were lost to her.</p> - -<p>Subconsciously, he was aware of associations connected -with Flora’s vocation upon which he preferred -not to dwell. He knew, dimly, intuitively, that Lucilla’s -merciless clarity of outlook had seen Flora less -as a voluntary sacrifice than as the self-deluded victim -of fanaticism.</p> - -<p>But no doubts had crossed the Canon’s mind on -Flora’s behalf. He had known no distrust of her craving -for self-immolation, no dread of reaction coming -too late.</p> - -<p>He had thanked God for the dedication of Flora.</p> - -<p>The one of his children for whom he had grieved -perhaps longest was Valeria. And it was on Valeria -that Owen’s thoughts dwelt most gladly. She had purchased -reality for herself, and although the price might -include his own temporary discomfiture, Quentillian rejoiced -in it candidly. Nevertheless, it was Val’s error, -and not Val’s achievement, that her father had seen. -His hope for her had been the one of ultimate reparation<span class="pagenum" id="Page_289">[289]</span> -implied in his own favourite words—“All things -work together for good.”</p> - -<p>And the Canon had quoted those words yet again, -when Adrian, his favourite child, had come back to -him. His deepest thankfulness had been for the emotional, -unstable promise volunteered by Adrian’s impulsive -youth.</p> - -<p>Quentillian could see no reliance to be placed upon -that promise to which the Canon, with such ardent -gratitude and joy, had trusted. Adrian would drift, -the type that does little harm, if less good. Strength -of intellect, as of character, had been denied him. No -interest would hold him long, no aim seem to him to be -worth sustained effort.</p> - -<p>And yet the Canon had felt Adrian, too—perhaps -most of all Adrian, in the flush of reconciliation after -their estrangement—to be “safe” and “happy.”</p> - -<p>Then optimism was merely a veil, drawn across the -nakedness of Truth?</p> - -<p>From the depths of a profound and ingrained pessimism, -Quentillian sought to view the question dispassionately, -and felt himself fundamentally unable to -do so.</p> - -<p>Hard facts and—at best—resignation, or baseless -hopes and undaunted courage, such as had been Canon -Morchard’s?</p> - -<p>The death of the Canon, bereft of all and yet believing -himself to possess all, had epitomized his life.</p> - -<p>Overhead, sounds and stirrings had begun, and -Quentillian softly let himself out of the house and -stepped out into the fresh chill of the morning air. -His eyelids were stiff and aching from his vigil, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_290">[290]</span> -sudden, most unwonted tears filled them. He glanced -at the windows of the old house. A light still burned -in Lucilla’s, as though the nurse had been able to spare -no thought from her ministrations.</p> - -<p>Lucilla, the finest and bravest of the Canon’s children, -had been broken on the wheel.</p> - -<p>In the passionless sorrow that possessed him, Quentillian -grasped at the strand of consolation that he knew -to exist somewhere. It had been found for him once -before, by Canon Morchard.</p> - -<p>He found it again, remembering.</p> - -<p><i>Mors janua vitæ.</i></p> - -<p>The Canon had proclaimed it, as a joyful certainty. -Approached far otherwise, Owen could yet proclaim -it, too, as the supreme and ultimate Fact to be faced, -of which the true realization would strike forever the -balance between optimism and pessimism.</p> - -<p>He turned towards the entrance again, and as he did -so the blinds of Canon Morchard’s room were drawn -down, by a careful, unseen hand.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_291">[291]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">V<br /> - - -<small>OWEN AND LUCILLA</small></h2> -</div> - -<h3>(i)</h3> - -<p><span class="smcap">It</span> was nearly a year later that Owen Quentillian -went to Torquay to see Lucilla Morchard, and asked -her to marry him.</p> - -<p>Nothing in the occasional letters that they had exchanged -could have been regarded as in any way indicative -of such a <i>dénouement</i>, and for once Owen saw -Lucilla thoroughly disconcerted.</p> - -<p>“But why?” she demanded, in a tone at once wistful -and indignant.</p> - -<p>Her face was pale and lined, but her eyes had lost -neither humour nor sanity of outlook.</p> - -<p>“Not for the only reason that it ought to be, dear -Lucilla,” he answered humbly. “But because of the -awful loneliness at Stear, and my own weakness which -makes me afraid of it. And a little because of your -sadness here, perhaps, but most of all because you are -the only person I know who can face facts, and <i>then</i> -be happy. It’s the most wonderful combination in -life.”</p> - -<p>“You have faced facts, yourself.”</p> - -<p>“And it has only brought me bitterness.”</p> - -<p>She reflected for a moment and then said:</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_292">[292]</span>“That’s true. But you won’t find your remedy in -marriage with me, Owen.”</p> - -<p>Her voice held all its old crisp, common-sense.</p> - -<p>“Are you staying to tea, because if so, my aunt will -want some warning. She is old, and fussy, and there’s -only one maid.”</p> - -<p>They had met out of doors.</p> - -<p>“Pray don’t let me cause any inconvenience,” he said -stiffly, offended by the irrelevance.</p> - -<p>“It won’t be in the least inconvenient,” Lucilla assured -him kindly. “Aunt Mary likes to see people, very -much, it’s a new interest for her. Only it worries her -if the drawing-room fire isn’t lit, or there’s no cake for -tea. Things like that, you know.”</p> - -<p>He hardly did know, so different was his own world, -and he could scarcely credit that Lucilla, the erstwhile -mistress of St. Gwenllian, could know.</p> - -<p>“You’ve remembered, of course,” she said reflectively, -“that I’m several years older than you are?”</p> - -<p>“What can that matter?”</p> - -<p>“Nothing at all, certainly, if you’ve faced the risk -that it entails and are prepared to take it. But, of -course, that isn’t the only risk, Owen.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose not. Is this an acceptance, or a refusal, -Lucilla?”</p> - -<p>They both broke into laughter.</p> - -<p>“Here we are,” said Lucilla, stopping at a little gate -in a row of other little gates. “I’ll walk with you to -the station afterwards.”</p> - -<p>She paused, with her hand on the little gate, and -looked at him.</p> - -<p>“It’s only that we are—or we ought to be—past the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_293">[293]</span> -stage of following a generous impulse and hoping for -the best. I—I don’t want either of us to bite off more -than we can chew.”</p> - -<p>On the elegance of her simile, Miss Morchard -opened the front door of “Balmoral” with a latchkey, -allowing no time for a reply.</p> - -<p>She left Quentillian in the tiny, red-tiled hall while -she went into a room opening out of it, that was as -obviously the drawing-room as the room on the other -side was the dining-room.</p> - -<p>Quentillian looked round him, at the walls crowded -with foolish brackets and bad water-colours, at the -painted deal staircase and balusters, at the window on -the landing that looked out on to little back gardens, -all of exactly the same size and shape, and had a momentary -vivid recollection of the shabby, dignified -rooms at St. Gwenllian, and the old cedars close to the -tennis court.</p> - -<p>Lucilla had been fond of gardening.</p> - -<p>From somewhere in the basement came the screeching -note of a parrot.</p> - -<p>Then Lucilla summoned him.</p> - -<p>The drawing-room was exactly what he had expected -it to be, and so was the aunt.</p> - -<p>She talked a little about Torquay, and explained that -she knew some of the residents, but none of the visitors, -unless there was “a link,” and she asked Owen if -he had read the life of Mary Slessor of Calabar.</p> - -<p>He had not.</p> - -<p>“You ought to read it. She was such a wonderful -person,” said the old lady with enthusiasm, and she -talked about foreign missions for some time, though<span class="pagenum" id="Page_294">[294]</span> -even this failed to enlighten the uninterested Quentillian -on the identity of Mary Slessor of Calabar.</p> - -<p>Lucilla did not talk very much—but, then, she never -had talked very much.</p> - -<p>The old aunt referred to her several times, and once -said to Quentillian: “My niece is clever, you know. -She reads a great deal. I like having an opinion to -go by, and she chooses my books for me so much better -than the girl at Boots’ lending library. So many -people just go by the name of a book, I fancy, but -Lucilla and I like to know something about the author -as well.”</p> - -<p>She spoke with a faint air of justifiable pride.</p> - -<p>Quentillian suddenly thought of the mountain of -manuscript concerning Leonidas of Alexandria, at the -laborious compilation for which Lucilla had worked -for so many years. He heard the oft-repeated tag of -which Canon Morchard had been fond: “Lucilla, here, -is our literary critic.”</p> - -<p>A small, panting maid brought in tea, and the old -lady poured it out, and was very meticulous in inquiring -into Quentillian’s precise tastes as to milk and -sugar.</p> - -<p>As soon as he could, he made his farewell.</p> - -<p>“I hope you’ll come again, now you’ve found the way -here,” said Lucilla’s aunt, kindly.</p> - -<p>Lucilla, as she had promised, went with him, when -he left “Balmoral.”</p> - -<p>They walked in silence for a little way and then -Owen said pleadingly:</p> - -<p>“You’ll let me take you away from that, won’t you, -Lucilla? It’s an impossible life for you.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_295">[295]</span>“Why do you confuse the issue like that? It’s just -what I said before—you want to follow a generous -impulse without counting the cost. My life has really -nothing to do with the question.”</p> - -<p>He was frankly confounded.</p> - -<p>“I thought it might be an argument in my favour,” -he said resentfully.</p> - -<p>“There’s only one thing that could really count in -that way—well, two things, to be accurate. Your need -of me, Owen.”</p> - -<p>“It’s quite real,” he returned levelly. “I’m lonely, -and yet the company of most of the people I know -rather annoys me. And there’s another thing. I’m -frightened, very often. It’s since the war, and—and -you know I’d been shell-shocked, as they call it? I’ve -thought lately that if you were there—the realest person -I know—I shouldn’t be frightened, at Stear. I’m -giving you facts, Lucilla—not romance. We’ve both -missed <i>that</i>.”</p> - -<p>“Val didn’t stand to you for romance, did she?”</p> - -<p>“No.”</p> - -<p>Quentillian could think of nothing at all to add to -his bald negative.</p> - -<p>“Well, we’ve faced your risks,” said Lucilla. “What -about mine?”</p> - -<p>“The worst one is that you should find me an intolerable -egotist,” he said rather unsteadily.</p> - -<p>“We can discount that.”</p> - -<p>She spoke curtly, and he made no rejoinder, uncertain -of her meaning.</p> - -<p>“What was the other argument that might count in -my favour, Lucilla? One was my need of you. I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_296">[296]</span> -think I’ve shown you that. But you said ‘two things, -to be accurate.’ Tell me what the other was.”</p> - -<p>“Is,” she corrected, with a sound that was very -nearly a laugh, and that caused him to look at her.</p> - -<p>She faced his gaze with all her own steadiness, but -for the first time he saw Lucilla’s mild imperviousness, -her implacable matter-of-factness, as a shield for something -infinitely fragile and sensitive.</p> - -<p>Her voice, always quiet, was quieter than ever when -she spoke.</p> - -<p>“It’s fair to tell you, I think. I’ve loved you for a -long time now. So you see my risks would be greater -than yours, Owen. That’s why I was afraid of impulse. -But you see I’ve told you this—which was -rather difficult to say—because it seems to me that our -one chance lies in absolute honesty. We’ve faced the -fact together that you’re—just lonely, and that’s why -you want me—but—we’ve got to face the other fact -too—both of us—I mean that, for me—you <i>do</i> stand -for romance, Owen.”</p> - -<p>Her voice had not altered, but the effort with which -she had spoken had brought tears, that Owen had -never seen there before, to Lucilla’s eyes.</p> - -<p>Nevertheless she smiled at him valiantly.</p> - -<p>For the first time, perhaps, since his childhood, -Quentillian found himself unable to analyse his feelings -or to translate them into tersely sententious periods.</p> - -<p>In the long silence that fell between them, there began -a process by which he slowly reversed certain judgments, -and eliminated certain axioms, which hitherto -had stood to him for wisdom.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_297">[297]</span>But it was with scarcely any knowledge of this, that -Owen Quentillian, reduced at last to making an appeal, -asked Lucilla Morchard once more:</p> - -<p>“Will you marry me? The risks are all yours—will -you take them?”</p> - -<p>With her most characteristic gesture, she bent her -head in assent, neither impulsive nor emotional, but -fully accepting responsibility, and said seriously and -gently:</p> - -<p>“Yes, Owen, I will.”</p> - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<div class="transnote"> -<p class="ph1">TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:</p> - -<p>Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.</p> - -<p>Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.</p> - -<p>Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.</p> - -<p>The cover image for this eBook was created by the transcriber and is entered into the public domain.</p> - -</div></div> -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE OPTIMIST ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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M. Delafield - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: The optimist - -Author: E. M. Delafield - -Release Date: July 14, 2022 [eBook #68524] - -Language: English - -Produced by: Tim Lindell, David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed - Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was - produced from images generously made available by The - Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE OPTIMIST *** - - - - - -THE OPTIMIST - - - - - BY - E. M. DELAFIELD - - HUMBUG. A STUDY IN EDUCATION - THE HEEL OF ACHILLES - TENSION - - - - - THE - OPTIMIST - - BY - E. M. DELAFIELD - - New York - THE MACMILLAN COMPANY - 1922 - - _All rights reserved_ - - - - - PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA - - COPYRIGHTED, 1922, - BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY. - - Set up and electrotyped. Published October, 1922. - - FERRIS - PRINTING COMPANY - NEW YORK CITY - - - - - Dedicated - - TO C. A. DAWSON-SCOTT IN - AFFECTIONATE ADMIRATION OF - THE NOVELIST AND THE WOMAN. - - - - -I - -VALERIA AND OWEN QUENTILLIAN - - -(i) - -The ship swung slowly away from the side of the wharf. Several people -on board then said, “Well, we’re off at last!” to several other people -who had only been thinking of saying it. - -Owen Quentillian remembered another, longer, sea-voyage taken by -himself at an early age. Far more clearly he remembered his arrival at -St. Gwenllian. - -It was that which he wanted to recall, aware as he was of the necessity -for resuming a connection that had almost insensibly lapsed for several -years. - -He deliberately let his mind travel backwards, visualizing himself, a -disconsolate, shivering morsel, being taken away from Papa and Mamma -at the very station itself, and put into an open pony-cart beside Miss -Lucilla Morchard. - -The conversation between them, as far as he could recollect it, had run -upon strangely categorical lines. - -“Who are you?” - -“I’m Canon Morchard’s daughter. You can call me Lucilla.” - -“How old are you?” - -“I’m fifteen, but you shouldn’t ask grown-up persons their age.” - -“Oh, are you a grown-up person?” - -“Of course I am. My mother is dead, and I look after the house and the -children, and now I’m going to look after you as well.” - -Lucilla had smiled very nicely as she said this. - -“How many children are there?” - -“Three, at home. My eldest brother is at school.” - -“What are the names of the other ones?” - -“Valeria and Flora and Adrian. Valeria and Flora are sometimes called -Val and Flossie.” - -He had discovered afterwards that they were seldom called anything -else, except by their father. - -“Why don’t Papa and Mamma come in this little carriage too?” - -“Because there wouldn’t have been room. They will come in the brougham, -later on.” - -“They won’t go back to India without saying good-bye first, will they?” -he asked wistfully. - -He had known for a long time that Papa and Mamma were going back to -India and leaving him at St. Gwenllian. - -“No, I promise you they won’t do that,” had said Lucilla seriously. - -Owen had felt entirely that her word was one to be relied upon. Very -few grown-up persons gave him that feeling. - -He remembered extraordinarily little about the house at St. Gwenllian. -It was large, and cold, and there were a good many pictures on the -walls, but the only two rooms of which he retained a mental photograph -were the schoolroom, and the Canon’s library. - -He saw the latter room first. - -Lucilla had taken him there at once. - -He remembered the books against the wall--numbers and numbers of -books--and the big black writing table, with a small bowl of violets -next to a pile of papers, and above the writing-table a finely-carved -ivory figure, crucified upon a wooden cross, set in a long plaque of -pale-green velvet. - -Lucilla had seemed to be disappointed because her father was out. - -“He said he did so want to be here to welcome you himself, but he is -always very busy. Some one sent for him, I think.” - -The youthful Owen Quentillian had cared less than nothing for the -non-appearance of his future host and tutor. The prospect of the -schoolroom tea had touched him more nearly. - -But the schoolroom tea had turned out to be a sort of nightmare. - -Even now, he could hardly smile at the recollection of that dreadful -meal. - -Eventually Val and Flossie had resolved themselves into good-natured, -cheerful little girls, and Adrian into a slightly spoilt and rather -precocious little boy, addicted to remarks of the type hailed as -“wonderful” in the drawing-room and “affected humbug” in the schoolroom. - -But on that first evening, Val and Flossie had been two monsters with -enormous eyes that stared disapprovingly, all the time, straight -at Owen Quentillian and nobody else. Adrian had been an utterly -incomprehensible, rather malignant little creature, who had asked -questions. - -“Can you see colours for each day of the week?” - -Quentillian wondered whether he had looked as much alarmed as he had -felt, in his utter bewilderment. - -“_I_ think Monday is blue, and Tuesday light green, and Wednesday dark -green,” Adrian had then proclaimed, triumphantly, and casting his big -brown eyes about as though to make sure that his three sisters had -heard the enunciation of his strange creed. - -“Adrian is not a bit like other little boys,” one of them had then -said, with calm pride. - -Owen Quentillian, unconscious of irony, had ardently hoped that she -spoke truly. - -Adrian had pinched him surreptitiously during tea, and had laughed in -a way that made Owen flush when they had asked him what India was like -and he had answered “I don’t know.” - -He had thought the thick bread-and-butter nasty, and wondered if there -was never any cake. A vista of past teas, with sugared cakes from the -drawing-room, especially selected by himself, and brought to his own -little table on the back veranda by the Ayah, made him choke. - -There had been a dreadful moment when he had snatched at the horrid mug -they had given him and held it before his face for a long, long time, -desperately pretending to drink, and not daring to show his face. - -Lucilla, seated at the head of the table, had offered the others more -tea, but she had said nothing to the little strange boy, and he still -felt grateful to her. - -The miserable, chaotic jumble that was all that his mind retained, of -interminable slices of bread-and-butter that tasted like sawdust, of -thick, ugly white china, of hostile or mocking gazes, of jokes and -allusions in which he had no share, all came to a sudden end when he -had given up any hope of ever being happy again so long as he lived. - -Canon Morchard had come into the room. - -And, magically, Val and Flossie had turned into quiet, insignificant -little girls, looking gently and trustfully at their father, and no -longer staring curiously at Owen Quentillian, and Adrian had become a -wide-eyed, guileless baby, and the thick bread-and-butter and the ugly -china no longer existed at all. - -Only Lucilla had undergone no transformation. - -She said “This is Owen Quentillian, Father,” in a matter-of-fact tone -of voice. - -“I know, my child, I know.” - -His hand, large and protecting, had grasped the boy’s hand, and after a -moment he stooped and put his lips gently to Owen’s forehead. - -Quentillian remembered a presence of general benignity, a strangely -sweet smile that came, however, very rarely, a deep voice, and an -effect of commanding height and size. - -Memory could not recapture any set form of words, but Quentillian -endeavoured, whimsically, to recast certain speeches which he felt to -be permeated with the spirit of the Canon. - -“My dear little boy, I hope you may come to feel this as home. We -shall all of us endeavour to make it so. Lucilla here is my little -housekeeper--ask her for anything that you want. Valeria--my tomboy. -She and you will have some grand romps together. Flora is younger; -nearer your own age, perhaps. Flora plays the piano, and we hope that -she may show great feeling for Art, by and bye. Little Adrian, I am -sure, has already made friends with you. I call him the Little Friend -of all the World. There are some very quaint fancies under this brown -mop, but we shall make something out of them one of these days--one of -these days.” - -Some such introduction there had certainly been. The Canon had been -nothing if not categorical, and Quentillian could fancifully surmise in -him a bewilderment not untinged with resentment had his Valeria one day -tired of being a tomboy, and elected to patronize the piano, or Flora -suddenly become imbued with a romping spirit, to the detriment of her -artistic propensities. - -But the Canon’s children had always refrained from any _volte-face_ -calculated to disconcert their parent. Quentillian was almost sure that -all of them, except Lucilla, had been afraid of him--even Adrian, on -whom his father had lavished a peculiar cherishing tenderness. - -Quentillian could remember certain sharp, stern rebukes, called forth -by Valeria’s tendency to untimely giggles, or Flora’s infantile tears, -or his own occasional sulks and obstinacy under the new _régime_. But -he could only once remember Adrian in disgrace, and so abysmal had been -the catastrophe, that imagination was unneeded for recalling it clearly. - -Adrian had told a lie. - -Quentillian re-lived the terrible episode. - -“Which of you children took a message for me from Radly yesterday? Not -you, Lucilla?” - -“No, father.” - -“Mrs. Radly died last night.” The Canon’s face was suffused. “She -asked for me all yesterday, and Radly actually left her in order to -find some way of sending me a message. I hear now that he met ‘one of -the St. Gwenllian children’ and sent an urgent summons which was never -delivered. _Which was never delivered!_ Good Heavens, children, think -of it! I was here, in our own home-circle, enjoying a pleasant evening -reading aloud, when that woman was dying there in the farm, craving -for the help and comfort that I, her shepherd and pastor, could and -_should_ have given her.” - -He covered his face with his hand and groaned aloud. - -“In all the years of my ministry,” he said slowly, “I have never had a -more bitter blow. And dealt me by one of my own household! Children,” -his voice boomed suddenly terrible, “which of you received Radly’s -message yesterday?” - -Quentillian, in the retrospect, felt no surprise at the absence of any -competition in laying claim to the implied responsibility. - -At last Lucilla said tentatively: - -“Val? Flora?” - -“I never saw Radly at all, yesterday, nor any other day,” said Val, her -brown eyes wide open and fixed straight upon her father. - -Flora’s little, pretty face was pale and scared. - -“It wasn’t me. No one ever gave me any message.” - -Her voice trembled as though she feared to be disbelieved. - -“Owen?” said the Canon sternly. - -“No, sir.” - -“Adrian?” his voice softened. - -“No, father.” - -The Canon hardly appeared to listen to Adrian’s answer. His hand was -on the little boy’s brown curls, in the fond, half-absent, gesture -habitual to him. - -He faced the children, and his eye rested upon Owen Quentillian. - -“If any one of you,” he said sternly and slowly, “has been betrayed -into telling me a lie, understand that it is not yet too late for full -confession. Selfish heedlessness cannot be judged by its terrible -consequences, and if I spoke too strongly just now, it was out of the -depths of my own grief and shame. The forgetfulness was bad--very -bad--but that I can forgive. A lie, I can _not_ forgive. It is not too -late.” - -His face was white and terrible as he gazed with strained eyes at the -children. - -Little Flora began to cry, and Lucilla put her arm round her. - -“Understand me, children, denial is perfectly useless. I _know_ that -message was given to one of you, and that it was not delivered, and it -is simply a question of hours before I see Radly and obtain from him -the name of the child to whom the message was given. I accuse no one -of you, but I implore the culprit to speak out. Otherwise,” he hit the -table with his clenched fist, and it seemed as though lightning shot -from his blazing eyes, “otherwise I shall know that there dwells under -my roof a liar and a coward.” - -Quentillian could hear still the scorn that rang in that deep, vibrant -voice, terrifying the children. - -Not one of them spoke. - -And the Canon had gone out of the room with anguish in his eyes. - -The nursery court-martial that followed was held by Lucilla. - -“Flossie, it couldn’t have been you, because you stayed in all -yesterday with your cold. Owen and Val were out in the afternoon?” - -“We went to see the woman with the new twins,” said Val, indignantly. -“We never met anyone the whole way, did we, Owen?” - -“No.” - -Owen Quentillian had known all the time what was coming. He knew, with -the terrible, intimate knowledge of the nursery, that Adrian was the -only one of the Canon’s children who did not always speak the truth. - -Apparently Lucilla, also, knew. - -She said “Oh, Adrian,” in a troubled, imploring voice. - -“I didn’t,” said Adrian, and burst into tears. - -“I knew it was Adrian,” said little Flora. “I saw Radly coming up the -lane very fast, I saw him out of the night-nursery window, and I saw -Adrian, too. I knew it was Adrian, all the time.” - -None of the children was surprised. - -Adrian, confronted with their take-it-for-granted attitude, ceased his -mechanical denials. - -The preoccupation of them all, was Canon Morchard. - -“It’ll be less bad if you tell him yourself than if Radly does,” Owen -Quentillian pointed out. - -“Of course, it makes it much worse having told him a lie,” Val said -crudely, “but perhaps he didn’t much notice what you said. I’m sure he -thought it was Owen, all the time.” - -How much better if it had been Owen, if it had been any one of them, -save the Canon’s best-loved child, his youngest son! - -“You must come and tell him at once,” Lucilla decreed--but not -hopefully. - -“I can’t. You know what he said about a liar and a coward under his -roof.” - -Adrian cried and shivered. - -“He wasn’t angry the time I broke the clock,” said Flora. “He took me -on his knee and only just talked to me. I didn’t mind a bit.” - -“But you hadn’t told a story,” said the inexorable Val. - -They all knew that there lay the crux of the matter. - -Quentillian could see the circle of scared, perplexed faces -still--Lucilla, troubled, but unastonished, keeping a vigilant hold -on Adrian all the time, Val, frankly horrified and full of outspoken -predictions of the direst description, Flossie in tears, stroking -and fondling Adrian’s hand with the tenderest compassion. He even -visualized the pale, squarely built, little flaxen-haired boy that had -been himself. - -They could not persuade Adrian to confess. - -At last Lucilla said: “If you don’t tell him, Adrian, then I shall.” - -And so it had been, because Canon Morchard, re-entering the schoolroom, -had, with a penetration to which his children were accustomed, -instantly perceived the tears and the terror on Adrian’s face. - -“What is it, little lad? Have you hurt yourself?” - -The kind, unsuspicious concern in his voice, as he held out his hand! - -Quentillian was certain that a pause had followed the enquiry--Adrian’s -opportunity, conceded by Lucilla, even while she knew, as they all did, -that he would take no advantage of it. - -Then Lucilla had told. - -Quentillian’s thoughts went off at a tangent, dwelling for the first -time, with a certain surprised admiration, upon Lucilla’s resolute, -almost matter-of-fact performance of her painful and alarming task. - -Canon Morchard had been incredulous at first, and Lucilla had steadily -repeated, and reiterated again and again, the dreadful truth. - -A black time had followed. - -It assumed the proportions of a twelve-month, in the retrospect. Could -it have extended over a week? Strangely enough, Quentillian could not -recall the exact fate of Adrian, but he knew that the Canon first -fulminated words of wrath and scorn, and at last had actually broken -down, tears streaming down his furrowed face, and that the sight of -this unrestrained display of suffering had caused the boy Owen to creep -from the room, with the strange, sick feeling of one who had witnessed -an indecency. - -All the children except Lucilla, who indeed scarcely counted as one of -them, had avoided Canon Morchard in the ensuing days. They had crept -about the house silently, and at meals no one spoke until the Canon had -left the room. Owen Quentillian, playing with a ball in the passage -and inadvertently bouncing it against the closed study door, had been -suddenly confronted by the Canon, and the look of grief and horror -fixed upon that handsome face had rendered any spoken rebuke for levity -unnecessary. - -After all, they had left an impression, those Morchards, all of them, -Quentillian reflected. - -Lucilla had been calm, matter-of-fact, competent--perhaps a little -inhuman. Val, impetuous, noisy, inclined to defiance, yet frankly -terrified of her father. Flossie--impossible to think of her as Flora, -unless the name was uttered in the Canon’s full, deep tones--surely -the prettiest of the three, gentler than Val, less self-assured than -Lucilla, timid only with her father. Adrian, of course, did not speak -the truth. His contemporaries had known it, although Canon Morchard had -not realized the little boy’s habitual weakness. But then he had never -realized that the children were afraid of him. - -Why had they all been afraid of him? - -Quentillian decided that it must have been because of his own -phenomenal rectitude, his high standard of honour, and above all and -especially, his deep, fundamental sense of religion. - -Canon Morchard, undoubtedly, lived “in the presence of God.” Even the -little boy Owen had known that, and, thinking backwards, Quentillian -was convinced of it still. - -He felt curious to see the Canon again. David Morchard had said to him -in Mesopotamia: “Go and see him. They’ve none of them forgotten you, -and they’ll be glad of first-hand news. I’ve only been home once in -five years.” - -The shrug of his shoulders had seemed to Quentillian expressive. - -But evidently David had judged his family correctly. The Canon had -written and invited his old pupil to stay with him. - - “It will not only be joy untold to receive news of our dear lad, - David, but a real pleasure to us all to welcome you amongst us - once more. I have not forgotten my pupil of long-ago days, nor my - daughters their erstwhile playfellow. You will find all at home, - including Adrian. Dear fellow, I had hoped it was to be the Church - for him, but he has been so open, so anxious to decide the whole - important question _rightly_, that one can only leave the decision - to him in all confidence. I would not hurry him in any way, but his - brief Army days are over, thank God, and we have the untold pleasure - of having him with us now, so full of fun and high spirits, dear boy. - You, with your pre-war experience of Oxford, will perhaps be able to - talk things over with him and help him to a right and wise decision. - - “You will remember my eldest daughter, Lucilla. She is still my right - hand, mothering the younger ones, and yet finding time for all sorts - of wider interests than those afforded by her secretarial work for - me. I think that you will agree with me that Lucilla’s intellectual - abilities, had she been less of a home-bird, must have made their - mark in the world. - - “Valeria is still something of the madcap that perhaps you remember. - Her energy and enthusiasm keep us all in the best of spirits, even - though we are sometimes a little startled at the new ideas sprung - upon us. Both she and Flora worked valiantly during the terrible - war years, though I could spare neither of my darlings to leave home - for very long at a time. Valeria, however, was six months in France - at a Canteen, and I believe rendered really valuable service. Little - Flora, as I still call her, gives pleasure to us all with her music, - and our men in hospital were sharers in her gift as far as we could - manage it.” - -Quentillian took up yet another sheet of notepaper covered with small, -legible writing. It came back to him with a sense of familiarity, that -the Canon had always been an expansive and prolific writer of letters. - - “Make us a long visit, my dear boy. There are no near ones to claim - you, alas, and I should like you to remember that it was to us that - your dear father and mother first confided you when they left you - for what we then hoped was to be only a short term of years. God - saw otherwise, my dear lad, and called them unto Himself. _How_ - incomprehensible are His ways, and how, through it all, one must feel - that mysterious certainty ‘_all_ things work together for good, to - those that love Him!’ Those words have been more present to me than - I can well tell you, during the years of storm and stress. David’s - long, weary time in Mesopotamia tried one high, but when Adrian, my - Benjamin, buckled on his armour and went forth, my heart _must_ have - failed me, but for that wonderful strength that seems to bear one up - in the day of tribulation. How often have I not said to myself: ‘He - hath given His angels charge over thee ... in their hands they shall - bear thee up, lest haply thou dash thy foot against a stone!’ - - “Perhaps you will smile at this rambling letter of an almost-old - man, but I fancy that as one grows older, the need to bear testimony - becomes ever a stronger and more personal thing. His ways _are_ so - wonderful! It seems to me, for instance, a direct gift from His hand - that the Owen Quentillian to whom I gave his first Latin prose should - be returning to us once more, a distinguished young writer. I wonder - if we shall recognize you? I have so vivid a recollection of the - white hair and eyelashes that made the village boys call out, ‘Go it, - Snowball!’ as they watched your prowess on the football field! - - “Well, dear fellow, I must close this. You have only to let us know - the day and hour of your arrival, and the warmest of welcomes awaits - you. - - “I _must_ sign myself, in memory of old happy times, - - “Yours ever affectionately, - “FENWICK MORCHARD.” - -Quentillian, with great precision, folded the sheets together again. - -“So Lucilla is a home-bird, Valeria is still something of a madcap, -Flora is still ‘little Flora,’ and Adrian is a dear lad who is anxious -to decide rightly about his future career.” - -He wondered doubtfully whether he himself would come to endorse the -Canon’s opinion of the Canon’s progeny. - -And what was the Canon himself, if labels were to be thus distributed? - -The sensation of doubt in Quentillian’s mind was accentuated, but he -concluded his reflections by reminding himself, half tolerantly, and -half with a certain grimness, that the Canon was at least, according to -himself, Quentillian’s ever affectionate Fenwick Morchard. - - -(ii) - -“This is like old times,” said Quentillian. - -Lucilla Morchard smiled, shook hands with him, and made no answer, and -Quentillian immediately, and with annoyance, became conscious that the -occasion was not in the least like old times. - -Apparently Miss Morchard did not accept _clichés_ uncritically. - -Her face, indeed, expressed a spirit both critical and perceptive. -Quentillian could still trace the schoolgirl Lucilla in the -clearly-cut, unbeautiful oval, with the jaw slightly underhung, grey, -short-sighted eyes, and straight black brows. Her dark hair was folded -plainly beneath her purple straw hat, but he could discern that there -was all the old abundance of it. Her figure was tall and youthful, but -her face made her look fully her age. He surmised that Lucilla must be -thirty-five, now. - -“This time, my father _is_ here to welcome you.” - -She turned round, and Quentillian saw the Canon. - -“Ah, dear fellow! Welcome--welcome you be, indeed!” - -A hand grasped Quentillian’s hand, an arm was laid across his -shoulders, and the Canon’s full, hearty voice, very deep and musical, -rang in his ears. - -Quentillian felt inadequate. - -With all the acute self-consciousness of the modern, he was -perfectly aware that Canon Morchard’s warmth of feeling and ardour -of demonstration awoke in himself nothing but a slight, distinctly -unpleasant, sensation of gratitude, and a feeble fear of appearing as -unresponsive as he felt. - -“I think it’s the same Owen Quentillian, isn’t it?” - -The steady pressure of the Canon’s arm compelled his unwilling returned -prodigal to remain still, facing him, and submit to a scrutiny from -kind, narrowed eyes. - -“Just the same. All is well--well, indeed.” - -The Canon’s hand smote Quentillian gently between the shoulders, as -they walked down the platform. - -“The trap is waiting, dear boy. They are eager for your arrival, at -home. I have my whole goodly company awaiting you, thank God--Lucilla -here, and my merry Valeria, and little Flora with her incurably shy -ways, and my Benjamin--the youngest of the flock--Adrian. You and -Adrian must have many talks, dear lad. I want just such a friend for -him as yourself--full of youth, and fun, and merriment, as he is -himself, and yet able to help him when it comes to facing the deeper -issues--the deeper issues. You young people must have many wise, deep -talks, together, such as youth loves. I remember my University days so -well and how ‘we tired the sun with talking’--aye, Owen, your father -and I were famous philosophers, once upon a time! How does that strike -you, eh?” - -It struck Quentillian principally that his father’s contemporary -reminded him oddly of a book of late Victorian memoirs, but he did not -voice the impression aloud. - -Instead, it was a relief to him to be able to make an obvious, and -yet perfectly sincere, comment upon the unchanged aspect of the old -red-brick house, standing well away from the small town. - -“Valeria is our gardener,” said Canon Morchard. “You will be consulted -about various borders and the like, no doubt. But we have all of us an -interest in botany. You must remember that from the old days, eh? There -was a collecting craze, if I remember rightly, that led to a great deal -of friendly rivalry amongst you children.” - -Quentillian’s recollection of the collecting craze differed so -drastically from that of the Canon, that he glanced involuntarily -at Lucilla. She met his eye calmly, but he fancied a little latent -hostility in her unconsciousness. - -It rather served to confirm his impression of the extreme lack of -spontaneity that had characterized those bygone excursions into the -realms of Nature. They had been undertaken, at least by himself and -his ally and contemporary, Valeria, with one eye, as it were, upon the -Canon’s study window. Even Adrian, if Quentillian remembered rightly, -had relaxed the normal enthusiasm of boyhood in the pursuit of bird’s -eggs, after the wondrous eye for detail of the bird’s Creator had been -sufficiently often pointed out to him. - -“Welcome home,” said the Canon happily. “You remember the old -garden? I seem to recollect some capital fun going on amongst the -old rhododendron bushes at hide-and-seek, eh? We play lawn-tennis, -nowadays. I see a sett is going on now. Who is here this afternoon, -Lucilla?” - -“Captain Cuscaden is playing with Flora, and I suppose it’s Mr. Clover -in the far court.” - -“To be sure. Clover is my excellent curate, who has been one of -ourselves for several years now. Sit ye down, young people, sit ye -down. Tea will be out here directly, and the players will no doubt come -for refreshment.” - -The Canon settled himself with the deliberation of a heavily-built man, -and leant back in his wicker chair, with finger-tips joined together, -the breeze stirring the thick grey hair upon his temples. - -It was a cameo-like head, with something of the ivory colouring of -a cameo, but the cameo’s blank orbs were replaced by deeply-set, -brilliant hazel eyes of which the flashing, ardent outlook recalled at -once the child and the fanatic. Innumerable fine lines were crossed and -recrossed at the corners of either socket, but the broad forehead was -singularly open and unlined. - -Quentillian noted the feminine sweetness of the closed mouth, -contrasting with the masculine jut of the strong, prominent jaw. His -mind registered simultaneously the recollection of the Canon’s violent -and terrifying outbursts of anger, and his astonishing capabilities of -tenderness. - -The latter expression was altogether predominant, as the tennis players -came to join the group under the cedars. - -“Valeria--Flora--you need no introductions here, dear lad. Clover, -let me present my old pupil--one of whom you have very often heard -us speak--Owen Quentillian. This is my very good friend and helper. -And.... Ah, Captain Cuscaden--Mr. Quentillian.” - -Quentillian fancied less enthusiasm in this last introduction, and it -seemed to him significant that no descriptive phrase followed the name. -Either Captain Cuscaden was not worth classifying, or he could not -satisfactorily be relegated into any class, and Quentillian suspected -that Canon Morchard would resent the latter state of affairs more than -the former. - -At all events, Cuscaden was good-looking, of bold allure and sunburnt -face, revealing the most perfect of teeth in a pleasant smile. - -Mr. Clover was sandy and pale and seemed to be talkative. - -“I believe I should have known you anywhere,” Valeria Morchard told -Quentillian, frankly gazing at him. He was not sorry to have the -opportunity of gazing back as frankly at her. - -As children, the handsome or unhandsome looks of Val, his inseparable -playmate, had naturally interested him not at all. He had vaguely -acquiesced in the universal nursery dictum that Flora, with her fair -curls and wide, innocent eyes, was pretty, but he now found her blond -slenderness insignificant in the extreme compared to Valeria, with -her tall and perfectly balanced figure, ripe-apricot bloom, and brown -laughing eyes. No longer a very young girl, she somehow combined the -poise of her twenty-seven years with a shy, semi-abruptness of diction -reminiscent of seventeen. - -Quentillian thought her charming. - -So, apparently, did the other men. - -“And who bore off the palm of victory?” - -Canon Morchard indicated the tennis court. - -“We won, at five games all. A very good sett,” Clover replied. “My -partner’s service is almost invincible.” - -Canon Morchard smiled. - -“We think Valeria’s service is her strong point,” he explained to -Quentillian. “She was coached by our dear David, and David is no mean -player, I assure you. Little Flora needs to stand up to the ball -better--stand up to the ball better. Flora has the feminine tendency to -hit out too soon--eh, Flora? Our champion is Adrian, however. You and -he will have some great contests, I foresee.” - -The more the Canon foresaw, the more did Quentillian’s own aspirations -turn in search of contrary directions. The only diversion of those -predicted by his host, of which he felt able to tolerate the thought, -was that of being consulted by Valeria upon the herbaceous borders. - -“Clover, there, has a particularly good stroke on to the back line, -but you’ll get to know it. Have you played at all since you left the -’Varsity?” - -“I got a good deal of tennis when I was home on leave in -nineteen-sixteen, but nothing after that, when I was in Mesopotamia.” - -“Were you not in Flanders, dear boy?” - -“In ’fifteen and ’sixteen,” said Quentillian briefly. - -He wished to remember neither his two years on the Western front, nor -his many months in Hospital with shell-shock. - -“Where did you and David meet, in Mesopotamia?” inquired Lucilla. - -Quentillian had forgotten her presence, if not her existence, but he -felt grateful to her for sparing him the tentative category of his -soldiering capabilities which he suspected the Canon of having in -readiness. - -He was not, however, given time to answer Lucilla’s question. - -The Canon’s hand was uplifted. - -“Ah, Lucilla my dear--please! My little talk with Owen there, is to -come later. There is so much that I want to hear about our David--much, -indeed. And you shall have your share of news about your brother, my -child, but wait--at least wait--until we have had our little private -talk together.” - -Lucilla bent her head a little under the rebuke either in acquiescence -or to conceal some slight confusion; but Valeria blushed hotly and -unmistakably, and everyone looked constrained except the Canon, who -looked rather severe, rather grieved, and at the same time perfectly -serene. When he spoke again, it was with marked suavity. - -“Tell us something of your literary work, dear fellow,” he requested -Quentillian. “I am ashamed to say that I have read nothing of yours, as -yet. My time is so little my own. Lucilla here is our literary critic.” - -He placed his thin, beautiful hand, for a fleeting moment upon his -eldest daughter’s hand. - -“Lucilla tells me that she knows your work. Critical essays, is it?” - -“Yes, sir.” - -Quentillian gravely acknowledged the truth of the assertion. His -self-consciousness rather enhanced than diminished in him a keen -appraisement, perhaps rather less detached than he would have liked it -to be, of his own literary value. - -“I published a small volume of essays before the war, but since then -I have only been a very occasional contributor to one or two of the -reviews.” - -“Ah, yes. You must let me see what you have done, some day. This is the -era of youth. Indeed, some of the things I see in print today strike -me as not only crude and immature, but absolutely mischievous--false, -foolish, shallow teaching from those who have never submitted to -be taught themselves. I am not afraid of that in your case, Owen. -But remember this, all you young people: Nothing can be of real -or lasting value that is not founded upon the broad principles of -Christianity--charity, self-sacrifice, humility, loving-kindness. One -feels that, more than ever, nowadays, when cynicism is so much in -fashion.” - -The Canon leant back in his chair again with his eyes closed, as though -momentarily exhausted by the extraordinary passion with which he had -spoken. - -So profoundly did Owen Quentillian disagree with his host, that he -remained absolutely silent. He reminded himself that since his majority -he had sought, voluntarily, only the companionship of those whose -views were at least as progressive as his own. He had almost forgotten -that those other, older, views existed, were held with a passion -of sincerity contrasting oddly with the cool, detached, carefully -impersonal logic that was the only attitude contemplated by himself -and his kind for the consideration of all problems of ethics, morals, -or of Life itself. - -No doubt the Canon did not admit the normal evolution of the art of -self-sacrifice to be self-advertisement, and held the officious pelican -to be the best of birds. - -Quentillian, horribly aware of his own priggishness, wanted to reform -the whole of the Canon’s philosophy at once. - -Nevertheless he retained enough humour to hope that the preposterous -desire had not been apparent in his silence. - -His eyes met those of Valeria Morchard, and read there amusement, and -something not unlike protest. - -Lucilla, in her level voice, offered him tea. - -“The cup that cheers,” said Mr. Clover in a nervous way. - -The ineptitude roused in Quentillian a disproportionate sense of -irritation and renewed his old conviction that his nerves were not even -yet under his complete control. - -As though the Canon, too, were mildly averse from such trivialities, he -began to speak again. - -“What one feels in the cleverness of the day is the note of ugliness -that prevails. Do you not feel that? The sordid, the grotesque, the -painful--all, all sought out and dwelt upon. That, we are told, is the -new realism. We know, indeed, that there is a sad side to life, but is -it realism to dwell only upon one side of the picture? Surely, surely, -a sane optimism were the better outlook--the truer realism.” - -“You don’t think, then, that the optimism of England is responsible for -her present plight, sir?” - -Quentillian’s tone was one of respectful suggestion, but he was aware -that Val, beside him, had suddenly caught her breath as though at an -audacity, and that Flora and Mr. Clover were both gazing anxiously at -the Canon. - -A flash of lightning shot from those ardent eyes straight into the -passionless irony of the younger man’s. - -“But for England’s optimism, there would be no England today. It was -the spirit of optimism that won the war, Owen.” - -A sick recollection of men, armed and disciplined, taking steady aim at -other men, standing against a wall to be shot for cowardice or treason, -of grey-faced commanders leading those who followed them into certain -death, all surged into Quentillian’s rebellious mind. They, the men who -had been there, had known better than to prate of optimism. - -They had faced facts, had anticipated disaster, had envisaged the worst -possibilities, and their pessimism had won the war. - -“Are you, too, bitten with the folly of the day?” - -The Canon’s voice was gentle again, his arm once more laid across -Quentillian’s shoulders. - -“Did I not hear something about shell-shock, dear fellow? We must have -no talk of the war here. Thank God for that He hath brought it to an -end. Tell me, dear lad, will you play tennis?” - -Bewildered, almost affronted, Quentillian yet agreed to play tennis, -feeling himself more like a forward boy, being treated with -forbearance, than like a modern intellect illuminating the way of -thought for the older generation. - -He played with Valeria as his partner, and found the Canon’s eulogy of -her service to be entirely justified. - -He found an opportunity at the end of the game of expressing his -admiration for her play, and she replied, conventionally enough, that -she had a great deal of practice. - -“There isn’t much else to do,” she added, with a slight grimace. - -Under pretext of looking for a distant ball, they continued the -conversation. - -“If you remember this place at all,” Val said, “you know how dull it -is. Just tennis in the summer, and horrible bazaars and jumble sales, -and never a new person or a new idea from year’s end to year’s end.” - -“It sounds appalling. But, after all, you’re not bound, in the old, -antiquated way. You can go away.” - -“No I can’t,” she said bluntly. “I did get to France, for six months, -during the war, but it was only _because_ it was the war. And even -then--oh, well, the sort of letters I got were enough to make me feel -that Father really hated my being there.” - -Quentillian was genuinely aghast. - -“But I thought that sort of attitude had gone out with all the other -Victorian traditions. I thought women did what they liked--were as free -as men.” - -“That’s what it says in the books I read, and what some of the -girls I met in France told me. But it isn’t like that here. And -one _can’t_ hurt Father. You know what he’s like--so good, and so -sensitive, and--and so noble, somehow. He makes modern things seem -trivial--vulgar, even.” - -“Your father is a reactionary,” said Quentillian kindly, rather as one -might say: “Your father is a Hottentot.” - -“You mustn’t think that he just wants us to stay at home and arrange -the flowers,” Val said. “You know how he always wanted us to have -intellectual interests. Oh, Owen, don’t you remember the collections?” - -She broke off, and blushed and laughed. - -“It seems so very natural--I’ve so often thought of you as Owen.” - -“That was very nice of you, Val,” said Quentillian calmly. - -He had every intention of retaining his early privileges, where Val was -concerned. - -“I should like to read some of the things you’ve written,” she said -abruptly. “Lucilla reads your articles, and has always admired them.” - -It seemed to Quentillian so extremely natural that anybody who read -his articles should admire them, that he was conscious of receiving a -slight shock when Valeria added: - -“I gather that Father wouldn’t like them at all. Lucilla always kept -them out of his way.” - -“She is devoted to him, I can see that.” - -“Yes, of course.” - -Something in her voice made him look at her, and she exclaimed, half -laughing and half petulant: “We’re all devoted to him, Lucilla and -Flossie and I! I didn’t mean the least shadow of a criticism of _him_. -Only that it’s a little difficult, sometimes, to keep up to his level.” - -It seemed to Quentillian so monstrous a state of affairs that the -Canon’s three daughters should have no worthier aim in life than the -one implied, that something of his feeling was reflected in his face, -and Valeria on the instant applied herself to looking for the missing -ball, found it, and returned to the tea-table and the group there. - -The Canon was again speaking, this time to young Cuscaden. - -“If it is to be Canada, I believe I could give you one or two -introductions that might be of service to you. The Government people, -for instance.... I have one or two very good friends amongst them. You -are really anxious to leave the Army and try colonization?” - -“Quite determined to, sir.” - -“Ah, you young fellows, you young fellows! It seems to me that there is -none of the spirit of stability that existed in our day! But perhaps -the wish to see further afield is a natural one. Certainly, my own -greatest regret is that I have had so little time for travelling.” - -He turned to Lucilla. - -“Your dearest mother and I had planned a visit to Italy the very year -that she was taken from us. Well, well! It was not to be. I shall never -see the Eternal City now, I imagine, except with the eyes of the mind. -Clover, you are amongst those who have seen Rome. Think of it! Seen -Rome, where Peter healed and Paul preached the Gospel, where Laurence -and Agnes and Cyprian and countless others were martyred! Tell us -something of the Coliseum.” - -Mr. Clover did not give the effect of being an eloquent person, but he -had evidently been called upon before by the Canon, and he gave a not -unilluminating little description, punctuated, and indeed supplemented, -by Canon Morchard’s exhaustive comments. - -Quentillian listened in a sort of amazement, not at all untinged by a -rather uncertain wonder as to how he should ever sustain his own part -in these ingenuous conversations.... - -The others, he saw, listened, with the possible exception of Lucilla, -whose eyes were fixed upon a distant flower-bed. - -Captain Cuscaden kept his gaze upon Valeria, but he put in an -occasional question, generally upon a subject of architecture. Flora -played with a leaf and said nothing at all, and Val, unconsciously, -Quentillian felt sure, repeated everything her father said in more -colloquial English. - -“It amazes me to realize that with a lack of all our modern appliances, -such veritable giants of architecture should yet have been raised,” -mused the Canon. - -“Yes, isn’t it wonderful to think they had none of our machines and -things, and yet made those enormous statues and gates and things?” said -Val. - -“Well for us, indeed, that they did so, my child. Every fresh -excavation proves to be a new link with the past.” - -“Yes, indeed,” said Mr. Clover. - -“Yes, all the new things they dig up seem to make a fresh link with -those old Roman days,” echoed Val faithfully. - -“Yes, indeed,” said Mr. Clover. - -“If any of you young people followed the accounts of the recent -Egyptian excavations--Valeria, I think you are our keenest -antiquarian--were you not struck by the extraordinary confirmation of -Scripture narrative afforded by each fresh discovery?” - -This time Mr. Clover only said “Indeed?” and Valeria repeated: - -“Yes, it all carried out the things one reads in the Bible, didn’t it?” - -“We required no such confirmation, certainly, but it comes to one as a -fresh joy, and brings these things home with full force.” - -And Mr. Clover, with what Quentillian perversely chose to regard as -misplaced ingenuity, once more found a variation of his formula, and -remarked, “Indeed, yes.” - -On these lines they talked about Egypt. - -Then they talked about Rome again. - -Then they went back to Egypt. - -Quentillian looked at the rebellious profile beneath Val’s shady hat, -and came to the conclusion that, whether she fully realized it or not, -she was as profoundly bored as himself. - -It was Captain Cuscaden who released them from the strain, by rising to -take his leave. - -“I’m sorry you have not seen Adrian. He will be disappointed to have -missed you,” Canon Morchard said courteously. “Another day, when Adrian -is at home, you must come over again. He is spending the afternoon -with friends at a distance, and will hardly be home before dinner-time. -You must come over again.” - -“Thank you, sir. I should like to very much.” - -Something in the Captain’s prompt reply convinced Quentillian that his -acceptance was not merely a conventional one. - -“Your motor-bicycle is round by the hall door,” said Valeria, and she -and Captain Cuscaden left the garden together. - -“And now, dear lad, you and I must have some talk together.” - -Rather to Quentillian’s dismay, the firm and genial pronouncement of -his host seemed to have been anticipated. Lucilla could be discerned -bending over the distant flower-bed which had been the object of her -solicitation during the talk about Rome, and Flora had disappeared. Mr. -Clover now turned and hastened towards the house. - -“You and I have had our heart-to-heart talks before now, Owen,” said -the Canon affectionately. “We must have many more of them, dear -fellow--many more.” - - -(iii) - -The natural instinct of Quentillian, as of everybody else, was to -suppose that a heart-to-heart talk must necessarily be upon the subject -of himself. - -He was therefore slightly disconcerted, though also undoubtedly -relieved, when he perceived that the Canon’s thoughts were only -preoccupied with his own two sons. - -They disposed of David with a rapidity that was partly due to -Quentillian’s own determined uncommunicativeness, and partly to the -Canon’s evident anxiety to get on to the topic of Adrian. - -“I wish David had been able to come home before returning to India, -but no doubt these things are ordered for us. He writes fondly and -affectionately, dear boy--fondly and affectionately. Not as often as I -could wish, perhaps, but the young are thoughtless. It costs so little -to send one line to those who are anxiously waiting and watching at -home! Well, well--it has been a great joy to hear that the dear fellow -is his own bright self. And his faith, Owen? Is all well there? Did he -say anything to you of that?” - -“No, sir.” - -The Canon sighed. - -“Perhaps it was not to be expected. You of the present generation do -not discuss these things as we did. Even at Oxford, I am told, the men -no longer preoccupy themselves with such questions in the same way.” - -“Some do, sir,” said Quentillian, beginning to feel rather sorry for -the Canon. - -The Canon, however, received Quentillian’s consolatory effort very much -at its true worth. - -“Some do, perhaps, as you say, but they are not those from whom any -very valuable contribution to the problems of the times is to be -expected. The tone of Oxford is not what it was, Owen--not what it was. -It lessens my disappointment at not sending Adrian there, to find an -Alma Mater indeed, as his father before him. One had always thought of -the Church for him, dear boy, but these things cannot be forced. His -soldiering seems to have put an end to any leanings that way. Adrian is -one reason, amongst many others, why I am glad to welcome you amongst -us, Owen. He may find it easier to discuss things with a contemporary,” -said the Canon wistfully. “Your own destiny, I imagine, is sealed?” - -Quentillian assented, although he had thought of the very small -property recently inherited by himself in no such grandiloquent terms. - -“When do you take possession of your kingdom?” - -“In a few months, sir. The place was let during my uncle’s lifetime, -and there are repairs to be done before I go there. I intend to live -there, and try my hand at farming.” - -He purposely omitted any mention of his writing. - -“Good--good--excellent indeed. And we shall not be very distant -neighbours, eh?” - -“Just the other side of the county, sir. I should like to go over there -from here, if you’re kind enough to put up with me for two or three -days.” - -“By all means, of course--but let there be no talk of two or three -days, Owen, between you and me. Make this your headquarters; come and -go quite freely, as one of ourselves. We have always thought of you as -one of ourselves,” said the Canon warmly. “I think you have no very -close ties, this side of the Great Division?” - -“Thank you very much indeed,” said Quentillian, feeling unable to -accept the Great Division even by implication, but sincerely grateful -for the Canon’s most genuine and spontaneous kindness. - -“It’s more than good of you to receive me so kindly, and I shall be -only too glad to take you at your word.” - -He wished that his self-consciousness had allowed him to make this -speech without a perfectly clear realization that he only did so -because the normal economy of expression habitual to him would have -left the elder man dissatisfied. - -As it was, the Canon’s arm was, for the second time that day, -affectionately laid across Quentillian’s shoulders, and thus they paced -the garden and eventually entered the house, to the extreme relief of -the Canon’s unresponsive prop. - -“Your room, dear Owen. Lucilla is my housekeeper. Ask her for anything -you want,” said the Canon, carrying Quentillian back to his ninth year, -and almost making him expect to hear next that Valeria was the Canon’s -tomboy. - -No such inapposite piece of information followed, and Quentillian -expressed his pleasure at the very charming room in which he found -himself. - -“Make it your own, dear lad, for as long as you will,” and, as though -irrepressibly, the Canon added as he closed the door: “Bless you.” - -At dinner, Quentillian saw Adrian Morchard. He thought him very like -his sister Val, and also very like the little boy who had rehearsed -aloud colours for each day of the week. - -Adrian spoke of Quentillian’s writings, said that he had read some of -them, and was instantly and silently disbelieved by the author. The -subject was not pursued. - -In the drawing-room, later on in the evening, Flora played the piano, -and although Quentillian was no musician, he had sufficient knowledge -to understand that Flora was one. She played Bach, at the Canon’s -request, and Debussy at Adrian’s. The Canon admitted, with a slight, -grave smile, that he did not admire Debussy. - -Valeria occupied herself with needlework, but Lucilla sat with her -hands folded until her father said gently: - -“Are we to see none of your great tomes tonight, my dear?” - -Lucilla rose, and her father explained to the guest: - -“There are certain references for a small compilation that I may one -day attempt, which Lucilla is kindly looking out for me. You remember -her as a very scholarly little girl, no doubt.” - -The nearest thing Quentillian could compass to this was a very distinct -remembrance of having listened to several of the novels of Sir Walter -Scott, read aloud by Lucilla, and the Canon looked very much pleased at -the reminiscence. - -“We are not without our literary evenings now,” he declared. “There -have been some very pleasant readings and discussions round the lamp -on winter evenings. Lucilla provides me with some absorbing book, and -Valeria has her strip of embroidery there, and Flora is busy with her -pencil. I enjoy a pleasant evening of reading aloud.” - -The present occasion was not, however, one of reading aloud; -nevertheless, Quentillian had none of the talk with Valeria that he had -half-hoped to have. - -The Canon’s attitude towards his family circle was patriarchal. He sat -in an armchair and talked a great deal to Quentillian, and his eyes -rested with grave satisfaction upon his children, grouped round him. - -They remained there until half-past nine, when the Canon read prayers -to the assembled household. - -“We break up early,” he said afterwards to Quentillian. “Lucilla and -I have work to do--she is always my right hand. Valeria and Flora, I -believe, discuss mysterious questions of _chiffons_ upstairs. Don’t -prolong the conference too late, though, my dears. I heard voices last -night as I came upstairs, which was not as it should be--not as it -should be. Owen, dear boy, Adrian will look after you. Good-night to -you all.” - -The Canon kissed Val and Flora each on the forehead and laid his hand -for an instant upon either head with a murmur that was evidently an -habitual nightly blessing. - -Then he went into his study with Lucilla, and Adrian and Quentillian -sat in the smoking-room making desultory conversation that bore not -the slightest resemblance to the wise, deep talks of the Canon’s -forecastings. - -The forecastings of the Canon, in fact, like those of many other -dominating personalities, were scrupulously carried out in his -presence, and thankfully allowed to lapse in his absence. - -As of old, it was only Lucilla who was completely at ease in her -father’s company, and Quentillian presently came to the conclusion that -her silence, her unemotional acquiescences, denoted a mind that was -merely a reflection of his. - -Flora, remote, gentle, preoccupied with her music, gave him the odd -illusion of being slightly withdrawn from them all. - -Only in Valeria were to be discerned suppressed, but unmistakable, -flashes of rebellion, and with Valeria, Quentillian, as usual -scrutinizing his own impressions under a microscope, presently -suspected himself of falling quietly in love. - -In common with most young men of his day, Quentillian considered -himself to have outlived passion. In effect, the absorbing episode of -his young manhood was in fact over, and Val, ingenuous and beautiful, -was provocative of the normal reaction. - -One night she joined Adrian and Quentillian in the smoking-room, after -the Canon’s usual disappearance into his study. - -With a look half-frightened and half-mischievous, she lit a cigarette. - -Adrian laughed. - -“Don’t look so guilty, Val. It isn’t a crime, and besides, no one will -know.” - -Val coloured in a childish way, and said to Quentillian: - -“My father knows that I smoke--at least, I think he knows, in a sort of -way. He doesn’t like it, and that’s why I don’t do it in front of him,” -she concluded naïvely. - -“You’re wrong, Val,” said Adrian. “You and Flossie ought to assert -yourselves more. It would make it much easier for me, if you did. -Father’s ideas about women are so old-fashioned, one can’t introduce -him to any of one’s friends.” - -Quentillian exchanged a glance with Valeria. It required small acumen -to translate the plurality of Adrian’s “friends” into the singular, and -the feminine singular at that. - -“Father is very broad-minded,” said Valeria conscientiously. “He never -says that smoking is wrong; only that it’s unfeminine.” - -“It isn’t anything of the sort,” Adrian declared with the most -astonishing violence. “Some people--girls--require it for their nerves. -It soothes them. It doesn’t make them in the least unfeminine. I met a -girl the other day--you’d have liked her awfully, Val--and she simply -smoked _perfectly_ naturally, the whole time, just like a man.” - -“Who was she?” inquired Val smoothly. - -“Let me see--what was her name now?” - -This time Quentillian avoided Valeria’s eyes, positively abashed by the -extreme hollowness of Adrian’s pretence at forgetfulness. - -“Oh, yes--Olga Duffle--Miss Olga Duffle. She is staying with the -Admastons--the people I was with the day you arrived, Owen. Don’t you -think you girls might ask them all over to tennis, one of these days?” - -“I suppose so--yes, of course we will. Would Father like Miss Duffle? -He doesn’t much care for the Admastons, does he?” - -“Absolute prejudice, my dear girl. You’ve got into a rut, all you -people down here--that’s what you’ve done. You’d like Olga most -awfully--everybody does. She’s the most popular girl in London, and not -a bit spoilt, although she’s an only child and her people adore her. -Mrs. Duffle told me herself that Olga was just like a ray of sunshine -at home.” - -“What an original woman Mrs. Duffle must be,” murmured Val. - -“I always think there must be something remarkable about any girl, -if her own nearest relations speak well of her,” Quentillian said in -detached accents. - -Adrian looked suspiciously at his audience. - -“You’d like Olga awfully,” he repeated rather pathetically. “And I can -tell you this, Val, she’d give you and Flossie no end of hints about -clothes and things. She dresses better than any girl I’ve ever seen.” - -Valeria was roused to no display of enthusiasm by this culminating -claim of Miss Duffle on her regard. - -“What sort of age is she?” - -“She looks about eighteen, but I believe she’s twenty-four and a bit,” -said Adrian with some precision. “She plays tennis, too, rippingly. -You’d better ask the Admastons to bring her over, I can tell you. It -isn’t everyone who gets the chance of playing with a girl like that.” - -“We might have a tennis party next week,” Val considered. “I shall only -ask one Admaston girl; we’ve too many girls as it is. One Admaston, and -this Olga person, and Lucilla and I--Flossie won’t play if anybody very -good is there. That’s four, and then you and Owen and Mr. Clover--and -we could have Captain Cuscaden. I’ll talk to Lucilla about it, if you -like, Adrian.” - -“Oh, I don’t care about it. It’s for your own sake, really, that I -suggested it,” Adrian explained. - -His forefinger carefully traced out the pattern stamped upon the -leather arm of his chair, and he contemplated it earnestly with his -head upon one side, even murmuring a sub-audible--“One--two--three--and -a corner”--before clearing his throat. - -“H’m. No, my dear Val, don’t run away with the idea that I’m wildly -keen on this tennis stunt for my own amusement. In fact, I may say I’ve -been a bit off tennis lately, simply from seeing how extraordinarily -good some amateurs can be. It discourages one, in a way. But I thought -you girls might like to know Olga, I must say. She’d be an awfully nice -friend for you to have, you know.” - -There was a pleading note discernible in the tone of Adrian’s -philanthropic suggestions that might have been partly accountable for -the tolerance with which his sister received them. - -Nevertheless, she said to Quentillian next day, with a certain hint of -apology: - -“We’ve spoilt Adrian, I’m afraid. You remember what a dear little boy -he was?” - -Quentillian remembered better still what a tiresome little boy Adrian -had been, but this recollection, as so many others connected with the -house of Morchard, he did not insist upon. - -“I suppose he must have his Olga if he wants to, but I hope she’s a -nice girl. You know how very particular Father is, and I think he’s -especially sensitive where Adrian is concerned.” - -“It struck me that perhaps he was almost inclined to take Adrian’s -affairs too seriously,” Quentillian suggested, with great moderation. -“Adrian, after all, is very young, isn’t he, both in years and in -character, in spite of his soldiering?” - -“I suppose he is. He’s very susceptible, too. I sometimes think that -Father doesn’t altogether make allowance for that.” - -Even the very negative criticism implied was so contrary to the -spirit of the house that it gave Quentillian the agreeable illusion -of partnering Valeria in a mild domestic conspiracy, and pleased him -inordinately. - -The sense of conspiracy was deepened on the day of the tennis party, -when a Miss Admaston, gawky and unimpressive, duly escorted Miss Olga -Duffle to St. Gwenllian. - -She was less pretty, and possessed of more personality, than -Quentillian had expected. Very small and slight, her face was of the -squirrel type, her eyes very large and dark, her black _crêpe_ hair -brushed childishly away from her little round forehead, her nose -unmistakably _retroussé_. Two very white front teeth were just visible, -resting upon an habitually indrawn under-lip. - -Quentillian, quite irrationally, immediately felt certain that she -spoke with a lisp. She did not, but she certainly pronounced the name -of Captain George Cuscaden, with whom she appeared to be upon intimate -terms, as though it were spelt “Dzorze.” - -She also called Adrian by his first name, but gave no other startling -signs of modernity. Indeed, a very pretty, and most unmodern, deference -marked her manner towards Canon Morchard. - -“Father likes her,” Valeria murmured to Quentillian, who was more -concerned with her charming air of imparting to him a secret than with -Miss Duffle’s conquest of the Canon. - -It was only at tea-time that the Canon joined the tennis party. -Immediately afterwards he made courteous apologies and returned to the -house. - -It was undeniable that the absence of the Canon caused the -conversation, which had circled uneasily round cathedral subjects, to -lapse into triviality. The super-critical Quentillian could not decide -which form of social intercourse he found least to his taste. - -“Jam?” said Adrian. - -The Canon had said, a few minutes earlier: - -“You must try some of our strawberry jam, Miss Duffle. My daughter -Flora is responsible for it, I believe. Lucilla there is our -housekeeper, but I am given to understand that her younger sisters are -allowed to try experiments. I will not quote: _Fiat experimentum._” - -“Jam?” repeated Adrian. - -“Oh, there’s a wasp in the jam! Oh, save me!” - -Olga laughed as she uttered little cries of alarm, and her laughter -really suggested the adjective “merry.” - -“Save the women and children!” - -There was much ineffectual slapping of teaspoons against the air, the -tablecloth, the jam pot, and many exclamations. - -“Yonder he goes! Passed to you for necessary action, Miss Admaston!” - -“Be a man, Cuscaden; he’s right under your nose.” - -“Dzorze, do be careful--you’ll get stung!” Olga cried across the table. - -Captain Cuscaden neatly captured the wasp beneath an empty plate. - -“That’s got him. He’ll never lift up his head again.” - -“Oh, then may I have my jam?” - -Olga, with her head on one side, might have been imitating a little -girl, but Quentillian could not decide whether or no the imitation was -an unconscious one. - -“The wasp has eaten all the jam,” Adrian rejoined in the same tone as -Olga’s. - -“Oh! he hasn’t eaten all of it.” - -“No, he hasn’t eaten it all.” - -“Oh! the wasp didn’t eat all the jam, did he?” - -“Not quite all.” - -“There are still a few spoonfuls left that the wasp didn’t eat, Miss -Duffle.” - -Neither Olga, Adrian, Captain Cuscaden, Flora nor Miss Admaston -appeared to regard themselves as being amongst the extremest examples -of brainless fatuity produced by a fatuous century. Yet thus it was -that Owen Quentillian was regarding them, whilst at the same time -another section of his brain passionlessly registered the conviction -that his nerves were still on edge and his tendency to irrational -irritability passing almost beyond his own control. - -After tea he remained idly in a long chair beside Valeria, while they -watched Olga’s little nimble figure on the tennis court, where Adrian -was her partner. Lucilla played against them with George Cuscaden, and -Olga several times called out gaily: “Dzorze, I hate you!” - -When Lucilla sent an unplayable stroke across the net, she only cried: -“Oh, well played!” - -“I don’t like her voice, do you?” Val murmured confidentially. - -“Hideous,” said Quentillian, briefly and candidly. - -“I wonder if Adrian thinks he’s in earnest. Of course, I don’t suppose -she’d look at him. And of course he couldn’t think of marrying anybody -for ages. He’s too young, and he’d have to get a job.” - -“He’ll have to do that anyway, won’t he? He says he doesn’t dislike the -idea of business, and I could give him an introduction to a man who -might be useful.” - -“It’s very kind of you. I know Father wants to get him settled. Dear -Father, he was so disappointed that Adrian isn’t going into the Church -after all, and he’s taken it so beautifully.” - -Quentillian regarded the Canon’s disappointment with so much more -astonishment than sympathy that he wished only to avoid a discussion on -the beauty of its manifestation. - -“Curiously enough, I have a living in my gift, belonging to my very -small property at Stear. The old man there wishes to retire, and I want -to consult your father as to a new appointment. No one could be less -fitted than myself,” said Quentillian with an emphasis not altogether -devoid of satisfaction, “to nominate a candidate for that sort of -thing.” - -Val looked at him with all her peculiar directness of gaze. - -“Sometimes you talk as though you rather despised the Church,” she said -bluntly. - -There was a pause. - -“If I have given you such an impression, I must apologize. It was most -discourteous of me,” said Quentillian stiffly. - -He was fully prepared to acknowledge and to defend his own purely -rationalistic views, but the implication of a lack of taste in his -behaviour as guest in an orthodox household offended him. - -“I didn’t mean that,” said Val, calmly and gravely. “I know that a -great many very clever people are not believers in the sense that my -father is one, for instance; but they do respect the Christian ideal, -all the same. I only wondered whether you were one of them. Do you mind -my talking like this?” - -The relentless voice of Quentillian’s inner monitor assured him that -he was, on the contrary, ready to welcome any intimate discussion of -himself and his views, on whatever subject. - -Val looked at him expectantly. - -“Where I differ from, for instance, your father, is in separating -Christian morality from what might be called the miraculous element of -Christianity. Frankly, I can’t accept the latter.” - -“You don’t believe in the divinity of Christ?” - -Her voice was a very much shocked one, and Quentillian replied only by -a gesture. Val kept silence, and presently he glanced at her face and -saw that tears stood in her eyes. - -He was half touched and half impatient. - -“Surely that point of view isn’t altogether a new one to you. You -must know that the trend of modern thought is all very much in that -direction.” - -“I suppose I knew it, certainly. But it has never come very near me -before. Father has sheltered us from everything, in the most beautiful -way.” - -She spoke very simply and sincerely. - -The time-honoured _cliché_ as to never wishing to deprive anyone of his -or her faith--Valeria least of all--hung unspoken on his lips. - -If the spiritual intimacy of which Owen Quentillian was beginning -to dream should come to pass between them, he was quite clearly and -definitely convinced that Valeria’s early beliefs must go. - -“Have you really never felt any doubt at all--any inclination to -question?” - -Valeria looked troubled. - -“I suppose I’ve never thought it out very clearly. One doesn’t, you -know, brought up as we were.” - -Her eyes were full of thought. - -“Tell me,” said Quentillian gently, after a silence. - -“I was hoping,” said Val, with innocent eyes turned full upon him, -“that Father would never know about you. It would make him so unhappy.” - - -(iv) - -Val, in accordance with time-honoured tradition, nightly brushed out -her long brown hair in her sister Flora’s bedroom. - -They talked desultorily. - -“Choir practice tomorrow. I wish we could have Plain Chant instead of -those things....” - -“Father doesn’t care for Plain Chant.” - -“I know.” - -“Give me a piece of ribbon, Flossie. I’ve lost all mine.” - -“Val--here, will blue do?--Val, do you think Owen is falling in love -with you?” - -“I don’t know. Well, to be honest, I think he is.” - -“So do I.” - -“That’s Lucilla going up to bed. How early they are tonight.” - -They heard the Canon’s voice upon the stairs outside. - -“Good-night to you, my dear daughter. May God have you in His keeping!” - -Then came a gentle tap upon the bedroom door. - -“Not _too_ prolonged a conference, little girls! I have sent Lucilla to -seek her bed.” - -“Good-night, father,” they chorused. - -“Good-night to you, my dear children. Good-night, and may God bless -you.” - -“Father would be pleased.” - -Flora reverted, unmistakably, to the topic of Owen Quentillian. - -“I suppose so,” said Val doubtfully. - -“But you know he would! He is delighted with Owen, and it would be so -close to us--only an hour’s journey. I think it would be very nice, -Val,” said Flora wistfully, “and it’s time one of us got married. -Lucilla won’t, now, and nobody ever asks me, so it had better be you.” - -They both laughed. - -“Nobody has ever asked _me_, except that curate we had before Mr. -Clover, and I always thought he was more or less weak-minded,” Valeria -remarked candidly. - -“They may not have asked you, but they’ve wanted to,” said Flora -shrewdly. “Don’t answer if you’d rather not, but didn’t Captain -Cuscaden ever...?” - -Val crimsoned suddenly. - -“No. That was all nonsense. I believe he’s in love with that Olga girl.” - -“After you? Oh, Val!” - -“I don’t suppose it was ever me at all,” said Val with averted head. -“I can’t think why we’ve ever imagined such nonsense. Anyway, it’s all -over now, and I--I think I rather hate him, now.” - -“Oh!” Flora’s tone was both highly dissatisfied and rather incredulous. - -“One can’t hate a person and--and like them, at one and the same time,” -Valeria exclaimed, with all the vehemence of those who affirm that of -which they are not convinced. - -“I suppose not. See if you can untie me, Val--I’ve got into a knot.” - -There was silence, and then Valeria, without looking at her sister, -suddenly said: - -“Sometimes I wish we’d been brought up more like other people, Flossie. -I know Father’s care for us has been beautiful--dear Father!--but -somehow the girls I was with in France seemed more alive, in a way. -They knew about things....” - -“Isn’t that rather like Eve wanting the knowledge of good and -evil? Father always says that one should only seek the beautiful -side--‘whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are holy,’ like -St. Paul says.” - -“Owen wouldn’t agree to that. He believes that one ought to know -everything, good and bad alike.” - -“Perhaps it’s different for a man.” - -“Perhaps. We don’t know much about men, after all, do we, Flossie?” - -Flossie raised her eyebrows with an indescribable effect of fastidious -distaste, and closed her lips. - -“I don’t think I want to, particularly. Father is the most wonderful -man that anyone could ever want to know, I should imagine.” - -“Oh, yes,” said Valeria. - -She was perfectly conscious of speaking anything but whole-heartedly. - -She did indeed think her father wonderful, but she could not, like -Flora, feel herself to be forever satisfied by the contemplation of -parental wonderfulness. - -“You’re different since you came back from France, Val. I think you’d -better marry Owen,” said Flora calmly. - -“He hasn’t asked me, yet.” - -There was a sound from the floor below. - -“That was Father! He hates us to sit up late. I’d better go before he -comes up again. Good-night, Flossie.” - -“Good-night.” - -Flora looked at her sister, and once more murmured: “Father would like -it, you know,” half pleadingly and half as though in rebuke. - -“Father doesn’t know everything about Owen. He has been very much -affected by the tone of the day, as Father calls it. His faith....” - -“Oh, Val! Isn’t that one reason the more? You might do so much to help -him.” - -Flora spoke with humourless and absolute earnestness. - -“Valeria!” - -The Canon’s voice, subdued but distinct, came to them from without. - -“My dear, go to your room. This is not right. You are acting in -defiance of my known wishes, although, no doubt, thoughtlessly. Bid -your sister good-night and go.” - -Val did not even wait to carry out the first half of the Canon’s -injunction. She caught up her brush and comb and left the room. - -“Are my wishes so little to you, Valeria?” said her father, standing on -the stairs. “It costs so small an act of self-sacrifice to be faithful -in that which is least!” - -“I’m sorry, Father. We both forgot the time.” - -“Thoughtless Valeria! Are you always to be my madcap daughter?” - -His tone was very fond, and he kissed her and blessed her once more. - -Valeria went to her own room. - -She sat upon the side of her bed and cried a little. - -Everything seemed to be vaguely disappointing and unsatisfactory. What -if Owen Quentillian was in love with her? He was very clever, and Val -was tired of cleverness. Father was clever--even Flora, in her austere, -musical way, was clever. Val supposed grimly that she herself must be -clever, if imposed intellectual interests, a wide range of reading, a -habit of abstract discussion, could make her so. Nevertheless she was -guiltily conscious of desires within herself other than purely academic -ones. - -Flora was right. Those six months in France had made her different. - -She had worked in a canteen, where the preoccupation of everyone had -been the procuring and dispensing of primitive things--food, and drink, -and warmth. Women had worked with their hands for men who had been -fighting, and were going to fight again. - -Valeria had been the quickest worker there, one of the most efficient. -The manual work, the close contact with material things, had satisfied -some craving within herself of which she had not before been actively -conscious. - -She had learnt to cook and had become proficient with astonishing ease. -Scrambled eggs interested her more than herbaceous borders, more than -choir practises, more, to her own surprise and shame, than evening -readings-aloud at home. - -The canteen jokes, elementary, beer-and-tobacco-flavoured, had amused -her whole-heartedly. She had laughed, foolishly and mirthfully, for -sheer enjoyment, knowing all the time that, judged by the criterion of -St. Gwenllian, the jests were pointless, the wit undeserving of the -name. - -Very soon she had ceased to dwell upon any remembrance of the criterion -of St. Gwenllian. She had let herself go. - -There had been brief, giggling intimacies with girls and young women -whom Valeria could certainly not visualize as intimates in her own -home, allusions and catchwords shared with the men or the orderlies, -childish, undignified escapades which she was aware that the Canon -would have regarded and apostrophised as vulgar. Those days now seemed -like a dream. - -Even the girl with whom she had shared a room for six months no longer -wrote to her. - -She, the bobbed-haired, twenty-two-year-old Pollie Gordon, had had -love-affairs. Valeria remembered certain confidences made by Pollie, -and still blushed. Pollie had been strangely outspoken, to Miss -Morchard’s way of thinking, but she had been interesting--revealing -even. - -Valeria ruefully realized perfectly that Pollie Gordon, whether one’s -taste approved of her or not, had lived every moment of her short life -to the full. She was acutely aware of contrast. - -“And I’m twenty-seven!” thought Val. “I’d better go and be a cook -somewhere. If only I could! Or marry Owen--supposing he asks me. -Anyway, one might have children.” - -A humourous wonder crossed her mind as to her ability to cope with the -intelligent, eclectically-minded children that Owen Quentillian might -be expected to father. - -“It’s a pity he isn’t poor. I believe I should be better as a poor -man’s wife, having to do everything for him, and for the babies, if -there were babies.... The Colonies, for instance....” - -Although she was alone, Val coloured again and tears stood in her eyes. - -“What a fool I am!” - -It was this painfully sincere conviction that sent her to seek the -oblivion of sleep, rather than any recollection of the fidelity in -that which is least, enjoined upon her by her father. - -For the next few days Valeria was zealous in gardening and tennis -playing. She also, on two occasions, fetched volumes of Lamartine and -asked her father to read aloud after dinner. - -Her physical exertions sent her to bed tired out, and made her sleep -soundly. - -It surprised her very much when Lucilla, who never made personal -remarks, said to her: - -“Why don’t you go away for a time, Val? You don’t look well.” - -“I’m perfectly all right. I only wish I had rather more to do, -sometimes.” - -Valeria looked at her elder sister. She was less intimate with her -than with Flora. No one, in fact, was intimate with Lucilla. She spoke -seldom, and almost always impersonally. At least, one knew that she was -discreet.... - -Val, on impulse, spoke. - -“Do you suppose--don’t be horrified, Lucilla--do you suppose Father -would ever think of letting me go away and work?” - -Lucilla gave no sign of being horrified. - -She appeared to weigh her answer before she replied. - -“I don’t think it would occur to him, of his own accord.” - -“Oh, no. But if one asked him? Would it make him dreadfully unhappy?” - -“Yes,” said Lucilla matter-of-factly. - -Valeria, disappointed and rather angry, shrugged her shoulders. - -“Then, of course, that puts an end to the whole thing.” - -Lucilla finished stamping a small pile of the Canon’s letters, laid -them on the table, and placed a paper-weight upon the heap before -turning round to face her sister. - -“But why, Val?” - -“Why what?” - -“Why need it put an end to the whole thing? You know as well as I do -that it would make Father unhappy for any one of us to suggest leaving -home. But if you really mean to do it, you must make up your mind to -his being unhappy about it.” - -“Lucilla!” - -Lucilla did not elaborate her astounding theses, but her gaze, -sustained and level, met Valeria’s astonished eyes calmly. - -“You don’t suppose I’m as hideously selfish as that, do you?” - -“I don’t know what you are. But you’ve a right to your own life.” - -“Not at anyone else’s expense.” - -Lucilla began to stamp postcards. - -“Lucilla, you didn’t mean that, did you?” - -“Of course I did, Val.” - -“That I should hurt _Father_, and go away just to satisfy my own -restlessness, knowing that he disapproved and was unhappy? I should -never know a moment’s peace again.” - -“Well, if you feel like that, I suppose you won’t do it.” - -“Wouldn’t you feel like that, in my place?” - -“No, I shouldn’t; but that’s neither here nor there. It’s for you to -decide whether a practical consideration or a sentimental one weighs -most in your own particular case.” - -“Sentimental?” - -Val’s indignant tone gave the word its least agreeable meaning. - -“It is a question of sentiment, isn’t it? Father likes to have you at -home, but he’s not dependent upon you in any way.” - -“But wouldn’t he say that my place was at home--that it was only -restlessness and love of independence...?” Valeria stammered. - -She suddenly felt very young beneath the remote, passionless gaze of -her sister. For the first time in her life she saw Lucilla as a human -being and not as an elder sister, and she was struck with Lucilla’s -strange effect of spiritual aloofness. It would be very easy to speak -freely to anyone so impersonal as Lucilla. - -“It’s ever since I got back from France,” said Val suddenly. “I -don’t know what’s the matter with me, exactly, but I’ve ... wanted -things. I’ve wanted to work quite hard, at things like cooking, or -sweeping--and I’ve been sick of books, and music, and botany. I don’t -feel any of it is one scrap worth while. And, oh, Lucilla, it’s such -nonsense, because no one wants me to cook or sweep, so I’m just -‘seeking vocations to which I am not called,’ as Father always says. -Perhaps it’s just that I want change.” - -Lucilla was silent. - -“Do say what you think,” Val besought her with some impatience. - -“I will if you like, but it isn’t really what I think, or what Father -thinks, that matters. It’s what you think yourself.” - -Valeria stamped her foot. - -“I don’t _know_ what I think.” - -“Better go away,” Lucilla then said briefly. - -“Work?” - -“Yes, if that’s what you feel like. Of course, marriage would be -better.” - -“Lucilla.” - -“You asked me to say what I thought,” her sister pointed out. - -“I suppose you mean Owen Quentillian,” Val said at last. “But even -if I did that--and he hasn’t asked me to, so far--it would only -mean just the same sort of thing, only in another house. There’d be -servants to do the real work, and a gardener to do the garden, and a -nurse for the babies, if there were babies. Owen talks about farming -Stear, but he’d do it all out of books, I feel certain. We should be -frightfully--frightfully civilized.” - -“Owen _is_ frightfully civilized.” - -“Well, I don’t think I am,” said Val contentiously. - -“Lucilla, do you like Owen?” - -“Yes. I’m very sorry for him, too.” - -“Why?” Valeria could not believe that Owen would be in the least -grateful for Lucilla’s sorrow. It might even be difficult to induce him -to believe that anyone could be sufficiently officious to indulge in -such an emotion on his behalf. - -“I think his shell-shock has affected him much more than he realizes,” -Lucilla said. “I think his nerves are on edge, very often. He’d be a -difficult person to live with, Val.” - -Valeria remained thoughtful. - -She knew that Lucilla’s judgments, if rarely put into words, were -extraordinarily clear-cut and definite, and as such they carried -conviction to her own intuitive, emotional impulses of like and dislike. - -“Father likes Owen so much. Wouldn’t he be pleased if one ever did?” -Val said elliptically. - -“Very pleased, I should think.” - -“Of course, that isn’t really a reason for doing it.” - -Lucilla apparently found the wisdom of her sister’s observation too -obvious for reply. - -“Not the only reason, anyway.” - -Lucilla’s silence was again an assent. - -“Gossiping in the morning, my daughters?” - -The Canon’s deep, pleasant voice preceded him as he paused outside the -open window. - -“Is that as it should be? Lucilla, my dear love, at your desk again? -You look pale--you should be in the open air. Is not the day a glorious -one? When this world about us is so unutterably fair, does it not make -one think of ‘eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither hath it entered -into the heart of man to conceive, what things He hath prepared for -them that love him’?” - -The Canon’s uplifted gaze was as joyful as it was earnest. - -“Heaven seems very near, on such a day,” he said softly. - -Val, always outspoken, and struggling with the unease of her own -discontent, joined him at the window and said wistfully: - -“I can’t feel it like you do, Father. I wish I could.” - -“Little Valeria! It will come, my dear; it will all come. These things -become more real and vivid to us as life goes on. So many of those I -love have gone to swell the ranks of the Church Triumphant, now--such -a goodly company of friends! How can I feel it to be a strange or -far-away country, when your mother awaits me there, and my own dear -father and mother, and such a host of friends? What a meeting that will -be, with no shadow of parting any more!” - -Valeria was conscious of foolish, utterly unexplained tears, rising to -her throat at the tender, trustful voice in which her father spoke. - -How she loved him! Never could she do anything that would hurt -or disappoint him. The resolution, impulsive and emotional, gave -her a certain sense of stability, welcome after all her chaotic -self-questionings and contradictory determinations. - -“Will you give Owen and myself the pleasure of your company this -afternoon, Valeria? We meditate an expedition to Stear--an expedition -to Stear.” - -She said that she would go with them. - -None of the Canon’s children had ever refused an invitation to go out -with the Canon since the days when the Sunday afternoons of their -childhood had been marked by the recurrent honour of a walk with -Father. An honour and a pleasure, even if rather a breathless one, -and one that moreover was occasionally liable to end in shattering -disaster, as when Flora had been sent home in disgrace by herself for -the misguided sense of humour that had led her, aged five, to put out -her tongue at the curate. Or that other unforgettable episode when Val -herself, teased by the boys, had vigorously boxed Adrian’s ears. - -She smiled as she recollected it, and wondered if Owen remembered too, -and yet there was a sort of disloyalty in recalling the affair too -closely. - -The Canon had been so _very_ angry! His anger, as intense as it was -memorable, had been succeeded by such a prolonged period of the -blackest depression! - -Val realized thankfully that it was a long time since any of them had -seen the Canon angry. - -She turned aimlessly down the garden. - -The Canon had already gone indoors. He was never other than occupied, -and Valeria had never seen him impatient of an interruption. - -“The man who wants me is the man I want,” the Canon sometimes quoted, -with his wonderfully attractive smile. - -“Father _is_ wonderful. _Never_ could I disappoint or grieve him,” -thought Val vehemently. - -She suddenly wheeled round and returned to the open window, determined -that Lucilla, the astonishing Lucilla, should know of her resolution. - -“You know what we were talking about just now?” she demanded abruptly. - -Lucilla looked up. - -“I’ve quite made up my mind that your advice was wrong,” said Val -firmly. “I know you said what you thought was best, and it’s nice of -you to want me to be independent, but, after all, one’s duty comes -first. I don’t believe it’s my duty to dash away from home and make -Father unhappy.” - -Lucilla looked down again. - -“Of course, if anything happened _of itself_ to make me leave home, it -would be quite different. If I married, or anything like that. But just -to go away for a purely selfish whim----” - -She paused expressively. - -“I couldn’t do it, you know.” - -“Well--” Lucilla’s tone conceded, apparently, that Val had every right -to judge for herself. Further than that, it did not go. - -“Lucilla, if you really think like that, about living one’s own life, -and I suppose from the aggravating way in which you won’t say anything, -that you do--why don’t you do it yourself?” - -“But I haven’t any wish to,” said Lucilla, looking surprised. - -“Haven’t you ever had any wish to?” - -“Oh, yes, once. But not now.” - -“Then why didn’t you?” Val pursued desperately. She felt as though she -was coming really to know her sister for the first time. - -“I suppose because I thought, like you, that it wouldn’t do to leave -Father.” - -“But you don’t think that any more?” - -“No.” - -“Did anyone advise you?” - -“Oh, no. There wasn’t anything to advise about. One has to think things -out for oneself, after all.” - -“Oh!” Val was conscious of her own perpetual craving for approval from -everyone, for any course that she might adopt. - -“Did you ever ask anyone’s advice, Lucilla?” - -“I don’t think so. If I did, it would be because I meant to take it, -and I can’t imagine wanting to let anyone else decide things for me. -Just talking about one’s own affairs isn’t taking advice, though people -like to call it so.” - -“I think it’s a very good thing you’re not married,” said Val crossly. -“You’re too superior.” - -“Perhaps that’s why no one has ever asked me,” said Miss Morchard with -calm. - -Valeria, in spite of her momentary elevation of spirits in resolving -never to grieve her father, prepared for the visit to Stear in a -discontented frame of mind. - -At the last moment Adrian suddenly announced a wish to accompany them. - -“My dear! But of course--” The Canon’s pleasure was very evident. -“Owen, you will welcome this lad of mine as part of our little -excursion, eh? Why not make one of the old-time family parties? Why not -let us all go and explore this future home of Owen’s? It’s not very -often that I have a free afternoon nowadays--and to have all my dear -ones to make holiday with me would be indeed a rare joy.” - -He looked round him expectantly. - -“The caretaker won’t be able to manage tea for so many,” said Lucilla, -looking at Quentillian. - -“There speaks my practical housekeeper! - - For though on pleasure she was bent, - She had a frugal mind. - -“Eh, Lucilla? Could you not contrive a basket for us, my dear, picnic -fashion? Come, come, let’s have an impromptu picnic. What say you, -young people?” - -They said what the Canon wanted them to say. No one, Val felt, could -have done otherwise, in the face of his eagerness. She was partly -disappointed, and partly relieved. There had been a certain romance in -going with Owen to see Owen’s home, with the barely acknowledged wonder -whether it might not one day also be hers. - -But there was no hint of romance in the solidly packed basket presently -produced by Lucilla, and reluctantly carried by Adrian, nor in Flora’s -tardiness that nearly caused them to miss the train, nor in her -Father’s gentle, humourously worded rebuke to her. - - -(v) - -If Valeria was slightly discomposed by the tribal nature of the -expedition to Stear, Quentillian was seriously annoyed by it. He had -figured to himself a grave and gentle readjustment of values, when he -should see the place that he had known since boyhood transformed into a -setting for the figure of Valeria. - -He did not suppose himself to be tempestuously in love, but he had made -up his mind that he greatly wished to marry Valeria. - -A wistful uncertainty possessed him as to whether Valeria would wish to -marry him. - -Stear looked forlorn and uninhabited, and the repairs were even less -advanced than Quentillian had expected them to be. - -He reflected that he ought to be upon the spot, and shuddered -involuntarily, and to his disgust, at the lonely prospect. - -Since his shell-shock, he had very often been afraid of his own -company, and the knowledge was peculiarly galling to him. - -“Your lines have fallen to you in pleasant places, Owen,” said the -Canon genially. - -“You are optimistic, sir,” said Quentillian rather dryly. “It will be -months before these men are out of the place.” - -“You should move in yourself,” Lucilla suggested. - -“I believe I should.” - -“Thoughtless Lucilla! Why should Owen leave his present quarters, if -he is happy with us, as I trust he is? Aye, dear Owen, you are very -welcome at St. Gwenllian whilst your own nest is being prepared for -you.” - -The Canon’s ready hand sought Quentillian’s arm. - -Owen glanced at Lucilla half apologetically, but her gaze, impervious -to subtleties, and mildly cheerful, met his very readily. - -“Please stay on with us, if you should care to.” - -“Thank you,” said Quentillian non-committally. - -Later, at the Canon’s suggestion, he took them to visit the church. - -“You will one day have the responsibility of finding a new shepherd for -the flock here, I understand, Owen.” - -“I shall hope for some advice from you, sir.” - -“Aye, indeed? It’s a very good living, is it not? Though that is very -far from being the first consideration--very far, indeed.” - -“What’s it worth?” Adrian inquired. - -“I believe it’s considered worth about £700 a year.” - -“A job for a married man,” said Adrian casually. - -An involuntary flash of amused comprehension passed between Quentillian -and Valeria. He understood it to be in reference to this when she said -to him in a low voice on leaving the church: - -“I don’t think Olga Duffle would make a clergyman’s wife, do you?” - -“I should doubt it.” - -“But Adrian couldn’t really be thinking of it.” - -“I thought he’d decided against the Church.” - -“So he has. I think it was one of the greatest disappointments Father -has ever had.” - -“Your father would only have wished it if Adrian had wished it.” - -“Oh, yes,” said Val emphatically. “Naturally, he looks upon it as a -question of vocation. Father is the last person to ignore that.” - -She hesitated, and then said: “Owen, do you believe that everyone has a -vocation?” - -The question, to him so oddly reminiscent of the perplexities of a -bygone age, nearly made him laugh, but his amusement was wholly tender. - -“I don’t believe in a special vocation straight from Heaven for each -one of us,” he admitted. “You know, I never can believe that Heaven -takes that acute personal interest in individuals that religious people -always emphasize when they’re talking about themselves. But, of course, -there are certain lines of development----” - -“I think,” Val said seriously, “that I should like to feel I had -a definite job in life, that no one but myself could do. I feel -so--indefinite.” - -“I believe I might enlighten you on that subject,” Owen replied in -measured accents. - -“I don’t mean Sales of Work or a botanical collection, Owen.” - -“I know you don’t. The sales of work and the collections were never a -means of self-expression, were they?” - -“They did stand for something, though.” - -“For your wish to please somebody else?” - -“The wish is still there, Owen.” - -“Val, you know I think self-abnegation is all wrong.” - -He was half laughing, but the flushed face that she turned towards him -was altogether earnest. - -“Don’t think me arrogant, Val, but I do so wish I could make you see -it as I do. Don’t you see that the Christian ideal of self-sacrifice -was only the swing of the pendulum, from the brutal old days when men -rejoiced in seeing their fellow-creatures tortured and killed? Feelings -had to be developed, and so the Sermon on the Mount was preached. The -pendulum has swung too far the other way now--charity has come to mean -self-advertisement or sentimentality.” - -Quentillian, deeply interested in his own exposition of views that were -by no means new to him, was brought up short by a call from behind him. - -“Hi, Owen! Are you walking for a wager? I want to ask you something.” - -Quentillian, not at all disposed to welcome Adrian and his -interrogations, was obliged to slacken his steps as Valeria did hers. - -Adrian was swishing at the long grasses on either side of the road with -a slender length of ash. - -“Look here, old man, have you got anybody in your eye for that living?” - -Adrian’s head was studiously turned towards his depredations with the -ash-stick. - -“Because if you haven’t--not that it matters to me, particularly, you -understand, but I’ve got a friend, who might be the man you want.” - -“Who is he?” - -“I should have to sound him first,” Adrian explained. “I suppose you’d -want a youngish fellow and--and I suppose you’d rather he was married?” - -“Not in the least.” - -Adrian looked disturbed. - -“I thought a parson’s wife was useful in a large, straggling sort of -place like this. Not that it matters to me.” - -“Is your friend married, Adrian?” Val enquired. - -Quentillian could not decide whether the simplicity of her manner was -ironical or no. - -“He isn’t married at present. I think he’s engaged. You see, a living -like this would justify a man in getting married, wouldn’t it?” - -“It would depend on the sort of person he wished to marry.” - -“Supposing she had a little money of her own?” - -“The sort of girls who marry clergymen never do have money of their -own,” said Quentillian, firmly. - -On this discouraging pronouncement, they were rejoined by the rest of -the party. - -Nevertheless Valeria contrived to enquire of Quentillian, in a -disturbed murmur: - -“What _can_ Adrian be thinking of?” - -It was not at all difficult to guess what Adrian could be thinking of, -and became still less so as the days slipped by and his infatuation for -Miss Olga Duffle led to her inclusion in innumerable games of tennis -and impromptu tea-parties at St. Gwenllian. - -“What can he _see_ in her?” Valeria demanded, after the fashion of -sisters. - -Quentillian was unable to provide any adequate explanation of the -phenomenon, but he was fully prepared to discuss it, and prolong -thereby the sense of intimacy with Valeria. - -It seemed to Quentillian that a new, slight, tinge of gravity shadowed -Valeria’s frankness. - -With all the logic and consistency of most persons so situated, -Quentillian alternately viewed this as being hopeful or unhopeful, in -the extreme, for the fulfilment of his wishes. - -He was slightly amused at finding himself in the extremely conventional -position in which he had so often viewed, with dispassionate distaste, -the spectacle presented by other men, and this amusement was not -without its share in determining him to submit his proposal to Valeria -in writing. - -A tendency, real, or fancied by Quentillian’s self-consciousness, on -the parts of Flora and Adrian at least, to vacate any room in which -he and Valeria might be, upon excuses of a shadow-like transparency, -finally brought Quentillian to the point of leaving St. Gwenllian, -under promise of an early return. - -“You must come back, to us, dear Owen--you must come back,” the Canon -repeated. “I want many a talk with you yet, and Adrian here will miss -the evening confabulations in the smoking-room--eh, Adrian? Stear will -hardly be ready for you yet awhile, to our advantage be it spoken, so -you must make your home with us in the meanwhile. Come and go quite -freely, dear lad.” - -“Thank you very much.” - -Quentillian felt that he had already said these words all too often, -and conscientiously sought to vary the formula. - -“It’s been a delightful time altogether, and I’m more than grateful. -It’s been wonderful to get such a kind welcome after these years -abroad.” - -“Ah, dear fellow!” - -The Canon’s fine face softened as he laid his arm across the younger -man’s shoulders. - -“Never doubt your welcome here, Owen,” he said. - -Owen suspected significance in the words, and then derided himself. - -Whatever his certainties as regarded the Canon, it was with Valeria -that Quentillian was concerned, and he could augur nothing from her -frank and cordial regret at his departure. - -“I shall write to you, Val.” - -“Yes, do. And I’ll tell you what happens with Adrian and that Olga.” - -“I hope nothing will happen.” - -“Oh, no--but it’s amusing.” - -She did not look amused. Something of her ripe-apricot bloom had -faded, and there were shadows beneath her brown eyes. Before he left -St. Gwenllian, Owen said rather earnestly to Lucilla that he thought -Valeria looked tired. - -“So do I.” - -“Is she ill?” - -“I don’t think so.” - -“I should hate to think of her being ill.” - -“I don’t think she’s ill, Owen.” - -Lucilla evidently accepted his solicitude as a natural thing. - -“I’ve always thought that Val needed a greater outlet for her energies -than she gets here. She’s very strong, really, and she did splendidly -in France when she was working so hard at her Canteen. I wish she could -go away and work again.” - -“Really?” - -“Don’t you think so yourself?” - -“Perhaps--if she wished it very much. There are other things besides -work, though,” said Owen Quentillian. - -“Well--” Lucilla’s favourite monosyllable held, as usual, a sound of -concession. - -“Couldn’t one do anything for her--take care of her, somehow?” - -“I will order a cup of beef-tea for her at eleven o’clock,” said -Lucilla with seriousness, but with amusement lurking in her eyes. - -They parted upon a mutual smile of excellent understanding. - -Quentillian thought that he liked Lucilla, with her impersonal calm, -and her unquestioning acceptances. - -He wrote to Valeria from London, letters that he felt to be -self-conscious, and received uneloquent replies. He had left St. -Gwenllian a fortnight when he finally composed an epistle that left him -a little--a very little--less than profoundly dissatisfied with his own -powers of composition. He received her reply by return of post. - - “Owen, dear, I’ve got your letter. I can’t answer it in the way I - should like to, making you understand everything that I mean. But do - understand first of all that your thinking of me like that makes me - very proud, and I wish I was more worth it all. - - “I’m glad you loved someone else before, and thank you for telling - me. The reason I’m glad is because I used to like someone very - much myself once, but it wasn’t like yours, it was only my own - foolishness, and never came to anything. But I think perhaps it’s - prevented my falling really in love, because, dear Owen, I am not in - love with you. If I married you, it would be because you are, as you - say, very lonely, and because I am very, very fond of you, and also - perhaps, a little, because it would make Father so happy. But none of - those reasons are _the_ real, true reason for marrying, are they? - - “We have known one another so long, and understand one another. Can’t - we discuss it honestly together, before settling anything? Either - way, we are always friends, so I will sign myself your friend. - - “VALERIA MORCHARD.” - -Quentillian read the letter with a strange mingling of disappointment, -relief, and mortification. - -Nevertheless it was in all sincerity that he wrote to Val of his -admiration for her candour. - -“You and I are moderns, my dear. Let us, as you wish, discuss the -future impersonally, but let me first of all say that when--or if--ever -you should come to the decision which I want you to come to, then so -far as I am concerned, philosophical discussion will go for nothing. -I shall wait for your sign, Val, and if it comes, there shall be no -more pen and ink between us, but a meeting for which I long with all my -heart.” - -“Academic,” said Owen’s inner monitor, relentless as ever. - -He posted his letter in spite of it. - -It was with relief, and yet with a happiness less defined than he had -expected it to be, that Quentillian found himself engaged to Valeria. - -He regretted his own absence of ardour, and was all the time aware of a -faint, lurking gratification at having so early outlived the illusions -of passionate emotion. - -He returned to St. Gwenllian. - -This time it was Valeria who met him. Something in the simplicity with -which she accepted their new relationship touched him profoundly, and -rendered of no account his own temperamental subtleties. - -It was with a deepening sense of sincerity that Quentillian said to her: - -“You have made me very happy, dearest.” - -“I’m glad, Owen. I’m happy too.” - -Her hand lay trustfully in his. - -“They want to see you so much, at home, Owen. I’ve told them. They’re -all so pleased.” - -It evidently added to Valeria’s content, that it should be so. - -“You know that Father has always really looked upon you as another son, -even in the days when you and I got into trouble for playing at Greek -sacrificial processions with the guinea pigs on silver salvers.” - -They laughed together at the recollection. - -The Canon had not been hard upon the classically-minded delinquents. - -Quentillian believed himself to have realized fully the adjuncts, -necessary and fitting in the eyes of the Morchard family, but to -himself distasteful in the extreme, of his engagement to Valeria. - -He was prepared for conventional congratulations, for the abhorrent -necessity of discussing his personal affairs, for an emotional absence -of reticence that would differ as widely from his own impersonal, -dissecting-room outspokenness as would the Canon’s effusive periods -from Quentillian’s cultivated terseness of expression. - -Nevertheless, he was less well-armoured, or more severely tried, than -he had expected to be. - -Canon Morchard seemed to shower welcome, blessings, congratulations -upon him. He said: - -“Dear lad, you and I must have a long talk together, at no distant -date.” - -They had many. - -It seemed to Quentillian that he saw more of the Canon than of Valeria, -in the days that ensued. - -“Val, when will you marry me? I’m quite selfish enough to want you -to myself,” Quentillian said to her with firmness after a week at St. -Gwenllian that seemed to him to have been mainly differentiated from -his last visit there by the increased number of one-sided talks with -the Canon to which he had been subjected. - -Val said tentatively: “The end of January?” - -“Why not before Christmas? Stear should be quite ready for us by then.” - -It relieved him with a strange intensity to know that he would not, -after all, go alone to Stear. - -Valeria looked at him, and although her voice when she spoke was -serious, a certain mischievous amusement lurked in her eyes. - -“Before Christmas, it’s Advent,” she said. - -“Advent?” - -“I don’t think Father would like my wedding to be during Advent, at -all.” - -“I see.” - -“Oh, don’t be vexed, Owen. It’s only a month’s difference after all.” - -“It isn’t that,” began Quentillian candidly, and then shared in her -slight, unoffended laughter at his lack of gallantry. - -“I only mean, my dear, that I don’t like to see you bound by that sort -of convention. Do you really think it can make any difference if we’re -married on one particular date rather than another?” - -“I’m thinking entirely of Father,” gently said Val, thus altogether -evading the real point at issue. - -Quentillian was again and again made aware of this capacity in Val for -the avoidance of any discussion between them on the subject of religion. - -It was as though the faint rebellion that he had discerned in her at -her own way of life had been extinguished by the mere prospect of its -coming to an end. Nor, when he finally forced an issue, did Val appear -to possess his own capacities for impartial, essentially impersonal, -discussion. - -“Can’t we leave it alone, Owen? You told me what your views were--and -you know what mine are. We’ve been honest with one another--isn’t that -all that matters?” - -“In a sense, of course it is. You don’t think that perhaps it’s a -pity to know there’s one subject we must tacitly avoid--that we can’t -discuss freely?” - -He spoke without emphasis of any kind. - -“It _is_ a pity, of course,” said Val literally. “But how can we help -it? I can hardly listen to you without disloyalty of the worst kind. -If you look at it from my point of view for a moment, you do see that, -don’t you, Owen?” - -“Yes, I suppose I do see that,” he said heavily. - -He felt strangely disappointed and disillusioned. - -“Do you wish me to say anything to your father about that?” - -Val blushed deeply, but spoke quite resolutely. - -“No, I don’t. I’ve thought it over, and I can’t see that it concerns -anyone but you and me. Lucilla says so, too. I asked her what she -thought. It’s not as though I were eighteen, and it’s not as though I -didn’t trust you, absolutely, not to interfere with my beliefs, any -more than I with your--unbeliefs.” - -Confronted with her grave trustfulness, no less than with the obvious -justice of her words, Quentillian could only agree with her. - -His rather arrogant conviction of earlier days, that Val’s beliefs must -go, gave place to an unescapable certainty that they would not even -be modified. Rather would Valeria, enforced by tradition and by the -inherited faith that was in her, expect with the course of years to -influence her husband’s views. - -Owen felt strongly the hopelessness of such expectation, and still more -strongly the inexpediency, not to say the impossibility, of urging that -hopelessness upon Valeria. - -It was decided that the wedding should take place in January, and the -engagement be made public just before Christmas. - -“You do not want to let the world in upon your joy too soon, young -people,” the Canon told them with a grave smile. - -Val’s answering smile acquiesced in the assumption, as indeed the -smiles and silences, no less than the spoken words, of his entire -family were always apt to acquiesce in any assumption made by Canon -Morchard, whether the facts warranted such acquiescence or not. - -The days slipped by, very much as they had slipped by before -Quentillian and Valeria had become engaged. If Quentillian had expected -a greater difference, a more profound element, he was destined to be -disappointed. - -Val was charming and--he would not have to face loneliness at Stear. - -Indeed at one moment, it almost appeared as though Valeria would not -be alone in accomplishing the destruction of the spirit of solitude at -Stear. - -Adrian Morchard sought his prospective brother-in-law, and said, with -singularly ill-chosen colloquialism: - -“Tell me, old thing, have you had any talk with the governor about that -living at Stear?” - -“Not yet. The present incumbent hasn’t even resigned.” - -“I suppose--ha-ha--you’ll laugh--in fact I shouldn’t be surprised if -you thought it dashed funny--it makes me smile myself, in a way--you’ll -_roar_ when I tell you what I’m thinking of.” - -Quentillian felt as melancholy as do the majority of people thus -apostrophised, and was aware that his melancholy was reflected on his -face in a forbidding expression. - -Adrian had turned rather pale. - -“You know the old man’s always been desperately keen on my going into -the Church? Well--I say, you can laugh as much as you want to, I shan’t -be offended--I’m not at all sure I shan’t do it.” - -Quentillian felt no inclination whatever to indulge in the prescribed -orgy of merriment. - -“You coming into the family like this, with a good living going -begging, makes it a pretty obvious move in a way, doesn’t it--and then -it’d please the old man frightfully--and really there are precious few -openings for a man who hasn’t been brought up to anything special, -nowadays.” - -“Yes. And what is the real reason?” - -Adrian laughed uncomfortably. - -“Sherlock Holmes! Well, between ourselves, I don’t mind telling you -that I want to see some prospect of being able to marry, and if I had a -definite thing in view, like Stear, I might be able to bring it off.” - -“You can’t be ordained in five minutes. Don’t be absurd.” - -“I’ve got to wait, anyhow,” said Adrian gloomily. “She won’t even be -engaged, yet. I thought I might as well fill in the time at Cambridge -or somewhere, if it’s going to lead to something. I’m quite willing to -wait if I must, and of course I shall never change.” - -“It’s Miss Duffle, I suppose. I can’t say I should have thought she’d -enjoy the life of a country parson’s wife.” - -“You haven’t the least idea of what she’s really like.” - -“Perhaps not.” Owen’s voice implied the contrary. “What about yourself? -Do you really suppose you could stand it?” - -“Of course I could, if it meant _her_. My dear fellow, my mind’s -_absolutely_ made up, I may tell you, and has been for--for days. -But, of course,” he added ingenuously, “it does depend a good deal on -whether you’ll promise me Stear or not at the end of it all.” - -“What about your father?” - -“Oh, he’ll jump at it, of course. It’s been the one wish of his heart, -all along,” said Adrian easily. - -Quentillian wondered how it was possible that any youth, brought -up in the intellectual atmosphere of St. Gwenllian, could be so -entirely devoid of insight. To his own way of thinking, it was utterly -incredible that Canon Morchard, ardent Christian and idealist, should -contemplate with any degree of equanimity, his son’s proposed flippant -adoption of a vocation which he regarded as sacred. - -Owen committed himself to no promises. - -“I should like to talk it over with Val.” - -“I suppose if you must you must,” said Adrian, grudgingly. “But don’t -let her tell anyone else.” - -Valeria’s views were not far removed from Quentillian’s own. - -It sometimes, indeed, seemed to Owen that the identity of their points -of view on every other subject only rendered more evident the deep gulf -dividing them on the topic that Valeria had decreed should be a barred -one--that of religion. - -Spoken, their very difference might have brought them closer together. -Unspoken, it seemed to Owen to pervade all their intercourse since -their engagement as it had never done before. - - -(vi) - -Valeria had been engaged for nearly a month when she wrote a letter. - - “DEAR CAPTAIN CUSCADEN, - - “I thought I would like to tell you myself that I am engaged to be - married. It is to Owen Quentillian, whom I have known all my life, - almost, and we hope to be married in January. - - “I hope you will have very good luck in Canada, and that you will - sometimes let us know how you get on. We are expecting you on - Saturday, to come and say good-bye. - - “Yours sincerely, - “VALERIA MORCHARD.” - -Val spent a long while over the composition of her brief letter, -re-read it a great number of times, and finally tore it up very -carefully into small pieces. - -“What’s the use?” she said. - -Captain Cuscaden, however, did not seem to have been dependent upon -Valeria for news of Valeria’s engagement. He congratulated her formally -on the Saturday afternoon when he came to pay his farewell visit to St. -Gwenllian. - -Olga Duffle was there, too, and Miss Admaston. - -“No more tennis this year. It’s going to rain again,” said Flora. - -“Here it comes,” Mr. Clover pointed out. - -“It may clear up later--let’s have tea.” - -After tea the rain was still falling heavily. - -“How are all you young folks going to amuse yourselves?” genially -enquired the Canon. “Lucilla, can you not organize some of our old -_jeux d’esprit_, with pencil and paper?” - -There was an inarticulate protest from the Captain, to which no one -paid any attention except Valeria, who heard it, and Olga, who replied -to it: “I’ll help you, Dzorze, if you’re very good.” - -Mr. Clover was zealous in finding paper and pencils. - -“I can’t resist this,” said the Canon boyishly. “I must give some of my -old favourites a turn before going to more serious affairs. Now what is -it to be?” - -No one appeared to be very ready with suggestions. Captain Cuscaden -was gloomily gazing out of the window. Olga and Adrian were talking in -undertones, and Miss Admaston was telling Quentillian how very much -she dreaded and disliked any games that required the use of brains. - -“Are we all ready?” said Mr. Clover joyously. - -“I suppose we’re as ready as we ever shall be,” said Captain Cuscaden. - -Thus encouraged, they began. - -Canon Morchard, Lucilla, and Owen Quentillian outmatched the rest -of the players with ease. Each seemed to think with promptitude of -great men whose names started with A, battles that began with M, or -quotations--English--of which the initial letter was W. - -They challenged one another’s references, and verified one another’s -dates. They capped quotations, and they provided original _bouts rimés_. - -The entertainment gradually resolved itself into one animated trio, -with a faithful but halting chorus, in the persons of Mr. Clover and -Flora, and a rapid and low-toned aside between Adrian and Miss Duffle. - -Captain Cuscaden played a listless game of noughts and crosses with -Miss Admaston, and Valeria leant back in her chair and ceased to -pretend that she was occupied. - -She looked at the sapphire and diamond ring on her finger, and thought -about Owen’s cleverness. She remembered that Lucilla had said he would -be a difficult person to live with. She remembered her own secret -desires for a life of work, and her assurance to herself that such -ambitions were out of place. She reminded herself that her father -had been, in his own parlance, glad beyond words to welcome Owen -Quentillian as a son. And she looked at Owen himself, and saw him -intent, over his little slips of paper, and a sudden rush of tenderness -came over her. His absorption in the game seemed to make him younger, -and in more need of her. She could remember Owen as a flaxen-haired, -solemn, rather priggish little boy, and she suddenly felt that perhaps -he had not changed a very great deal since those days, after all. - -Val felt happier, in a subdued and wistful way. She woke to the -realization that the games were ended. - -The Canon had arisen. - -“Look up that derivation, Clover, dear man, and let me have it. I -shall be curious.... Fare ye well, young people, I recommend Lucilla -here as a veritable dictionary of dates, if you wish to continue your -amusement.” - -Nothing could have been more evident, the moment the Canon had left -the room, than that no one wished to pursue amusement on the lines -indicated. - -Even Mr. Clover joined in the general movement that thankfully -relinquished paper and pencil, and sent everyone to the piano, flung -open by Olga Duffle. - -“Do play something,” Adrian pleaded. - -“Oh, not me. Make your sister play. She plays so much better than I do.” - -It was indubitably true that Flora played a great deal better than did -Olga, yet nobody seemed to want Flora to play the piano, and Olga, -even as she protested, slipped on to the music stool and ran her small -fingers over the keys. - -“I say, how well you do everything!” Adrian murmured ecstatically above -her. - -She looked up at him and smiled, showing all her little pointed teeth. - -They clustered round her. - -“Do you know ‘Oh, Kiss Me and I’ll Never Tell,’ that comes in that -revue--I forget it’s name--the new one? It’s lovely.” - -To the perceptions of Valeria Morchard, trained in the eclectic school -of the Canon’s taste, the musical inspiration in question was not -only undeserving of being called lovely, but was vulgar to the point -of blatancy, ringing through the St. Gwenllian drawing-room in Olga’s -little, high, soprano voice. - -She was not at all surprised that Owen should look at her through his -_pince-nez_ with eyebrows expressively elevated, nor that Mr. Clover, -presumably in a futile endeavour to spare the Canon’s ears, should -unobtrusively go and shut the door. - -Val looked at Lucilla. - -There was something not at all unlike amusement on Miss Morchard’s -face, but Val did not think that it was caused by the humour of “Oh, -Kiss Me and I’ll Never Tell.” Rather it might have been born of a -gentle irony, embracing alike the puzzled distaste of Flora, the -obvious terror of the curate lest he should be supposed to be enjoying -the entertainment, the absorption with which Captain Cuscaden, Adrian, -and even Miss Admaston stood and listened, the supercilious detachment -of Owen Quentillian, the complacent unconsciousness of the small, pert -singer at the piano. No doubt Lucilla could have detected, had she -cared to do so, the unspecified emotions that Val suspected of being -written upon her own unsmiling face. - -She felt suddenly impatient. - -“We’re all intolerable. Lucilla is superior, and Flossie takes this -rubbish _au grand serieux_, like a crime, and Owen is thinking how -deplorable it is that idiotic words should be set to inferior music, -and put before the British public for its education.... I can hear -exactly what he’ll say about it afterwards.” - -It struck her that the anticipation scarcely boded well for a life that -was in future to be spent in Quentillian’s company. - - “My dusky gal is black as coal - “But she’s just the whitest, brightest soul.” - -carolled Olga. - -“I love the darky girls, don’t you?” - -“Rather.” - -“Why does the English youth of today seek artistic inspiration from -the uncivilized population of Central Africa, I wonder?” said Owen -Quentillian. He addressed himself to Lucilla, but his very distinct -utterance was perfectly audible to everybody else. - -Captain Cuscaden laughed, and Olga looked round with perfect good -humour. It was Adrian who glared at Quentillian, and Mr. Clover who -observed reproachfully: - -“I’m sure those old plantation songs are charming, _as_ Miss Olga -renders them.” - -“You shouldn’t be so superior, Owen,” said Lucilla tranquilly. - -It was what Val had been thinking, but she had found herself quite -unable to say it, from the very intensity of her feeling. - -Lucilla placed an old album on the music stand, and they all began to -sing together “Comin’ through the Rye.” - -The music affected Valeria almost intolerably. - -All the Morchards had good voices, and both Flora and Lucilla sang -well. Their true, deep voices gradually dominated Olga’s high pipe, -and the four men sank to a mere murmur of accompaniment. Miss Admaston -had never done more than crane over everybody’s shoulder in turn in an -endeavour to see the page at close quarters, and murmur the last words -of a verse in an undertone when everyone else was singing the first -line of the refrain. She was now altogether silent. - -“Sing the Russian songs, Flora,” said Quentillian. - -Valeria pressed her hands closer together, and leant against the wall. - -It was growing dark. - -The air of the Russian song that Flora chose was wild and sweet. - - “You are my darling, you are my soul - Light of my life, my sun, my goal ... - You are my being, my delight - Star of my darkest night.” - -Direct, primitive worship of one man for one woman: Flora’s voice held -all the passion that was not in her, save at her music. - -The ache at Val’s heart seemed to her physical in its intensity. - -She knew what she wanted, now, and she knew that Owen Quentillian would -not give it her. - -To her own horror, a rush of tears blinded her. - - “But all is well for thou art with me - “The world is full of only thee.” - -sang Flora. - -“What is the matter?” said the low, troubled voice of Cuscaden beside -her. - -Val started violently. - -“Val, you _must_ tell me. What is it...?” - -They looked at each other. - -It suddenly became the thing that mattered most in the world that Val -Morchard and George Cuscaden should speak alone to one another. - -Regardless of the rain pouring outside, Valeria gently opened the -French window behind her. - -“Come outside. I must speak to you,” she said urgently. - -She had no idea what she was going to say. - -Outside, in the rapidly gathering darkness, the rain fell in torrents -and splashed up from the ground against the stone step of the low -veranda that ran round the house. - -Cuscaden stepped out of the warm room and closed the window again -behind him. It was as though he had shut them out of the world of music -and companionship, into some colder, more virile atmosphere. - - “But all is well for thou art with me - “The world is full of only thee.” - -Flora’s song reached them as faintly as possible, and neither heeded -it. - -They faced one another, and Val found that she was shivering from head -to foot. - -“Why do I never get a chance of speaking to you nowadays?” said Captain -Cuscaden violently. - -“You could have,” said Valeria, and her voice broke. - -His arms went round her. - -“Val, Val, I love you so.” - -It was as though Quentillian had never existed. - -“And you’re going to Canada,” she wailed. - -“You’re coming with me.” - -“I must,” Val said, and surrendered herself to his kisses. - -“My daughter, how wet you are!” exclaimed the Canon. - -His daughter, hastening to her own room, paused under the light of -a lamp, and inadvertently thereby gave the Canon an opportunity of -verifying his statement. - -Val, beneath his astonished gaze, became acutely aware that her -rain-wet hair was disordered, her face flaming, and showing all the -marks of recent and violent weeping. - -“What is all this?” the Canon enquired rather sternly. - -Valeria felt utterly incapable of replying. - -“Answer me, Valeria.” - -“Captain Cuscaden is looking for you,” said Valeria almost inaudibly. - -“Captain Cuscaden?” - -“Yes.” - -They gazed speechlessly at one another. - -A weight had descended upon the Canon’s brow and the lines round his -mouth were set sternly. - -“Valeria, has he insulted you?” - -The intimate conviction overwhelmed her that the Canon’s opinion of -her recent interview with Captain Cuscaden would certainly demand -an emphatically affirmative reply to the enquiry. She felt a purely -hysterical desire to burst out laughing at the thought. - -“How is Captain Cuscaden concerned with you? If it is as I think, -Valeria, you did well to refer him to me.” - -“But it isn’t. He--I--we are both to blame, Father. I’m going to break -off my engagement to Owen. I love George.” - -The words were said, and although Valeria broke into a flood of tears, -it was with a sense of relief. Telling Owen that she did not intend to -marry him after all, was, she honestly felt, nothing to telling the -Canon so. - -She sank down on the stairs and hid her face in her hands, afraid -to face her father’s realization of the implication that her words -contained. - -It did not tarry. - -“Do you want me to understand that you are under a solemn engagement -to marry Owen Quentillian, and that you have at the same time been -allowing--encouraging--the clandestine attentions of this--this -_fellow_? You, my daughter, behaving like a wanton? I won’t believe -it--I can’t believe it--” the Canon’s voice rose violently. “Valeria, -for God’s sake tell me I’m mistaken--don’t crouch there like a guilty -creature--tell me I’m wrong, tell me you’re the pure, honest maiden -I’ve tried to make you and not--not--a creature without honour, without -decency----” - -The rising note of anguish broke on a strangled sob. - -Below, a door was shut sharply. - -“Get up,” said the Canon with violence. - -Valeria rose, and he pulled her to her feet and gazed searchingly into -her face. - -“And this is my child!” said the Canon, and in his turn dropped his -face into his hands, groaning. - -“I couldn’t help it,” she spoke between her sobs, like a child. “Owen -knew I wasn’t in love with him ... only I never realized, I didn’t know -George cared, too--it was always him....” - -“Stop!” thundered the Canon. “Are you without shame, Valeria? Is that -fellow waiting for me downstairs, or has he crawled away as I should -expect, from one who has so repaid my hospitality?” - -The words gave Valeria a needed impetus. - -“He is ready to meet you, Father--he went to find you. And I love -him--I suppose I’ve been very dishonourable, but I--I believe Owen will -understand.” - -She broke into tears again, and left him. - -Overwhelmed with the sense of her own dishonour, regarding the Canon’s -wrath as might have a child, in the light of the greatest calamity that -life could present, she turned with absolute relief to the thought of -Owen’s dispassionate judgments, his studiously impersonal attitude -towards life. Owen would understand. - -There came a knock at the door. - -“Val, may I come in?” - -“What is it?” said Valeria unwillingly. - -Lucilla entered the room, unperturbed, but fully accepting the -disordered aspect of its occupant. - -“I’m afraid, Val, that the drawing-room door was open, and it was -impossible to help hearing Father. I thought you’d rather know, in case -you wanted to speak to Owen.” - -“Owen knows?” almost shrieked Valeria. - -“I suppose he does. He must have drawn his own conclusions.” - -“I couldn’t help it,” said Val again. “I never meant anything like that -to happen--it’s George Cuscaden, Lucilla. It was always him, indeed it -was, only I didn’t know it, and it all seemed to happen in a minute--it -was stronger than either of us.” - -“I daresay you did quite right. Why don’t you wash, Val?” - -“Oh, Lucilla, how like you!” - -Valeria laughed shakily, but she followed her sister’s advice. - -Lucilla methodically produced Val’s brush and comb, and dry clothing. - -“Maud Admaston and Miss Duffle have gone, and Adrian went with them. -Mr. Clover has gone, too, so it was only Owen and Flossie and I that -heard.” - -“What did he say?” - -“He didn’t say anything. Shall I fasten you up, Val?” - -“Lucilla--what am I to do?” - -“Tell Owen you can’t marry him, and tell George you will marry him.” - -“I wish it was as simple as that! You always take things so literally.” - -“Well,” said Lucilla unmoved, “I don’t see any other way of taking -this. You can’t be engaged to two people at once. You know--Owen will -understand.” - -“That’s what I feel,” said Val to her own surprise. “But Father--Father -will never, never understand.” - -“Probably not. But after all, it’s you, and Owen, and George, isn’t it, -that are concerned? I shouldn’t let there be scenes and upsets about -it, Val, if I were you--really I shouldn’t. Why don’t you just see Owen -tonight, and tell him about it, and then you and he and George could -all talk it over quietly tomorrow morning?” - -Val was conscious of profound astonishment and also of extreme relief. - -“Do you think one could? But Father----” - -“You needn’t go downstairs again. I quite understand that you don’t -want to see Father again tonight. Shall I tell Owen to come up here?” - -“Here? How could he, in my bedroom?” - -“Goodness me, child, you may just as well be hung for a sheep as a -lamb, surely. But if you think it’s so dreadful, I suppose you can come -out on the landing and speak to him.” - -Impossible to disconcert Lucilla! - -Val assented to the surprising propositions so matter-of-factly -delivered. - -“Yes, tell Owen to come up. I’d better get it over. But -Lucilla--George----” - -“Do you want me to see him, or give him a message?” - -“I want to know what Father says to him,” Val said faintly. - -“Very well. I’ll ask Father if George has gone.” - -“And, oh, Lucilla! I know you can’t prevent it, really, but if only -you could make Father not come up to me tonight! I can’t bear any -more--indeed I can’t.” - -“Well,” said Lucilla, “you’d better lock the door then.” She took the -key from the lock, put it on the inside of the door and tried it in a -practical manner. “That’s all right. You can lock it on the inside as -soon as Owen has gone.” - -She went downstairs, but turned and came up again the next moment. - -“I’ll have dinner sent up to you, shall I?” - -“I don’t want any.” - -“I should think you’d better have something, Val. I’ll send up soup and -chicken. The pudding is only ginger, and you know how badly she makes -ginger pudding.” - -Lucilla departed in earnest, upon this prosaic pronouncement. - -She was succeeded by Owen Quentillian, and Val went out upon the -landing to meet him. - -“Will you forgive me, Owen? I can’t marry you.” - -“What has happened?” - -“I thought you knew,” she said piteously. - -“I suppose I do. Is it Cuscaden?” - -“Yes.” - -“Then why,” Owen demanded in reasonable accents, “couldn’t he have -proposed to you himself without waiting for you to be engaged to me?” - -“He thought he couldn’t ask me to go to Canada--and he’s badly off--and -then, when you came, he--he thought it was you I cared about.” - -“I see,” said Quentillian dryly. - -“I don’t think I knew, exactly, that I still cared for him, and I was -sure he hadn’t meant anything, and it--it was really all over--only -then--Flora’s music, somehow--and he asked me what it was--and I cried. -Owen, won’t you forgive me? Surely it’s better than if I’d tried to go -on with it?” - -“Of course it is.” - -They looked at one another rather helplessly. - -“Val, if I can do anything to help you, of course I will. What are you -going to do?” - -“I can’t think,” said Valeria faintly. - -“When does Cuscaden sail?” - -“Next week.” - -“That’s bad luck,” said Owen impartially. “Look here, my dear, you must -be tired out. Won’t you go and sleep now, and in the morning we could -see what’s to be done?” - -“Oh, how good you are!” - -He frowned slightly. - -“Surely the day of heroics is over. I haven’t the slightest desire to -exchange pistol-shots with Captain Cuscaden, I assure you. We are three -reasonable human beings, and we find ourselves in a difficulty from -which only clear thinking and absolute plain speaking can extricate -us. You may believe me when I tell you that I am perfectly prepared to -discuss the case upon its own merits.” - -Valeria could believe him without difficulty. Even in the midst of -her distress, she could not altogether stifle a slight suspicion that -Owen was appreciating the opportunity afforded him of being thoroughly -modern and rational. - -“Have you seen Father?” - -“Not yet.” - -Quentillian’s tone betrayed no great eagerness for the prospective -interview. - -“He is very, very angry with me, and I know he has every right to be. -But indeed, Owen, I was coming straight to you, only I met him first, -and it somehow came out. George was going to tell him.” - -“Your father has never liked Captain Cuscaden,” said Quentillian -meditatively. “I am afraid he will make things very difficult.” - -“I deserve it.” - -“Don’t be absurd,” said Quentillian, with severity. “This is that -foolish idea of atonement and repentance--and all the other cheap -salves to the humiliation of having made a mistake. Don’t you see that -it’s all waste of time and energy, Val? You ought to be thinking of -what you’re going to do next, and how you can do it with least wear and -tear for us all. Life isn’t a series of sins and punishments or virtues -and rewards, as it is in one’s nursery story-books. There are actions -and their consequences--that’s all.” - -She looked up at him, bewildered, and yet slightly relieved at -perceiving that he still possessed the power of sententiousness. - -“Only say you forgive me, Owen.” - -“If you wish it, my dear, of course. Please don’t cry any more.” - -Valeria, however, crying more than ever, drew the sapphire and diamond -ring from her finger and mutely held it out to him. - -Owen gazed at it for a moment through his _pince-nez_. - -Then he put it gently back into her hand again, and closed her fingers -round it with his own. - -“Please, Val.” - -Still holding her hand, he bent forward and very softly kissed her wet -cheek. - -“If we’re not engaged any more, we’ve got to go back to what we were -before--brother and sister, Val. Good-night--don’t cry any more.” - -The smile with which he left her was in his eyes as well as on his -lips, and held nothing so much as very gentle amusement, and an -affectionate concern. - - -(vii) - -The amusement was no longer to be seen in the eyes of Quentillian, and -the concern had no affinity with affectionateness, when he reached the -door of the Canon’s study. - -He felt himself to be eleven years old once more, and in complete -uncertainty as to the manner in which he might be received, after the -discovery of some unwonted misdemeanour. - -The thunderous voice that bade him come in did nothing to dispel the -unpleasing illusion. - -The Canon was sitting at the writing-table, under the carved crucifix -that hung against the green velvet plaque. A blotting pad, deeply -scored with heavy black lines, lay beneath his hand, and a broken -lead pencil testified to the energy with which that hand had sought an -outlet for the feelings that presumably agitated its owner. - -The Canon swung round in his chair as the door closed behind -Quentillian. - -“Owen, Owen!” His voice broke. “My boy, how can I face you?” - -The Canon answered his own question by rising impetuously and leaning -heavily upon Quentillian’s shoulder, one hand across his eyes. - -“My dear, dear fellow!” - -His voice, charged with emotion, broke horribly over each fresh -ejaculation. - -“My son--Owen--you’ve been nothing less to me--and now--treated like -this--one of mine own household--what can I say, what can I say?” - -Quentillian longed heartily to implore the Canon to say nothing at all. - -“Won’t you sit down, sir? I thought I’d better come and talk to you, if -I may.” - -“Anything, anything, dear lad. Have you seen my unhappy child?” - -“Valeria and I have agreed that we are no longer engaged,” said Owen -carefully. “I don’t consider that I have been unfairly treated. She -discovered, rather before the eleventh hour, that she and Captain -Cuscaden were in love with one another, and it would have been quite as -unjust to me as to herself, if she had not acted upon the discovery.” - -Canon Morchard gazed anxiously at the victim of this neatly-analysed -situation. - -“For Heaven’s sake, Owen, don’t let yourself become bitter. It is so -easy--so fatally easy, when one is suffering. Take a stronger grip of -your faith than ever before, dear lad--remember that ‘_all_ things -work together for good.’ One learns to dwell upon those words, and the -meaning deepens into something so unspeakably precious....” - -To Owen’s relief the Canon sank back into his chair again. - -“I can offer you no atonement,” he said presently, with a deep -weariness in his voice. - -“I am still unutterably bewildered. How I have failed, how I have -failed, with my motherless girl! And I thought I knew my child--my -merry Valeria, as I have called her from her babyhood--I thought I -knew her through and through! _She_ to be dishonourable, _she_ to be -heartless, _she_ to attach herself to a godless, brainless, mannerless -fellow--and when a man like yourself had received her troth! Owen, it -is as though mine own right hand had turned against me.” - -The Canon held out a trembling right hand and gazed upon it. - -“Where is Captain Cuscaden now, sir?” enquired Quentillian, almost -expecting to hear that the object of his solicitude had been bound and -cast into outer darkness. - -“Where!” Canon Morchard struck the table with his clenched fist until -the blotting-paper and the broken pencil bounded again. “Where! I have -dismissed him, Owen. Does he think that I shall give my daughter to -one who comes like a thief in the night? There is such a thing as a -righteous anger, and such an anger was mine then.” - -It seemed to be his still, Owen reflected, and boded ill for his own -wish to discuss the situation impartially. - -“Valeria is very unhappy, sir.” - -The Canon groaned. - -“I can’t trust myself to see her, to speak to her. God knows that my -place is with my unhappy child, but my shameful lack of self-control -makes me tremble. I have been angry--I am angry still.” - -He looked piteously at Owen. - -“I have thought to get the better of my devil with prayer and fasting, -but the old Adam is strong--terribly strong. When I saw my child--my -little Valeria--her eyes wild, her person disordered, dashing upstairs -as might a shamed creature, to hide itself--when I realized the depths -of her dishonour--Owen, it was in me to have struck her. I could have -raised my hand against my own child!” - -His head sank upon his breast. - -Quentillian waited before making a further, strangely inadequate, -contribution to the conversation. - -“Do you think, sir, perhaps you may be taking this too seriously?” - -Canon Morchard stared at him. Then he smiled grimly. - -“Generous--very generous, Owen. But I am to be deceived by no such -feint. I, who have had the care of souls these thirty years! Do -you think that, whatever front you may present to the world, my -eyes--_mine_--are to be blinded? Do you think that _I_ do not know -that the iron has entered into your soul?” - -The Canon’s eyes were so extraordinarily piercing as they gazed into -Quentillian’s, that the object of his penetration sought in himself -almost hopefully for some of the searing emotions attributed to him. - -He discovered none. - -Wounded in his vanity, annoyed, disappointed even,--but nothing more. - -Owen, quite aware of futility, inwardly formed phrases of complete -truthfulness, only to reject them. - -“I assure you that I am not in the least unhappy at having been jilted -by your daughter ... it leaves me quite cold ... I don’t think I ever -really wanted to marry Val very much ... we were much better friends -before we tried to become engaged....” - -Or, with a yet more devastating candour: - -“I’ve been certain for days that I made a complete fool of myself by -ever proposing marriage to Valeria....” - -This surprisingly agile form of mental gymnastics was tempestuously -interrupted by the Canon. - -“For God’s sake, Owen, break down!” he groaned. “My boy, my boy, you’re -safe with me. Forget that I’m Valeria’s father--think of me only as -one who has known suffering--aye, and sin, too. Make a safety-valve -of me--let yourself go. But I can bear this sham cynicism of yours no -longer. It’s wrong, Owen, it’s wrong. True fortitude faces what lies -before it, finds its Gethsemane, and rises, purged of bitterness. Break -down--weep, nay, curse if you will, only cast open the floodgates. -Let loose whatever devils possess your soul, you, the victim of -treachery--let them loose, I say, and we will conquer them together.” - -For an instant, all that Quentillian could do hardly sufficed to -prevent his letting loose a violent fit of laughter. - -He drove his teeth into his lower lip. It was his increasing perception -of the Canon’s overwhelming misery that steadied him. - -“Val has hurt me less than you think, sir,” he said gently at last. “I -have sometimes thought that she and I had made a mistake.” - -The Canon gazed at him with a pathetic unbelief. - -“My unhappy child does not know what she has lost.” - -“I hope she is going to be happy in her own way,” said Quentillian. - -The Canon’s brow instantly became thunderous again. - -“Not one word, Owen, not one word on those lines,” he commanded -sternly. “I appreciate your generosity deeply, but there is such a -thing as carrying generosity too far.” - -“I can see small generosity in relinquishing to someone else what is no -longer mine.” - -The Canon swept on, unheeding. - -“My faith in my child has received a rude shock. Valeria is unfit for -wifehood and motherhood. How can I let her undertake responsibility -when she has proved herself unworthy up to the hilt? No, Owen, let it -rest there. _I_ will deal with Valeria, and may God help us both!” - -Quentillian felt inclined to echo the petition whole-heartedly. - -He could not doubt that the Canon’s misery was utterly unfeigned. So, -also, was his wrath. - -The incongruous sound of the dinner-gong vibrated violently through the -room. - -The Canon did not stir. - -His voice, when next he spoke, was almost a groan. - -“I cannot see Valeria tonight. God forgive me, I am not master of -myself. Your calm shames me, Owen. But it is not natural, not natural. -You will, and must, suffer for it later on. Tell me, dear fellow--that -I should have to say it!--do you wish to leave us--do you wish to go?” - -Owen wished for nothing so much as an immediate adjournment to the -dining-room, but he felt that it would indeed be impossible to say so. - -“You would not wish me to send Valeria from home, I know. Nor do I know -where I could send her.” - -“Let her marry Cuscaden,” said Quentillian boldly. - -“Never, Owen. Give my child--my weak, untrustworthy child, to a man -who could behave as Cuscaden has behaved? Believe me, I appreciate the -generosity that prompts you, but you know not what you ask--you know -not what you ask.” - -Quentillian, entirely unaccustomed to any such accusation, was silently -annoyed. - -He was also hungry. - -“I have sometimes thought,” said the Canon with a trembling voice, -“that my tendency has been to idolize my children. I lost their mother -so early! You know how it was with me, Owen. Lucilla was my eldest -born, my right hand. I have come to depend upon Lucilla, paradoxical -though it may sound, from a father towards his child. David, my eldest -son ...” the Canon paused a long while, and then murmured softly: -“‘Whilst he was yet a great way off’--David is in a far country, but he -will return to us yet, and though his Morning Prayer be our Evensong, -who shall say that there is separation between us? And I have kept my -other children by my side, Owen. Little Flora has never yet tried her -wings away from home. She is more like her mother than any of them--she -and the dear Adrian.” - -A smile like an illumination came into the Canon’s eyes as he spoke -Adrian’s name. “The light of mine eyes, that dear lad has always been. -My Benjamin! There are no words for what I went through whilst Adrian -was fighting, Owen. One could only remember in Whose keeping he was, -and that all _must_ be well, in reality. But all one’s faith was -needed--it must be so, with poor human nature. The soul goes through -dark waters, Owen, as you are finding now.” - -The protest which Owen almost automatically registered within himself -at this interpolated reference to the despair which he could not feel, -was necessarily a silent one. - -“Valeria has been the brightest, the most lighthearted, of all my -children. She is naturally gifted with high spirits, and she and I -have made innocent fun together, have shared the humourous view of -life, a thousand times. Have I allowed that gaiety of hers to turn to -flippancy--that mirthful spirit to cloak a lack of principle? I ask -myself again and again wherein I have erred, for I cannot hold myself -blameless, Owen. I have thought over my motherless children, I have -prayed, and yet it has come to this--it has come to this!” - -The Canon’s head dropped back into his hands once more, and Quentillian -felt as though this despairing round of anger, self-blame, self-pity, -and genuine misery, might go on forever. - -He glanced at the clock. The dinner-gong having failed of its appeal, -it appeared as though nothing need ever interrupt them again. - -“I will give him five minutes more, and then I shall stand up,” -Quentillian decided. - -The Canon lifted a haggard face. - -“Perhaps I had set my heart overmuch upon your marriage with my -child, Owen. It may be so--it may be so. I may have forgotten that we -poor mortals cannot, after all, see very far--that all plannings and -schemings are very vain, seen by the light of Immortal Wisdom. If so, I -am receiving my punishment now.” - -The Canon groaned again. - -“I am at a loss how to act. I can decide nothing. I must see Valeria, -but how can I do so until I can command myself?” - -Even as he asked the question, the veins stood out upon the Canon’s -forehead, his nostrils quivered and his face became suffused. - -“Three minutes more,” Quentillian reflected. - -“Owen, one thing I must ask. Has she asked your pardon?” - -“Yes, but indeed I don’t think----” - -“No, Owen, no.” The Canon raised his hand in instant protest. “Each -generous plea from you, stabs me afresh. I ask myself if my unhappy -child even knows what she has lost. I thought I knew Valeria through -and through--that nothing in her nature was hidden from me, from her -father. I have been strangely mistaken, indeed.” - -(“Another half minute.”) - -“Am I harsh with her, am I harsh to my motherless girl? God knows that -I was angry when I met her this evening, distraught-looking, crouching -before me like a shamed and terrified creature. I cannot even now fully -understand what has occurred, but her own admission was that, engaged -to you, she believed herself to love another man--that she had allowed -him to make love to her.” - -Owen stood up resolutely. - -“Aye, Owen, I do not wonder at it, if you seek the relief of movement. -It is more natural so. I, too, in my day, have paced this room.” - -Quentillian, however, had no desire to pace the room except for the -very few steps that would put him outside it. - -He debated in vain within himself the most tactful method of making -this clear to Canon Morchard. - -“I suppose I have been blind. This blow has come upon me with fearful -suddenness--I suspected nothing--nothing. How could I----” - -The door opened. - -Quentillian looked round thankfully at Lucilla. She did not go up to -her father, but spoke quietly from the door. - -“Father, don’t you think Owen should come to dinner?” - -A quick frown drew the Canon’s always formidable brows together. - -“Since when do my children interrupt me in my own room, at my work, -Lucilla?” he enquired. - -Her face did not change, but she looked at Quentillian. - -“Thank you,” he said quickly. “I will come.” - -The Canon rose. His hand went once more to the resting-place now -rapidly becoming habitual to it--Quentillian’s shoulder. - -“Do not let my foolish child impose her trivial urgencies upon you.” - -The Canon’s other hand went out towards his daughter. - -“Did I speak over-sharply, my daughter? Perhaps Mary was nearer my mood -than Martha, just now--Martha, careful and troubled over many things. -Go, then, children. Lucilla, you will come to me later. Until then, I -do not wish to be disturbed again.” - -With a heavy sigh, the Canon turned again to his writing-table. - -Owen and Lucilla went out. - -“He is terribly upset. Could he not be persuaded to come to dinner?” - -“No, I knew he wouldn’t want that. But I shall take in a tray when I -go to him later. Sometimes, if he’s talking, he eats without thinking -about it. I was counting on that--and besides, he would have disliked -my suggesting that he should come in to dinner as usual.” - -Lucilla’s voice and her face alike were entirely guiltless of irony. - -Quentillian followed her into the dining-room: - -“The others have finished,” Lucilla said. “Would you rather I stayed, -or that I went?” - -“Stay, please.” - -She sat down opposite to him at once. - -“I wish your father were less angry with poor Val, although perhaps -it is not my place to say so. But in his--his generous sympathy for -me, I am afraid he has rather lost sight of what she must have been -suffering.” - -“I don’t think suffering, in my father’s eyes, would ever condone what -he considers wrong-doing.” - -The comment seemed to Owen to be rather an illuminating one. - -“I suppose not. It may surprise you to hear that I do not, personally, -consider that Canon Morchard is entitled either to condemn or condone -whatever Valeria may have done.” - -“I quite agree with you.” - -Quentillian was less gratified than astonished at the assertion. - -“Val herself would hardly agree to that.” - -“No.” - -“Well, but don’t you see, Lucilla, how difficult that’s going to make -things? To my mind, the only natural proceeding is for Valeria and -George Cuscaden to marry and go to Canada.” - -Quentillian paused almost without meaning to, on a pronouncement that -would certainly have met with drastic and emphatic interruption from -Canon Morchard. - -Lucilla, however, received it unmoved. - -“Don’t you think so?” said Quentillian, slightly disappointed. - -“Yes.” - -“But will Valeria do it? Won’t her strange ideas of filial duty -interfere? I am absolutely convinced that one of the principal reasons -for her ever becoming engaged to me, was her wish to please her father.” - -“I don’t think it was altogether that, Owen. But you did ask her to -marry you at a time when she was just beginning to realize that the -sort of life she led before the war wasn’t going to be enough for her.” - -“Need it have taken a European war to make her see that?” - -The smile that Lucilla turned upon his petulance was disarming. - -“Don’t be so cross, Owen.” - -She might have been talking to a little boy. - -“I think,” said Quentillian with dignity, “that perhaps you forget -it was only a few hours ago that I learnt how completely cheated -and--fooled, I have been.” - -He could not avoid a recollection that the Canon would not have needed -such a reminder. - -“Indeed, I don’t forget at all,” said Lucilla earnestly. “It must be -very vexing for you, but--Owen, do forgive me for saying that I can’t -really feel as if you minded dreadfully. You’re much too understanding, -really, not to know that poor Val didn’t wilfully cheat you, any more -than she cheated herself. And I think you, too, perhaps, in another -way, were beginning to feel that you’d made a mistake in promising to -marry one another.” - -Lucilla, Quentillian realized half ruefully and half with amusement, -had beaten him at his own game. Her unvarnished appraisement of the -situation brought to it no more and no less than the facts warranted. - -His answering gaze was as straight as her own. - -“You’re right,” he said abruptly. - -She held out her hand with a laden plate in it. - -“Pudding?” she enquired, prosaically. - -“Thanks.” - -He made an excellent dinner. - -“But what will happen to us now, Lucilla?” - -“Well, George Cuscaden will be here again, and that’ll make Val feel -better. And you’ll help, won’t you?” - -“Certainly.” - -And, on the strange assurance, they separated. - -It was much later that Owen, from his own room, heard the door of the -study immediately below him, open once more, and then shut. - -Barely audible, but still unmistakable, he heard a steady stream of -sound, rising and falling, easily to be identified as the Canon’s voice. - -“Good God, what more _can_ he have to say about it?” reflected -Quentillian. He was destined to ask himself the question again, for the -sounds, punctuated by the briefest of pauses, doubtless consecrated to -the delivery of laconic replies from Lucilla, continued far into the -small hours of the morning. - -Finally, after Quentillian had fallen asleep, he was roused by a -gentle, reiterated knocking at the door. - -Only too well aware whose hand was responsible for those considerately -modified taps, he rose and went to open the door, omitting the usual -invitation to enter. - -As he expected, the Canon, unutterably pale and weary-looking, stood -without. - -“Dear fellow, I knew that I should find you awake. Owen, I could not -but come to tell you that all is well with me now. I have forgiven, -even as I myself hope--and need--to be forgiven. I will see Valeria -tomorrow, and tell her that she has my full and free pardon. Together -we will consider what is the best thing that we can make of this most -unhappy business.” - -“And Cuscaden, sir?” - -Quentillian intended to suggest the inclusion of Captain Cuscaden in -the proposed conference, which might reasonably be supposed to concern -him closely, but the Canon misunderstood the elliptical reference. - -“Aye, Owen, I have no bitterness left in my heart, even for him. ‘Unto -seventy times seven.’ Those words have been ringing in my ears until I -could almost bring myself to believe that I heard them uttered aloud. I -need not ask if all is well with you, dear boy? Your self-command and -generosity have shamed me all along.” - -The absolute sincerity of the utterance caused Quentillian, with -considerably more reason than the Canon, to feel ashamed in his turn. - -“I am very far from being what you think me, sir,” he said, earnestly, -and with complete truth. “I am afraid you are very tired.” - -The Canon, indeed, looked utterly exhausted. - -“If so, it is in my Master’s service,” said Canon Morchard gently. -“And you remember, Owen--‘there remaineth a rest.’ May it be mine, and -yours, too--all in His own good time! Good-night to you, my dear.” - -For the first time since Owen’s childish days, the Canon placed his -hand upon his head and murmured a word of blessing. - -Then, with a smile as wistful as it was tender, he turned and went away -upstairs. - - -(viii) - -The following day was one of singular discomfort, and of private -interviews that were held to be of the greatest necessity, in spite of -the fact that the participants always emerged from them in worse plight -than they went in. - -The Canon saw Valeria in his study, and she came out crying. - -Valeria sought Flora, and both wept. - -Quentillian deliberately demanded an interview from Captain Cuscaden, -but was baffled in his design of a rational discussion of the -three-cornered situation by Cuscaden’s honest bewilderment at the mere -suggestion of disinterested counsel. - -It seemed, indeed, that Captain Cuscaden would have understood Owen -better, and certainly have thought more highly of him, had the -traditional horsewhip, abhorred of all Owen’s most deeply-rooted -prejudices, held a place in their conversation, at least as threat, if -not as actual fact. - -Failing the horsewhip, Cuscaden was inclined to follow in the wake of -the Canon and attribute to Valeria’s discarded _fiancé_ a spirit of -generous heroism that was even less to Quentillian’s liking. - -“Captain Cuscaden takes primitive views,” Quentillian observed to -Lucilla, whom alone he suspected of summing up the whole situation very -much at its true value. - -“Yes, that will suit Val very well.” - -“You think she takes primitive views, too?” - -“Yes, don’t you?” - -Owen realized that, although he had never thought Valeria subtle, -he had at least supposed her to be capable of appreciating his own -subtlety. But subtleties had not, apparently, really weighed with Val -at all. - -The sight of her tear-mottled face annoyed Owen’s æsthetic sense so -much, and he felt so sincerely ashamed of his annoyance, that it -constrained him to absent himself from the house all the afternoon. He -would gladly have left St. Gwenllian altogether and felt sure that the -Canon expected nothing less of him, but Flora brought him a piteous -little message from Val to beg that he would remain until “something -was settled.” - -In the forlorn hope that this had been achieved, Quentillian returned. - -An eager grasp met him almost upon the threshold. - -“Owen, dear lad! Where have you been? I have been uneasy--most uneasy, -at your prolonged absence.” - -“I’m very sorry, sir.” - -“Nay, so long as all is well with you! I should have had more faith.” - -The Canon smiled gravely, and relief was latent in the smile. -Quentillian suddenly realized that Canon Morchard had not improbably -known the sub-conscious fear of his guest and _protégé_ having sought -some drastic means of ending an existence in the course of which he had -been played so ill a turn. - -His sense of his own inadequacy increased every moment. - -“May I know how things stand?” he enquired abruptly. - -“_May_ you? Who has a better right than yourself, dear Owen? Come you -out with me, and let us have a few words together.” - -Owen followed his host. - -“It has been a trying day--a sad and trying one. But I need not tell -you _that_--you, whose grief is so much greater than mine own, even. -Though you, at least, Owen, have nothing to reproach yourself with, -whereas I am responsible for the weakness in my poor child which -has led to this unhappy state of affairs. But at least she is fully -sensible of error--she knows what she has done.” - -It would be strange indeed if she did not, Owen reflected, in -the universal _bouleversement_ that had characterized Valeria’s -surroundings ever since her sudden departure from the conventions. - -“To my surprise, Lucilla, upon whose judgment I place a certain -reliance, although it may sound somewhat odd to hear of a father -seeking counsel of his child--Lucilla advocates my sanctioning her -sister’s marriage. My first instinct was of course to cut her short at -the mention of anything so premature--so--so lacking in all taste or -feeling. But--I hardly know----” - -“There is nothing against Captain Cuscaden, is there?” - -Quentillian made the observation in the simple hope of expediting the -Canon’s decision, but he immediately perceived that it led him open -once more to the imputation of high-minded generosity. - -“I mean to say, he can afford to marry?” he amended hastily. - -“He has satisfied me upon that score,” Canon Morchard admitted. “I have -never desired wealth for my dear ones, nor have they been brought up to -it. Valeria is not unfitted to become the wife of a poor man. Nay, had -she but acted an honourable and high-minded part throughout, I should -gladly send her forth into the New World. Valeria has something of the -pioneer spirit, I have always felt.” - -He sighed heavily. - -“In short, Owen, if, as Lucilla tells me, you share her own view, then -I shall not withhold my consent to this marriage. The haste is strange -and unseemly, but Captain Cuscaden cannot postpone his departure, in -view of the position awaiting him, and my unhappy child, left here, -would be in a difficult and awkward situation, nor have I any security, -alas, that she has sufficient discretion to face such a situation.” - -“It might be difficult for her,” Quentillian admitted. “Lucilla is -looking for us, I think, sir.” - -Lucilla was indeed advancing towards them. - -The Canon frowned slightly. - -“Am I wanted, my child?” - -“It was Owen that I wanted, father.” - -“My dear, Owen is engaged with me.” - -“I know,” Lucilla seemed slightly perplexed, but quite unruffled. “I -know, but the post is just going, and I thought Owen ought to see this -before I send it to the papers.” - -She handed him a sheet of notepaper, upon which he read a brief and -conventionally-worded announcement to the effect that the marriage -arranged between himself and Valeria Morchard would not take place. - -He passed it to the Canon, who groaned. - -“Must this be?” he enquired, with some superfluity. - -The superfluity seemed to strike himself, for he added almost at once: - -“‘If ’t’were done, ’t’were well ’t’were done quickly’, no doubt.” - -“There is the other announcement to be thought of,” said Lucilla with -merciless common-sense. “If Val is married at the end of this week, we -shall have to put that in the papers.” - -The Canon gave Owen a quick, anxious glance. - -“Come into the house, my daughter,” he said to Lucilla. “We can speak -of such matters there.” - -Owen understood that Canon Morchard was thinking of him. - -On a sudden impulse he went to seek Valeria. - -“Look here, my dear, I’d do anything to help you, but do you really -want me to stay on here any longer? It’s more than I can stand.” - -“Oh, Owen! I thought you’d forgiven me--I thought you didn’t mind, so -very much, after all,” she cried in dismay. - -“I don’t mind in the least,” Quentillian told her desperately. “But -it’s a false position altogether, and I want to be out of it.” - -“Of course you do, it was very selfish of me to want to keep you. -Only somehow Father is less--dreadful--when you’re there, Owen. But -he’s forgiven me,” her tears came falling fast, “and I’m going out -with George when he sails, at the beginning of next week. We shall be -married very, very quietly, on Saturday.” - -“I’m very glad to hear it. Indeed I am, Val. I’m sure he’s a good -fellow, and I hope he’ll make you very happy.” - -She was crying too much to speak, as he went away from her. - -And Quentillian, definitely, could tell himself that he had no regrets -in relinquishing Valeria. - -Her warm emotionalism had not been without its appeal, but he had no -liking for tears at a crisis, nor indeed for a crisis at all. His -mind reverted to Lucilla’s matter-of-fact fashion of dealing with the -crucial instances of life at St. Gwenllian, and theoretically, he met -her attitude with applause. But he also remembered that he had not -found her sympathetic, upon the preceding evening. - -Impartially, he acknowledged with a rueful smile, his own exactingness. - -He must go, and decided that it should be to London. As for Stear, he -would face it later. The thought of Stear, and the loneliness there, -brought the realest sense of loss to him that he had yet experienced -over the defection of Valeria. - -He had thought to hear her laughter there, to see the apricot bloom on -her lovely face, her children growing up there. - -With a long sigh, Owen let the vision go. The warm, human things of -life had come very near to him, but he had not known how to hold them. -Some subtle, inner sense warned him that Valeria had done well to -betake herself and the rich gifts of her ardent nature, to the simple -and primitive life of the colonies, and the man who was offering that -life to her. - -He went away to make his preparations for leaving St. Gwenllian. - - * * * * * - -Valeria’s wedding, not unnaturally, provided no occasion for festivity. - -The bride herself remarked in private to her sisters: - -“I feel exactly as though I was one of those unfortunate girls who come -to Father for him to marry them so as to ‘make honest women of them’ -at the eleventh hour. You know the way that sort of wedding is hurried -through, in a hole-and-corner style....” - -“It’s lucky for you you’ve got a good deal of your trousseau made -already,” was Lucilla’s practical reply. - -“Yes, and ‘V. Q.’ embroidered on more than half of it!” cried Val -hysterically. - -“You can’t possibly use it,” Flora declared austerely. “Unless I can -alter it for you in time.” - -“Of course she can use it,” said Lucilla. - -Valeria left them both. In the overstrained condition of her nerves, -Lucilla’s crudely-worded common-sense and Flora’s fastidiousness were -equally little to her taste. Her father’s sorrowful gravity struck her -with despair, and Owen Quentillian’s magnanimous detachment puzzled her -sincerely, and made her doubly remorseful. - -It was only when George Cuscaden was actually with her that she knew -with real certainty that she had done right at the last moment. - -On the night before her wedding, Canon Morchard called Valeria, gave -her his blessing and forgiveness, and handed to her some of her dead -mother’s jewelry. - -“God bless and help you in the way that you have chosen, and may He -bring all things together for good, as He alone can do.” - -“Forgive me, Father.” - -“My child, I have nothing to forgive. It was not I whom you wronged, -but yourself,--and one other. His pardon is yours, fully and freely, as -you know well. And now, my Valeria, you owe it to your husband to put -the past behind you. You will enter into your new life purified by that -very sense of past error, humbled by repentance.” - -The Canon’s voice was very gentle. - -It was long after midnight when Valeria heard him go upstairs. - -George Cuscaden and Valeria were married by Mr. Clover, immediately -after Matins next day, and Canon Morchard, throughout the ceremony, -knelt with his face hidden by his hand. - -The sense of irrevocability that comes to most brides assailed Valeria -irresistibly for a moment as she walked, alone with her husband, the -short distance from the church back to St. Gwenllian. - -She glanced up at him, and in the look that met hers she found all the -reassurance that she was ever to need. - -“A new life, and a new world, my Val. We’re going to face things -together, now.” - -She was no longer afraid or doubtful, but felt the strangest rush of -pure exhilaration. - -It was her justification for the past. - -“A new life, and a new world,” she repeated. “We’re going to be very -happy, in spite of everything that’s happened.” - -“We _are_ very happy,” said George Cuscaden firmly, her hand held fast -in his. - -“I think they’ll forgive me, at home, in time. Father was very kind -last night, and Flossie and Lucilla have been so good.” - -“Val, my darling,” said the young man very seriously, “there’s one -thing I do want to say, and you mustn’t mind. You’ve got to leave the -past behind you, now. Isn’t there something or other in the Bible about -forgetting thy father’s house and thine own people?” - -“Something like that.” - -“Well, I don’t really mean forgetting them, you know. But you’ve got -your own life now, and it isn’t going to run on the old lines any more. -It seems to me there’s been such a lot of talking and thinking in your -life up to now, that there’s been no room for doing anything. You and -I are going to change all that.” - -“Yes, George,” said Valeria. - -She had, mysteriously, become absolutely happy and absolutely secure. -Nothing mattered any more at all except the fact that George and she -had found one another in time. - -And she was able to surmise, not without a smile, that she had that -moment heard almost the only Scriptural quotation from her husband of -which he was ever likely to deliver himself. - -Quotations, collections, barren discussions, abstract ideals, all lay -behind her. In future her preoccupations would concern the health and -welfare of her husband and perhaps his children, food and clothing and -warmth, pots and pans, and the work of her own hands. - -And from the depths of her heart, Valeria was glad. - - - - -II - -ADRIAN - - -(i) - -“You know, I can’t help thinking you’ve been all wrong about this -business of Val’s,” Adrian said reproachfully to his remaining sisters. - -Lucilla seemed singularly undisturbed by the distressing pronouncement, -but Flora said anxiously: - -“Why, Adrian?” - -“Well, look how frightfully hard it is on the rest of us. You know what -Father is--he’ll be days and days, if not months and months, getting -over this, and it’ll put him dead against anything of that sort for -life.” - -“These things don’t happen twice in one family, I hope,” said Lucilla. -“Neither Flora nor I are particularly likely to break off one -engagement and enter into another and get married and go off to Canada, -all inside a week.” - -“You girls never think of anybody but yourselves.” - -“Are you thinking of doing anything like that, then, Adrian?” - -Lucilla appeared mildly to be amused, and not at all impressed by the -probability of her own suggestion. - -“How can I think of doing anything at all when I can’t get a decent job -and only have a nominal allowance? I know Father can’t afford more, -and we’re all in the same box--and then Val goes and marries a chap -like Cuscaden, who hasn’t a penny, when she could have had a fellow -with a decent little property and some money of his own, besides what I -suppose he makes by writing. Why, just think what she could have done -for all of us!” - -Lucilla laughed outright. - -“It wouldn’t have made millionaires of us, if she had married Owen.” - -“Well, I can’t say I blame her, from one point of view,” Adrian -conceded. “A more absolute prig than Owen has turned into, I never wish -to meet. You know he won’t promise me the living at Stear?” - -“The living at Stear?” - -Flora looked at her brother in all but speechless astonishment, and -Lucilla observed that a living was usually offered to a clergyman. - -“And is there any reason why I shouldn’t go into the Church?” Adrian -enquired, in counter-irony. “Goodness knows there was enough talk -about it before the war, and it would please the governor frightfully. -In fact, really, I’m thinking of him as much as anything. He was -disappointed about old David going into the army, and he’s frightfully -cut up about Val, and he may as well get a little comfort out of one of -us. And I really don’t dislike the idea much, especially if it means a -settled income in a year or two’s time.” - -Lucilla got up. - -“Talk to Mr. Clover, before you say anything to Father,” she advised. -“Flossie, I’m going to see about Val’s class.” - -Flora looked at Adrian with grave, unhumourous eyes. - -“You don’t realize what Father would feel about your speaking of going -into the priesthood in that sort of way, Adrian. You have no faintest -vocation to the life of a clergyman.” - -“What do you know about it? I’m the only person who can judge of that.” - -“It lies between you and your conscience, certainly. But if you suppose -that Father, with all his experience, would be satisfied with any but -the highest motives----” - -She stopped expressively. - -“There may be different opinions as to what the highest motives _are_,” -said Adrian. “I wish this business of Val’s hadn’t put it out of the -question to ask Owen anything.” - -“Owen is coming to Stear in another month. I am quite certain that -he doesn’t mean to let this make any difference, and you can ask him -anything you want to. But really and truly, Adrian, if this suggestion -wasn’t so absolutely wild, I should call it most irreverent.” - -It was evident that Flora had uttered the most profound condemnation of -which she was capable. - -That night she enquired of Lucilla whether it was Adrian’s infatuation -for Miss Duffle that brought to birth his strangely sudden desire for -clerical life. - -“I suppose so.” - -“But apart from everything else, he’s much too young to marry. And I -don’t suppose she’d look at him.” - -“Neither do I. So we needn’t worry about it.” - -“I feel as if Adrian was somebody quite new, whom I’d never known -before.” - -“He’s only growing up.” - -“Does Father really know Adrian?” - -Lucilla shook her head. - -Both missed Valeria, and the mournful haste with which she had been -equipped for her wedding and immediate departure for Canada had left -them with a curious sense of having come through a great catastrophe. - -The Canon was more profoundly depressed than they had ever seen him, -and rarely spoke. The reduced number of people present at every meal -rendered more significant the abysmal silences of each gathering. - -Owen Quentillian, who had shown no marked disposition to take an -immediate departure from St. Gwenllian, had been constrained to do so -by the Canon’s grieved air of perceiving for him no other alternative. - -The house bore a stricken aspect. - -Only Adrian retained a sort of uneasy jauntiness, that petered away -into silence in the presence of his father. - -Canon Morchard’s presence, however, was far more withdrawn than usual -from his family circle. Always energetic, he seemed able to find -innumerable claims upon his time, and after the daily adjustment of -these, the study door was apt to shut upon him decisively. - -At dinner-time only were they certain of seeing him, and the resultant -gloom was of a nature that induced Adrian, far more affected by it -than either of his sisters appeared to be, to invite the innocuous Mr. -Clover to dinner very soon after Valeria’s departure. - -The curate was always ready to promote conversation, and sincerely -supposed that his efforts must be consolatory to his hosts. His -attempts took the form habitual to him of slightly self-evident remarks -upon whatever caught his eye in his surroundings. - -“Ha! Clover, dear man!” The Canon’s voice was sepulchral, rather than -cordial. “Sit ye down--sit ye down.” - -Mr. Clover made a few timid remarks to his neighbour, Flora, and wished -that it had been Lucilla. He was always rather frightened of the silent -Flora, and showed his alarmed consciousness of her musical talent by -inquiring: - -“And how is the piano?” - -“What have we here, Lucilla?” said the Canon gravely, although the dish -of cutlets was of an unmistakable nature. - -He often made use of the phrase, and on this occasion it bore an -inflexion of disapproval that was evidently not inspired by the cutlets -themselves, but by some inner, more profound discontent. - -“Cutlets in a silver dish,” said Mr. Clover. - -“Do you know that the Admastons are getting up a theatrical show?” -Adrian inquired. “Good idea, isn’t it?” - -“I didn’t know any of them could act,” said Flora. - -“Oh, they’ve got friends and people. I tell you who’s awfully -good--Olga Duffle. She’s going to stay on for the performance. As a -matter of fact, they’ve asked me to help get the thing up.” - -Adrian’s elaborately casual tone did not prevent anyone except Lucilla -from glancing surreptitiously at the Canon, to see how the announcement -was received. - -The Canon was frowning heavily. - -“No one has more sympathy than myself with any diversions for young -people, but the modern craze for amusement is carried too far. What is -it that your friends are proposing to do, Adrian?” - -“Just get up a musical show--a sort of Pierrot entertainment. It’ll be -mostly singing and dancing, I expect.” - -“I presume they have a charitable object in view.” - -“I suppose so,” returned Adrian, in a tone that conveyed with -sufficient accuracy to the majority of his hearers that he had no -reason for supposing anything of the sort. - -“The youth of today is an amazement to me,” said the Canon -impressively. “After coming through Armageddon, the young men and -young women of the present generation seem given over to a spirit -of triviality--I can call it nothing else--that amazes me. There -is no humour, today, there is ‘ragging’ or ‘rotting.’ There is no -dancing--there is ‘fox-trotting,’ and ‘jazzing.’ There is no dressing, -with beauty and dignity, for young womanhood--there is blatant -indecency and an aping of a class that I cannot even name in this room. -There is no art, no drama, no literature--there are _revues_, and a new -class of novel of which I cannot even trust myself to speak.” - -The Canon drew a long breath and Adrian murmured sub-audibly: - -“And fifthly, and lastly----” - -Mr. Clover gazed at the bowl in the middle of the table and said: - -“Very--very--nice maidenhair,” in a rapid undertone, and Canon Morchard -resumed: - -“I yield to no one, as you young folk here should readily admit, in my -appreciation of the lighter side of life. I believe, indeed, that I -have poked some shrewd enough fun in my day, at those who would have us -believe that this world is a gloomy place. Rather would I say, in the -old words we all know: ‘A merry heart goes all the way, but a sad one -tires in a mile’--ah! You children can very well vouch for the amount -of innocent amusement and recreation that has gone on amongst us. Our -Sunday walks, our collecting crazes, our family quips in which young -and old have taken full share--with deference due, be it understood, -with deference due--our evening readings-aloud--I think all these, -if they have been an entertainment, have also provided a certain -instruction. And that is as it should be, let me tell you, young -people--as it should be.” - -“My father read aloud the whole of the Waverly novels to us, when we -were children,” Lucilla explained to the curate. - -“Nowadays, I am given to understand that children read an illustrated -supplement entitled _Comic Cuts_,” said the Canon bitterly. - -“Pretty Wedgwood plate,” came in an aside from Mr. Clover. - -“There is a reaction even against Tennyson, that king of song,” -thundered the Canon. - -“Most of all against Tennyson, according to Owen Quentillian,” said -Adrian rather maliciously. - -“Owen is tainted by the folly of the day, undoubtedly--but I cannot but -believe that a young man of intellectual calibre such as his will learn -to distinguish the true from the false in time. Owen is ‘the child of -many prayers,’” said the Canon with a sudden softening of his voice. - -A moment later he sighed heavily. - -The direction of his thoughts was only too evidently concerned with the -recent disastrous turn taken by Quentillian’s _affaire de cœur_. - -“What is the programme of your friends’ entertainment?” the curate -timorously inquired of Adrian. - -“Well, they’ve not really worked out the details yet, but I’ve been -asked to go over there this afternoon and help them settle. Of course, -Miss Duffle will sing, and she’s promised to do a step-dance, and she -and I thought of getting up a play of some kind.” - -“You are not in a position to bind yourself to anything of that sort, -Adrian,” said the Canon hastily. “I would have you realize that this -supineness cannot go on. You appear to forget that you have to find -some work for yourself.” - -It was so seldom that Canon Morchard vented his feelings upon his -younger son that an appalled silence followed his words, rendering them -the more noticeable. - -Then Mr. Clover said: - -“Half-past eight,” in time to the chiming of the clock on the -mantelpiece, and there was another silence. - -Adrian looked sulky, and Flora nervous. The curate gazed across the -table at Lucilla and inquired: - -“What news from India?” - -It was the head of the house who replied. - -“David is strangely lax as a correspondent, Clover, strangely lax. -Flora there is favoured with a letter more often than most of us--or -should I rather say, less seldom? And yet it costs so little to send a -few lines regularly to the loving ones at home! You young folk little -think what you are laying up for yourselves in the years to come by -neglecting tokens that may appear trivial at the time. The unspoken -kind word, the unwritten affectionate letter--how they come back to -haunt us later on!” - -It almost appeared that these non-existent symbols were haunting St. -Gwenllian at once, so heavily did the shadow of David’s remissness hang -over the dinner table. - -The Canon alternated between fits of profound and cataclysmic silence, -during which he ate nothing and his eyes became grave and fixed in -their unhappiness, and outbursts of vehement discoursiveness, that not -infrequently took the form of rhetorical remonstrances addressed to an -audience only too willing to agree with him. - -The consciousness of his grief pervaded the atmosphere. No one could be -unaware of it. His children, indeed, knew of old the successive stages -of anger, morose irritability, and heart-broken remorse, to which -mental suffering reduced their father. - -Mr. Clover’s ineptitudes fell upon tense pauses, and remained -unanswered. - -Gradually the little man’s kind, anxious face showed a faint reflection -of the misery that was so plainly to be read upon the Canon’s. - -Flora’s face looked set in its gravity, Adrian was frankly sulky and -resentful, and Lucilla’s impassivity was tinged with regretfulness. - -Outside sounds struck almost with violence upon the silence within, and -Mr. Clover murmured distressfully: - -“A motor going along the road, towards the town.” - -“The craze for rapid transport is ruining our English countryside,” -said the Canon. “Frankly, I cannot away with it. What profit or -pleasure can there be in whirling past unseen scenery, leaving clouds -of dust and an evil odour behind?” - -No one attempted to defend the satisfaction to be derived from the -pastime so epitomized, and the Canon after a moment pushed back his -chair. - -“Don’t move--do not move on any account. Clover, you will pardon me, I -know. I have a great deal of writing to get through. I shall require no -coffee, Lucilla.” - -He went out of the room, unsmiling, and with a slow, dejected step, his -grey head a little bowed forward. - -“How long is this going to last?” inquired Adrian, after a moment. - -No one attempted to misunderstand his meaning. - -“The worst of it is that he’ll be still more unhappy a little later on, -when he realizes that his depression has reacted on all of us,” said -Flora. - -“In the meantime, Adrian, I strongly advise you to find a job and begin -to work at it,” Lucilla added. - -“Your father is very, very much depressed,” said Mr. Clover. - -Adrian appeared to ponder these encouraging statements, and then he -observed: - -“Well, I don’t seem to be doing any good by staying here, so I think -the best thing I can do is to accept the Admastons’ invitation and go -over there and stay until after this show. It’ll be much handier for -rehearsals, after all.” - -It may be supposed that this reason, however adequate in fact, was not -put forward, unsupported, by Lucilla, upon whom Adrian as a matter of -course devolved the task of announcing his immediate intentions to the -Canon. - -“Let it be understood that he makes no further engagement of the kind,” -said the Canon curtly. “I cannot interfere with his promise to these -people, but this state of affairs must end. I will speak to him before -he goes. Adrian is only a boy still, for all his war experience.” - -There was the indulgent note in his voice that always crept there -sooner or later when speaking of his youngest son. - -Adrian went to the Admastons, and St. Gwenllian became used to the -silence. Gradually the Canon resumed his habits of reading aloud after -dinner, and of exchanging small items of general and parish news with -his family during meals. - -He seldom mentioned Valeria, but they knew that he had written to her. - -He spoke of her again when an invitation came from the Admastons to -witness their entertainment--an invitation which Adrian, it was evident -to his sisters, cheerfully took it for granted that his father would -refuse. - -“It is very soon--very soon, indeed--to meet our neighbours after this -unhappy affair of Valeria’s, that I fear has been only too much talked -about. But it may be right to accept--it may be right. I cannot wish -to disappoint the dear Adrian, either, though I am out of tune with -gaieties at present. I will think over it, Lucilla, my dear, and let -you know what answer to return.” - -Lucilla, according to her wont, uttered no opinion, until Flora said to -her: - -“Wouldn’t it be better if we didn’t go to these theatricals? Won’t -Father dislike them very much?” - -“Very much indeed, I should imagine.” - -“And do you suppose Adrian _wants_ us to be there?” - -“Probably not.” - -They looked at one another, Lucilla with a certain rueful -humourousness, Flora with none at all. - -“But, Lucilla, can’t you stop him?” - -“I shouldn’t think so.” - -Miss Morchard was always philosophical, rather than enterprising. - -The Canon’s decision was communicated to his daughters a few days later. - -“I have pondered this matter, my daughters, trivial though it be in -itself. And it seems to me that we should do well to accept Mrs. -Admaston’s invitation. Lucilla, you are my secretary.... And one thing -more, my daughters.” - -The Canon’s glance rested upon Flora, upon whose face a shade of dismay -had fallen. - -“One thing more. ‘_God loveth a cheerful giver._’ Even though it costs -us something, let us go with a good grace. We owe it to Valeria, to our -dear erring one, to show that she is whole-heartedly forgiven. Yes, I -can say it now, children. I have written my full and free forgiveness -to your sister. The cloud has lifted.” - -If so, it appeared to have done so only with a view to descending upon -other members of the Morchard _ménage_. - -Neither Lucilla nor Flora prepared for the Admastons’ party with any -feelings save those of profound apprehension, and Adrian, meeting them -in the hall, drew Lucilla aside in order to ask indignantly: - -“Couldn’t you have stopped Father from coming tonight? I don’t want to -be a beast, but really, it’s quite out of his line, and he won’t enjoy -himself. In fact, he’ll probably be sick.” - -The aspirant to the ministry was garbed as a Pierrot, with a -curiously-shaped black patch upon his cheek, revealed as a miniature -couple of dancers intertwined. - -“Olga made it--isn’t it ripping?” said Adrian of this masterpiece. “I -can’t wait--I ought to be behind the scenes at this minute. I came to -look for some salts or something--Olga’s most awfully nervous. She’s -simply shaking. What’s the proper thing to do for her, Lucilla? She’s -really most awfully upset.” - -“What about?” - -“Stage fright, I tell you. Really good actors and actresses always get -it. I wish I could get hold of some champagne for her.” - -“Try standing over her with the water-jug,” Lucilla suggested crisply, -and thereby deprived herself of her brother’s presence. - -The Canon was always apt, at any gathering, to require a daughter upon -either side, although he knew almost everyone in the county, and met -old friends with a great and urbane pleasure. On this occasion, his eye -roved in vain for Flora. - -She had murmured to Lucilla: “I don’t think I can bear it. Even Maud -Admaston says they’re all going to be very _silly_, and I know Father -will loathe it. I’ll change places later if you want me to.” - -She had then disappeared to the very back of the large billiard-room at -one end of which a stage and curtains had been erected. - -Their hostess, with what Lucilla inwardly qualified as misguided -kindness, conducted the Canon to a seat near the top of the room. - -Lucilla resignedly took her place beside him. - -“Capital, capital!” said the Canon genially. “But where is my little -Flora?” - -“I think she found someone who wanted to talk to her.” - -“Flora is still timid--very timid. I fear that Flora has let slip her -chance of joining our little family group. I should have enjoyed having -a daughter on either side of me, to exchange impressions.” - -The first item on the heterogeneous programme, however, was provocative -of no very eloquent exchange of impressions between Canon Morchard and -anyone else. - -He listened with a faint air of surprise to an opening chorus from a -row of Pierrots and Pierrettes, interspersed with various noises from -a whistle, a comb, a pair of castanets, and a small and solid poker -banged loudly and intermittently against a tin tray. - -At the close of it he only said: - -“I hardly recognized our dear lad, at first. That was he, was it not, -at the end of the row, next to the little lady with black hair?” - -“Yes. The girl was Olga Duffle. I believe she sings a great deal.” - -The literal truth of her own description was borne in upon Lucilla as -the evening went on. Miss Duffle did sing a great deal. - -She sang a solo about the Moon, and another one about a Coal-black Baby -Rose, and a third one, very short and modern and rather indeterminate, -asking where was now the Flow’r, that had died within an Hour, and -ending on the still more poignant enquiry, addressed to _le Bon Dieu_ -Above, Where was one who said “I love”? - -The Canon, to this item, only asked in a puzzled way if the end was not -rather abrupt? - -“What in my day, we should have termed an unresolved discord,” he -observed with some slight severity. - -The sudden introduction of a quantity of toy balloons amongst the -audience did not amuse him in the least, although he smiled, coldly and -politely, as the guests, with little screams, buffeted them lightly -from one to another. - -Only the people on the stage, all very young, seemed thoroughly to -realize the function of the toy balloons. - -They banged them hither and thither, shrieking with laughter when -the inevitable destruction ensued, and making each miniature -explosion an excuse for calling out the catchword of the -evening--imported from a _revue_ comedian whose methods, more -or less successfully imitated by most of the young men on the -stage, appeared to consist in the making of grotesque facial -contortions:--“May--I--ask--you--politely--to--_absquatulate_?” - -At each repetition of the phrase, the actors and actresses were -overcome with mirth. - -The members of the audience were more divided in their opinions. -Their laughter was not immoderate, and that of Canon Morchard was -non-existent. - -Lucilla, gazing anxiously at his severe profile, was yet able to feel -it some slight relief that at least Owen Quentillian was not present. -One such expression of melancholy beside her was more than enough. - -“I hope I am not what is vulgarly called ‘superior’,” said the Canon, -“but I confess that all this noise appears to me to be little short of -senseless. Surely our faculties were given us for some better purpose -than pointless, discordant merriment? No one is more ready than myself -to concede----” - -The upheaval of an enormous drum on to the stage debarred Lucilla -from hearing what it was that no one was more ready than her father -to concede, and she was left, amidst ever-increasing din, to judge -from his exceedingly uncompromising expression, how much more of -the performance would elapse without causing him to become what was -vulgarly called superior. - - -(ii) - -Lucilla Morchard was not naturally of a sanguine disposition, and it -must have been an optimist indeed who would have ventured to augur that -the effect of the evening’s entertainment might be of benefit to the -Canon’s spirits. - -From placidity he passed to tolerance, and from tolerance to endurance. -In the course of the short play that concluded the performance, Lucilla -perceived with resigned dismay that endurance was turning rapidly to -serious vexation. - -“Extravagant, vulgar, decadent nonsense,” was the Canon’s verdict, and -Lucilla’s critical faculty endorsed the trenchant adjectives that he -had selected, although she was devoid of her parent’s apparently acute -sense of disgust. - -“Olga Duffle is a good actress,” she said. - -“One dislikes the _levity_ of it all so profoundly,” said the Canon. “I -believe I am the last man in the world to hold back from any cheerful, -innocent amusement at fit and proper times and seasons, but I cannot -but regret that Adrian, naturally gifted as he is, should turn his -talents to no better account than mere buffoonery.” - -The part relegated to Adrian in the little play was indeed of no -exalted order, and the most subtle display of humour conceded to him -was concerned with the sudden removal of a chair behind him and his -consequent fall on to the floor. - -The audience laughed, with mild amusement. - -Lucilla dared not look at her father. - -A spirited speech from Olga Duffle, who had shown no signs whatever of -the stage fright that had caused her fellow-actor so much solicitude, -brought down the curtain. Lucilla’s applause was rendered vigorous by -an impulse of extreme thankfulness. - -She was also grateful to the Canon for the measured clapping of the -palm of one hand against the back of the other, with which he rewarded -a performance that he had certainly found to be neither instructive nor -amusing. - -Adrian sought no parental congratulations, when the performers, still -in theatrical costume, came down amongst the audience, but Olga Duffle -made her way towards the Canon. - -She looked, as usual, more attractive than any of the prettier girls -present, and spoke with her habitual childlike, almost imperceptible, -suggestion of lisping. - -“Didn’t you think us all very silly? I’m afraid we were, but so few -people care for anything else, nowadays.” - -Her glance and gesture eloquently numbered the Canon in the few, though -she did not extend the implication quite so far as to include Lucilla. - -“You are a good actress, Miss Duffle. Have you had training?” - -“Oh, no, nothing to speak of,” said Olga modestly. “They did offer to -give me a year at the big Dramatic Training place, free, after I’d -acted in a charity matinée a few years ago in London. They said I could -easily play juvenile lead in any theatre in London at the end of a -year, but of course that was all nonsense. Anyway my people naturally -wouldn’t hear of it.” - -“Indeed. Certainly it is a very moot point how far the possession -of a definite talent justifies embracing a life such as that of a -professional actress must needs be.” - -“Yes, isn’t it?” said Olga. - -Her big dark eyes were fixed on the Canon’s face, her lips parted with -the expression of absorbed interest that lent her charm as a listener. - -Lucilla was not surprised to see that the Canon’s face relaxed as he -looked down at the small up-gazing figure. - -She left them, in response to an imperious glance directed upon her -from the other end of the room. - -“I particularly want the old man to get to know Olga,” said Adrian with -agitation. “It’d do him all the good in the world to have some of his -ideas about the modern girl put straight, and if anyone can do it, she -can. Wasn’t it priceless of her to make straight for him like that?” - -“Perhaps she likes to talk to a distinguished man.” - -“My dear old thing, don’t be absurd. Why, Olga has half London at her -feet.” - -Lucilla felt unable to make any display of enthusiasm at the -announcement, although she saw no reason to doubt that a substratum of -fact underlay Adrian’s hyperbole. - -“I suppose Father thought the whole show utter tripe?” - -“He didn’t say so,” Lucilla observed drily. - -“Well, for goodness sake get him away as soon as Olga’s had her talk -with him. The Admastons are determined to turn the whole thing into -a glorious rag, and it’ll go on till all hours. Father would be -wretched, and besides I should have him on my mind the whole time. I -daresay I shan’t have many more opportunities of enjoying myself, so -I may as well make the most of this,” said Adrian in a voice charged -with meaning, that Lucilla understood to be an allusion to his recent -ecclesiastical ambitions. - -When she found herself beside her father again, he was in conversation -with a short, fat, dark man whom he made known to his daughter with a -somewhat abstracted air. - -“Mr. Duffle, Lucilla.” - -She was rather amused at the ease with which Olga’s parentage could -be traced, although in her, a _retroussé_ nose replaced the wide and -upturned pug of her father, and her dark, intelligent gaze was an -unmistakably improved edition of his shrewd black eyes. From both faces -shone the same ardent, restless, and essentially animal, vitality. - -Mr. Duffle, however, had none of Olga’s claims to social charms and -talents. Lucilla knew him to be a successful building contractor, who -had amassed a fortune during the war, and decided that he looked the -part. - -“I’ll come along one morning then, Canon, and have a little chat with -you,” Mr. Duffle was declaring with a breezy assurance that could -hardly have been derived from the Canon’s expression. - -“You’re kept pretty hard at it, I daresay?” - -“The man who wants me is the man I want,” quoted the Canon, with his -grave smile. - -“Capital. I’ll blow along then, and give you a call. My big car is -in London, but we’ve got a little Daimler down here that does very -well for country lanes. My daughter, of course, runs her own little -two-seater. These young people, nowadays, there’s no end to what they -expect. Not that I grudge Olga anything in reason, you understand. -She’s our only one, and naturally her mother and I think the world of -her.” - -A very simple pride beamed in his face as he spoke of Olga, and Lucilla -congratulated him upon her acting. - -“She’s pretty good, isn’t she? I believe she could take her place -amongst professionals any day, so she tells me. But of course we -shouldn’t hear of anything like that for her. In fact, her mother and I -look very high for our little girl, very high indeed, I may say, after -all that Nature’s done for her, and the advantages we’ve given her as -well.” - -He laughed heartily, and then leaning confidentially towards Lucilla he -said in a semi-whisper: - -“Whoever gets our little Olga, young lady, will be a very lucky fellow. -There’ll be a little bit of--” he tapped his forehead knowingly “and -a little bit of--” the tap was repeated, against his coat pocket this -time. Lucilla required no very acute powers of intuition to refer these -demonstrations to her brother’s intention. - -She wondered whether the Canon had made a similar deduction. - -He was silent during their long drive home, but it was the silence of -thoughtfulness rather than that of depression. The Canon’s intimates -could generally interpret without difficulty the nature of his -silences. - -On the morning following he called Lucilla into the study. - -“I had no word with Adrian last night,” he said wistfully. “I saw you -talking to him, my dear. Did he tell you what day he is coming home -again?” - -“No, Father.” - -“I confess that I am perturbed. Are these new friends of his -gentlefolk, are they church people, are they even Christians?” said the -Canon, walking up and down. “If only the boy would be more unreserved -with me! One is so terribly anxious.” - -“I don’t think he wants to be reserved. He really has no serious -suggestion to offer, as to the future.” - -“My poor lad! He is not sufficiently in earnest. I have blinded myself -to it long enough. His early piety and simplicity were so beautiful -that perhaps I dwelt upon them as tokens of future growth more than I -should have done. But there was a levity of tone about these intimates -of his that displeased me greatly. It must cease, Lucilla--this -intercourse must cease.” - -Lucilla dreaded few things more than such resolutions, from which she -knew that her father, at whatever cost to himself or to anybody else, -never swerved. - -“The Admastons are neighbours,” she pointed out. - -“All the more reason for Adrian to be content to meet them in the -ordinary course of events, without treating their house as an hotel. -But there is a further attraction, Lucilla, I am convinced of it.” - -The Canon dropped his voice to impart his piece of penetration. - -“That little Miss Duffle is undoubtedly attractive, but can the boy -have the incredible folly to be paying his addresses to her?” - -It did not seem to Lucilla that any such formal term could possibly be -applied to Adrian’s highly modern methods of displaying his admiration -for Olga, and she informed her father so with decision. - -“He must at all events be aware that he is in no position to render -any young lady conspicuous by his attentions,” said the Canon. “I am -displeased with Adrian, Lucilla.” - -Canon Morchard was not alone in his displeasure. Two days after the -theatricals, Olga Duffle’s father appeared at St. Gwenllian, and was -shown into the study. - -The Canon greeted him, his habitual rather stately courtesy in strong -contrast to his visitor’s bluff curtness of manner. - -“Sit you down, my dear sir.” - -The Canon took his own place on the revolving chair before the -writing-table, and the tips of his fingers were lightly joined together -as he bent his gaze, benignant, and yet serious, upon the little -building contractor. - -“You’ve got a nice little old place here. Needs a lot of seeing to, -though, I daresay. I see you haven’t the electric light.” - -The Canon glanced round him as though he had hardly noticed, as indeed -he had not, the absence of this modern advantage. - -“It wouldn’t cost you more than a couple of hundred to put it in,” said -Mr. Duffle negligently. - -The Canon was not in the least interested in the problematical expense -to be thus incurred, but he replied gently that perhaps one of these -days his successor might wish to improve St. Gwenllian, and be in a -position to do so. - -“Ah,” said Mr. Duffle. “That brings me to my point, in a roundabout -sort of way. Your young man, Canon, has no particular inheritance to -look forward to, if I understand rightly?” - -“My young man?” - -“Your boy Adrian. Not even your eldest son, is he?” - -“Adrian is the youngest of my five children,” said the Canon with -peculiar distinctness. “I have two sons and three daughters. May I -enquire the reason of this interest in my family?” - -“No offense, I hope, Canon. I thought you’d have guessed the reason -fast enough--my girl Olga. Now mind you, I know very well that boys -will be boys, and girls girls, for the matter of that. I’m not even -saying that the little monkey hasn’t led him on a bit--she leads -’em all on, come to that! But Master Adrian has been talking of an -engagement, it seems, and that won’t do at all, you know. So I thought -you and me, Canon----” - -“Stop!” The Canon’s face was rigid. “Am I to understand that your -daughter has reason to complain that my son presses undesired -attentions upon her, or causes their names to be coupled together in a -manner displeasing to her?” - -The builder’s stare was one of honest bewilderment. - -“Coupled together!” he repeated derisively. “Why, the lad follows her -about like a little dog. I should think old Matthew Admaston is as easy -going as they make ’em, but even he thought it a bit thick to have -your young moon-calf, if you’ll excuse the expression, on his doorstep -morning, noon and night, while my girl was in the house, till they had -to ask him to stay, to save the front-door bell coming off in his hand.” - -Mr. Duffle’s humourous extravagance of imagery awoke no response in -Canon Morchard. - -“My son’s impertinent folly shall be put a stop to immediately,” he -said, through closely compressed lips. - -“Bless me! there’s nothing that needs a rumpus made about it, you -understand. Only when it comes to prating about being engaged, and -promising to marry him in goodness knows how many years, and goodness -knows what on--why, then it’s time us older folk stepped in, I think, -and I’m sure you’ll agree with me.” - -“Do I understand that my son--without reference to me, I may add--has -asked Miss Duffle to do him the honour of becoming his wife?” - -Mr. Duffle stared at the Canon blankly. - -“Ill though he seems to have behaved, you will hardly expect me to -accept, on his behalf, an entire rejection of his suit, without -reference to the young lady herself.” - -A resounding blow from Mr. Duffle’s open palm onto his knee startled -the Canon and made him jump in his chair. - -“Good God!” roared the builder, causing Canon Morchard to wince a -second time, “is this talk out of a novel? How in the name of all -that’s reasonable can the boy marry without a profession or an income? -I’ll do him the justice to say that I’ve never thought him a fortune -hunter. (He’s not got the guts for that, if you’ll excuse me being so -plain-spoken.) He’s besotted about the girl, and not the first one -either, though I do say it myself. But my Olga is our only child, and -will get every penny I have to leave, and the fact of the matter is -that she’ll be a rich woman one of these days, in a manner of speaking. -Therefore, Canon, you’ll understand me when I say that Olga can look -high--very high, she can look.” - -The Canon’s countenance did, indeed, show the most complete -comprehension of the case so stated. His face, in its stern pallor, -became more cameo-like than ever. - -“Sir, do you accuse my son of trifling, of the unutterable meanness of -endeavouring to engage a young lady’s affections without any reasonable -prospect of asking her in marriage like an honourable man?” - -“Bless me, Canon, I don’t accuse the young fellow of anything, except -of being a bit of an ass,” said the builder. “I daresay it’s been six -of one and half a dozen of the other. He’s a nice-looking boy, and -all this play-acting has thrown them together, like; but that’s over -now, and Olga comes back to London with us next week. But I thought -I’d throw you a hint,” said Mr. Duffle delicately, “so that there’s -no nonsense about following us to town, or anything of that sort. Her -mother’s going to speak to Olga about it, too. Bless me, it’s not the -first time we’ve had to nip a little affair of this sort in the bud. -The fellows are round our little girl like flies round a honey-pot. We -give her a loose rein, too, in a manner of speaking, but as the wife -pointed out to me last night, it only keeps off better chances if a -girl is always seen about with lads who don’t mean business.” - -The Canon groaned deeply, and Mr. Duffle, fearing himself -misunderstood, hastily interposed: - -“Don’t run away with the idea that I’ve anything against the boy, now, -Canon. I’m sure if he was only a year or two older, in a good job, and -with a little something to look to later on, I’d be only too glad of -the connection. But as things are, I’m sure as a family man yourself -you see my point.” - -He looked almost pleadingly at the Canon as he spoke. - -“You did perfectly right to come to me, Mr. Duffle; you did perfectly -right. Unspeakably painful though this conversation has been to me, I -fully recognize the necessity for it.” - -If Mr. Duffle still looked perplexed, he also looked relieved. - -“That’s right, Canon. I felt you and me would understand one another. -After all, we’ve been young ourselves, haven’t we, and I daresay -we’ve chased a pretty pair of ankles or said more than we meant on a -moonlight night, both of us, once upon a time.” - -So far did Canon Morchard appear to be from endorsing this view of a -joint past that his visitor added an extenuation. - -“Of course, before you turned parson, naturally, I mean. I know you -take your job seriously, if you’ll excuse me passing a personal remark, -and that’s not more than’s needed nowadays. There’s no idea of young -Adrian going in for the clerical line, I suppose?” - -“What I have heard today would be enough to convince me that it is out -of the question,” said the Canon bitterly. “But my son has evinced no -such desire.” - -“H’m. There was some nonsense talked amongst the young people about a -fat living at Stear being ready for him if he chose to step into it. -I daresay there was nothing in it but a leg-pull, as they say. In any -case, my girl wouldn’t look at a country parson. No offence to you, -Canon, but it’s best to have these things out in plain English.” - -“Enough,” said the Canon with decision. “You may rest assured that my -son will cease this insensate persecution of----” - -“Excuse me interrupting, but why make a mountain out of a molehill? -There’s been no persecution or any of that talk out of books, in the -case. Why, my Olga can’t help making eyes at a good-looking lad, and -letting him squeeze her hand every now and then.” - -The Canon gave utterance, irrepressibly, to yet another groan. - -Mr. Duffle looked at him with compassion. - -“Why make a mountain out of a molehill, as I said before?” he repeated. -“There’s been no harm done, except maybe a little gossiping among the -Admaston lot, and if you tip the wink to your lad, and mother and I -trot Olga back to London again, we needn’t hear any more of it. We’re -old-fashioned people, and brought up the child old-fashioned, and she’s -not one of these modern young women who can’t live at home. I give her -the best of everything, and a pretty long rope, but she knows that as -long as she’s living under my roof and spending my money she’s got to -obey me and her mother when we _do_ give an order.” - -The builder’s face, momentarily dogged, relaxed again and he laughed -jovially. - -“Though I’m not saying the little puss can’t get most things out of us -by coaxing! But we’re set on a good marriage for her, that I tell you -straight.” - -“There is only one foundation for the sacrament of marriage,” said the -Canon sombrely, “and that is mutual love, trust and esteem.” - -“Quite, quite; the wife always takes that line herself. ‘When the -heart is given, let the hand follow,’ she always says, and Olga knows -well enough that she’ll have a free choice, within reason. But love in -a cottage isn’t her style, and things being as they are, there’s no -reason, as I said before, why she shouldn’t look high. She’s a sensible -girl, too, and if there is a bit of the flirt about her, she doesn’t -lose her head. I will say that for her.” - -“I wish that I could say the same of my son,” bitterly rejoined the -Canon. - -“Well, well, don’t be too hard on the lad. Human nature is human -nature all the world over, is what I always say. All the parsons in -Christendom can’t alter that, if you’ll excuse the saying. It’s natural -enough your son should lose his head over a pretty girl like my Olga,” -said Miss Duffle’s parent indulgently. “All I mean is, that it must -stop there, and no nonsense about being engaged, or anything of that -kind.” - -“Do these unhappy young people consider themselves bound to one -another, as far as you know?” - -“Bless me, Canon, they’re not unhappy. At least, my Olga certainly -isn’t, and if your lad throws off a few heroics, he’ll soon get over -it. Why, I remember threatening to blow out my brains--as I chose to -call them--when I was no older than he is, and all for the sake of a -lady ten years older than myself, and married and the mother of three, -into the bargain!” - -Mr. Duffle was moved to hearty laughter at this reminiscence, although -it failed signally to produce the same exhilarating effect upon Canon -Morchard. - -Perhaps in consequence of this, his mirth died away spasmodically, with -a rather apologetic effect. - -“Well, well, Canon, take a tip from me, if I may suggest such a thing, -and don’t take this business too seriously. He’ll be head over ears in -love with somebody else before you can look round, and it’ll all be to -do over again.” - -Before this luminous vista of future amatory escapades, the builder -appeared to feel that the interview had better be brought to its -conclusion, and he rose. - -An evident desire to console and reassure his host possessed him. - -“Get the young fellow a job of work, if I may advise. It’s wonderful -how it steadies them down. He’ll have no time to run after the -petticoats when he’s tied by the leg to an office, or roughing it in -one of the Colonies.” - -“The choice of a career lies in my son’s own hands,” said the Canon -stiffly. “But you may rest assured, Mr. Duffle, that he will be allowed -no further occasion for misusing his time and abusing other people’s -hospitality as he appears to have been doing. I am obliged to you, -painful though this conversation has been to us both, for treating me -with so much frankness in the matter.” - -“Don’t mention it,” said Mr. Duffle. - -The Canon bowed slightly and escorted his visitor to the door. - -The Daimler car was in waiting, but the builder paused with one foot on -the step. - -“I’ll tell you one thing, Canon,” he remarked confidentially. - -The Canon, with extreme reluctance in his demeanour, signified -attention. - -“If you _should_ think of having that little improvement made to the -place that I suggested--you know, the electric light put in--I can tell -you the very people to go to--Blapton & Co. They’ve done a lot of work -for our firm, and they’ll do it as reasonable as you can hope for. -Don’t hesitate to mention my name.” - -He nodded, and got into the car. - -The Canon stood upon the front doorstep, his face pale and furrowed, -his lips compressed. - -“Stop!” shouted Mr. Duffle, suddenly thrusting his head from the window -of the slowly moving car. - -The Daimler stopped. - -Mr. Duffle descended from it nimbly and once more approached the Canon. - -He looked, for the first time, heated and confused. - -“It slipped my memory that I wanted to give you this trifle. Perhaps -you’ll see to some of those poor fellows who are out of work through -no fault of their own, having the handling of it for the wives and -kiddies. I’ve been lucky myself, and I never like to leave a place -without what I may call some sort of thanksgiving. Not a word, please. -Ta-ta.” - -The Daimler made another _sortie_, and the Canon was left, still -standing motionless on the doorstep, with the builder’s cheque for -twenty-five pounds in his hand. - - -(iii) - - “DEAR LUCILLA, - - “I think you’d better not expect me till you see me, if that’ll be - all right. I may be going up to London for a day or two when the - party breaks up here tomorrow, as I really must see about a job of - some kind. I’m sure Father will approve of this, so mind you tell - him it’s the reason. I hope he wasn’t frightfully sick at the way we - all played the fool the night of the show, but really it was his own - fault for coming, and if he didn’t like it, he must just do the other - thing. - - “Cheerio. - - “Yours, - “ADRIAN.” - - “MY DEAR ADRIAN, - - “It would be better if you could come back here before deciding to go - to London. Father is writing to you, and you will probably see from - his letter that he particularly wants you at home. I hope you are - not in trouble, but Father is certainly upset about something, and - you will only make matters worse by going off in a hurry. Besides, I - think he would quite likely follow you. - - “Your affectionate sister, - “LUCILLA MORCHARD.” - - “DEAR LUCILLA, - - “If you hear of me doing something _desperate_, you may tell Father - that he has only himself to thank! I now know what he and old Duffle - have been up to, between them, and I may tell you that I do not - intend to put up with this sort of thing any longer. Father doesn’t - seem to realize that I am a _man_, and in grim earnest over _some_ - things, and he and old Duffle have now utterly scotched my chances of - happiness for life, although I daresay without realizing what they - were doing. Olga is the only girl I shall ever love, and if I have - lost her I do not care what I do or what becomes of me, and you may - tell Father so. If this is what _religion_ leads to, you can also - tell him that I am utterly off it for life. That is what they have - done, by their interference with my affairs, because I am almost - sure Olga would at least have become engaged to me, if she had been - let alone, and not bullied by her father and mother, and threatened - with _poverty_ if she married me. As you know, it needn’t have been - anything of the sort, if my plans had worked out all right, and we - could have had Stear, but I am _completely_ off the Church, in any - shape or form, so that is what Father has done, whether he knows it - or not!!! - - “You will, I suppose, be upset at this letter being so bitter - in tone, but I may say that my faith in human nature is utterly - shattered for good and all, and this has been done by my own father!! - I am coming home on Monday and _not before_, so it’s no use father - dictating to me. - - “Yours, - “ADRIAN.” - - “MY DEAREST ADRIAN, - - “I don’t understand why Lucilla tells me that you are returning home - on Monday, when you know it is my wish, distinctly expressed in my - letter to you two days ago, that you should be here on Saturday, so - that we may spend the Sunday together. Unless you have a very valid - reason for disregarding my wishes, I must insist, for your own sake, - upon your complying with them. I do so want you to be _considerate_, - quite apart from the question of _dutifulness_--for instance, it is - quite a little thing, but you don’t say what time you are arriving - here, and yet you surely know that this makes a difference with - regard to questions of meals, etc., in a small household such as - ours. It is only want of thought, dear lad, but do try and correct - this fault. I have so often had to reprove myself for the like small - negligences that it makes me anxious to see the same tendency in you. - This is not a lecture, my dear boy, but only a _reminder_, from one - who has had to be both mother and father to you. - - “I have other, and very much more serious, matters to talk over with - you when we meet, but all shall be done in the spirit of love and - confidence, I do trust, and if I am obliged to inflict pain upon you, - you must remember that it is multiplied ten-fold upon my own head. - - “I shall expect a line, sent either to myself or to Lucilla, - announcing the hour of your arrival on _Saturday_. God by you, - dearest of lads, until we meet. - - “Your devoted - “FATHER.” - - “DEAR LUCILLA, - - “On second thoughts, I shall come home on Saturday, in time for - dinner. Most likely I shall go straight off to London on Monday - morning, but you needn’t say anything to Father about this. If you - can, persuade him to have up the port on Sunday night. - - “Yours, - “ADRIAN.” - -“Dear lad! He is all anxiety to do right, at bottom,” said the Canon -tenderly to Lucilla, when a censored version of this communication had -been passed on to him. “You see how readily he submits to returning on -Saturday, in order to please me.” - -If Lucilla thought this act of submission inspired by fear, rather than -by a desire to please, she did not say so. - -The Canon had said nothing to her of his interview with Mr. Duffle, and -made only one remark which might be held to refer to his visitor: - -“We are all of us apt to set a false value on appearances, I suspect. -Aye, my daughters, in spite of his ‘forty years in the wilderness,’ -it is so with your father. Trivial vulgarities, or mere superficial -coarseness, have blinded one time and again, till some sudden, -beautiful impulse or flash of generous delicacy comes to rebuke one. -Well, well--each mistake can be used as a rung of the ladder. Always -remember that.” - -That trivial vulgarities and superficial coarseness were -characteristics of Mr. Duffle was undeniable, but Lucilla deduced that -these had been redeemed in the manner suggested, since the builder’s -prolonged visit to her father had left him, though grave, singularly -calm. He had, indeed, summoned Adrian to St. Gwenllian, but his manner -showed none of the peculiar restrained suffering that was always to -be discerned when the Canon felt one of his children to be in serious -fault. - -“It is more than time that Adrian found his vocation,” said the Canon. -“I have been to blame in allowing him to drift, but it has been an -unutterable joy to have him with us, after these terrible war years. -However, there is no further excuse for delay. He and I must have a -long talk.” - -Lucilla could surmise only too well the effect of a long talk upon -Adrian, if his frame of mind might be judged correctly from his -impassioned letter to her. - -As usual, however, she said nothing. - -The Canon’s mood of mellow forbearance continued to wax as the day went -on, and he met his favourite son with a benign affectionateness that -contrasted strangely with Adrian’s dramatically-restrained demeanour. - -Flora, as a rule utterly incurious, asked Lucilla what was the matter. - -“I don’t quite know. Something to do with Olga Duffle, I imagine. -Probably Adrian has proposed to her, or something foolish of the kind, -and the Duffles want it stopped.” - -“Has he said anything more about his idea of taking Orders?” - -“I hope not,” said Lucilla rather grimly. - -She preferred not to imagine the Canon’s probable reception of an -ambition thus inspired. - -The long talk projected by Canon Morchard was impracticable on a -Sunday, always his busiest day, until evening. - -As the Canon rose from the late, and scrupulously cold, evening meal, -he said: - -“Daughters, you will not sit up beyond your usual hour. Adrian, my -dear--come.” - -The door of the study shut, and Lucilla and Flora remained in the -drawing-room. - -Lucilla occupied herself with note-books and works of reference, and -Flora, in the exquisite copper-plate handwriting that the Canon had -insisted upon for all his children, in close imitation of his own, -wrote out an abstract of her father’s sermon, as she had done almost -every Sunday evening ever since she could remember. - -The silence was unbroken till nearly an hour later, when Lucilla -observed: - -“Do you know, Flossie, that Father’s book is very nearly finished? -There are only two more chapters to revise.” - -“‘Leonidas of Alexandria,’” said Flora thoughtfully. - -The subject of the Canon’s exhaustive researches and patient -compilations was known to the household. - -“He’ll publish it, of course?” - -“He hopes to. But Owen told me that there isn’t a very great demand for -that kind of work, nowadays.” - -Flora looked inquiringly at her sister. - -“I hope Father isn’t going to be disappointed,” she said, half -interrogatively. - -“I’m very much afraid that he is.” - -On this encouraging supposition of Miss Morchard’s, the conversation -ended. - -In accordance with their father’s desire, both sisters had gone -upstairs before the conference in the study came to an end. - -There came a knock at Lucilla’s door. - -She opened it. - -“Come in, Adrian.” - -“It’s all up,” said Adrian, in the eloquent idiom of his generation, -and made a melodramatic gesture of desperation. - -Lucilla closed the door and sat down, seeming undisturbed by so -cataclysmic an announcement of finality. - -“I’m off on my own, after this. Father has utterly mucked up my entire -life, as I think I told you in my letter, and he can’t see what he has -done!” - -Lucilla wondered whether Adrian had spent two and a half hours in -endeavouring to open his parent’s eyes to his own work of destruction. - -“Would you mind telling me exactly what has happened?” - -Adrian embarked upon a tone of gloomy narrative. - -“Well, I don’t know whether you had any idea that I am--was--well, -frightfully hard hit by that girl Olga. Not just thinking her pretty -and clever, and all that sort of thing, you know, though of course -she was--_is_, I mean. But simply knowing that she was the one and -only person I should ever care for. Of course, I know now that I was -mistaken in her, to a certain extent, and I can tell you, Lucilla, that -it’s very hard on a man to be as thoroughly disillusioned as I’ve -been. It’s enough to shatter one’s faith in women for life.” - -“But what did Father do?” said Lucilla, as her brother seemed inclined -to lose himself in the contemplation of his own future mysogyny. - -“What did he _do_?” echoed Adrian bitterly. “He and old Duffle had -the--the audacity to meet together and discuss my private affairs, and -take upon themselves to decide that anything between me and Olga ought -to be put an end to. I must say, I thought that kind of thing had gone -out with the Middle Ages, when people walled up their daughters alive, -and all that kind of tosh. And how Olga, of all people, put up with it -I can’t imagine; but they seemed to have pitched some yarn about my not -being able to afford to marry, and frightened her with the idea of my -being after her money, I suppose.” - -“But Adrian, had you asked her to marry you?” - -“No, of course not. But I did think we might have been engaged. Then I -wouldn’t have had to put up with seeing a lot of other fellows after -her,” said Adrian naïvely. - -“And did you explain that to Father?” Lucilla inquired, not without -a certain dismay in picturing the Canon’s reception of these strange -ideals. - -“More or less; but you know what he is. He always does most of the -talking himself. I can quite understand why we were so frightened of -him as kids, you know. He seems to work himself up about things, and -then he always has such a frightfully high-faluting point of view. We -might really have been talking at cross-purposes, half the time.” - -“I can quite believe it.” - -“Of course, I’m not exactly afraid of him now, but it does make it a -bit difficult to say what’s in one’s mind.” - -“That’s just the pity of it, Adrian. He always says that he does so -wish you were more unreserved with him. He does very much want you to -say what’s in your mind.” - -“But he wouldn’t like it if I did--in fact, he probably wouldn’t -understand it.” - -Few things could be more incontrovertible. - -“The fact is that father has quite a wrong idea of me. He seems to -expect me to have all the notions that _he_ had, when he was a young -high-brow at Oxford, about ninety years ago. As I told him, things have -gone ahead a bit since then.” - -Lucilla, for her consolation, reflected that few people are capable -of distinguishing accurately between what they actually say, and what -they subsequently wish themselves to have said, when reporting a -conversation. It was highly probable that Adrian had been a good deal -less eloquent than he represented himself to have been. - -“You didn’t say anything, did you, about your idea of taking Orders?” - -“No,” said Adrian rather curtly. “I did begin something about it, just -to show that I hadn’t been the unpractical ass he seemed to think I -was, but he went off at the deep end almost directly. I said something -about going into the Church, you see, and he didn’t wait for me to -finish, but started away about our all being ‘in the Church’ from the -day of our baptism, and so on--splitting hairs, I call it. As if -everyone didn’t know what is generally meant by going into the Church.” - -“Well, in this case, I really hope he didn’t know. Flossie and I always -told you that Father would be very much shocked at your way of looking -at the priesthood.” - -“Anyhow, it’s all off now,” said Adrian gloomily. “There wouldn’t be -the slightest object in it, and besides I’m thoroughly off religion at -the moment, as I think I told you. No, I shall go to London.” - -Lucilla looked further inquiry. - -“No, I’m not going after Olga; you can be quite easy about that. In -fact, I may say I don’t ever want to set eyes on her again, after the -way she’s let me down. No, I’m going to try journalism, or something -like that. Anyhow, I mean to be a free lance for a bit.” - -The first note of real resolution that Lucilla had heard there, crept -into Adrian’s young voice. - -“Father really can’t go on running the show for me like this. It’s me -that’s got to decide what to do with my life, and I’m going to get a -bit of experience on my own. I know I had six months in France, but -that isn’t going to be the whole of my life. In fact, Lucilla, I’ve -decided, though I’m sorry in a way, to say such a thing, that Father -has got to be taught a lesson, and it’s me that’s going to do the -teaching.” - -Iron firmness, denoted by a closely compressed mouth and a rather -defiant eye fixed glassily upon Lucilla’s, characterized Adrian’s -announcement. - -“Listen,” said Lucilla. - -They heard a heavy footfall, eloquent of weariness, outside the door. -It was followed by the sound of an imperative tap. - -Adrian’s face relaxed and a more normal expression succeeded to the -compelling one that had petrified his gaze. - -“Adrian, my son, are you there?” - -“Yes, father.” - -“Dear lad, how thoughtless you are! Your sister is tired, and it is -already very late. Finish your talk tomorrow, my dear ones.” - -There was a pause. - -Then Adrian said: - -“Well, I suppose Time _is_ on the wing, as usual. Good-night, Lucilla.” - -He went out. - -Lucilla heard the Canon bid him good-night, and his voice held profound -sadness, rather than the vexation that she had feared. - -She moved swiftly to the door. - -“Father, I have found that reference in Origen.” - -The Canon’s face, drawn and tired, lightened on the instant. - -“My indefatigable searcher after truth! Lucilla indeed casts light -into dark places--you were well named, my daughter. That is good news -indeed--good news indeed.” - -“Should you like me to come down again, or are you too tired?” - -“Nay, Lucilla, you heard me bid Adrian to his room. Would you have me -transgress my own regulations? That would be inconsistent indeed. We -will investigate our Origen tomorrow.” - -“You are so near the end of it now, Father.” - -“Aye, the work has progressed wonderfully these last few months. And I -have been wonderfully blessed in your help, my child--my right hand! It -has been a labour of love indeed.” - -Lucilla hoped that he would go to his room still cheered by the thought -of the book. But the Canon lingered, to enquire sadly: - -“You have talked with Adrian?” - -“A little.” - -“Dear fellow, one must make all allowance for his disappointment of -his first fancy, but there is a want of stability--what I can only -call a levity of spirit--that distresses one beyond words. He was all -submission and deference, but there was not the spontaneous calling of -deep unto deep that one somehow looked for.... And yet Adrian is the -one of you all from whom I had hoped for the greatest unreserve, the -most ideal companionship....” - -Lucilla knew it, had always known it, only too well. - -Not one of his other children had been treated with the indulgence that -the Canon had always displayed towards his youngest-born. - -The Canon’s next words chimed in oddly with her thoughts. - -“Perhaps I have condoned too much in Adrian. It is not a strong -character--but the strongest are not always the most lovable. He talks -now of going to London.” - -“So he told me.” - -“One can only trust,” said the Canon with a heavy sigh. “I must bid you -good-night, dear daughter. It is not right that you should be kept up -in this fashion.” - -Lucilla was left to seek what repose she might. - -The next day at St. Gwenllian was one of constraint. - -Adrian was silent in his father’s presence, and full of adamantine -resolution in his absence. At meal times, the subjects to be -avoided--which now included the Admastons, their theatricals, and the -Duffle family, as well as Valeria’s marriage--seemed unduly numerous. -In the evening, the Canon made a great and evident effort, that struck -Lucilla as infinitely pathetic, to readjust matters. - -His show of laboured brightness could deceive no one, but Lucilla -and Mr. Clover seconded his attempts at general conversation with -determination, and Flora was not more silent than was her wont. -Adrian, manifestly sulky at first, awoke presently to a change in the -atmosphere, and thereupon erred rather upon the side of garrulity than -on that of restraint. - -His face darkened, however, when the Canon after dinner suddenly said -with pseudo-heartiness: - -“I am about to call one of our old-time family councils, young people. -What say you, Adrian, to a little friendly discussion of your future -plans? Time was, perhaps, when these things were settled rather in a -long, heart-to-heart talk between father and son; but times change, and -we must move with them--we must move with them.” - -It was impossible to doubt that the Canon was, or supposed himself to -be, moving with the times rather in the hope of pleasing Adrian, than -from any personal liking for the direction in which they appeared to -be taking him. - -“Perhaps some of these wiseacres may make a helpful suggestion as to -the future. Clover, you have been guide, philosopher and friend to us -all this many a year. And Lucilla--Lucilla is gifted with a very level -head, as I sometimes tell her--a very level head. As for my little -Flora, whose head is sometimes in the clouds, at least those who say -least see most, eh Flora? Let us to the with-drawing-room, children.” - -Seated in the lamp light, with Lucilla and Flora both occupied with -needlework--the Canon had long ago decreed that no discussion need -entail idle hands--Canon Morchard looked wistfully at Adrian, leaning -against the marble mantelpiece with an air of embarrassment. - -“What are your wishes, dear lad--your hopes, your plans?” - -To this singularly comprehensive enquiry, Adrian seemed to find some -difficulty in making an immediate reply. - -“Your father is very anxious--we’re all anxious,” said Mr. Clover -pleadingly. - -“Why should you be?” Adrian demanded fretfully, turning sharply towards -the curate. “I’m quite old enough to settle for myself what I’m going -to do.” - -“But you haven’t settled it, Adrian,” said Lucilla mildly. - -“That is why we all want to help you, if possible,” the Canon observed. -“Perhaps you may remember some words that I am very fond of, and that -have found their way now and again into our pleasant confabulations on -life and letters in general: - - There comes a tide in the affairs of men - That, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune. - -“There is, indeed, a higher Leading that I trust, and indeed know, -you would none of you disregard, but opportunity may very often serve -us as an indication--an indication. It seems to me, dear Adrian, that -some such ‘tide’ has come in your affairs now, and it would be pleasant -indeed to feel that, taken at the flood, it would lead on to fortune, -in the best and highest sense of the word.” - -There was a pause, and then Mr. Clover said: - -“Or at least independence.” - -“That’s what I want,” said Adrian ungraciously. “Only never having been -brought up to anything special, it’s a bit hard to know what to go in -for.” - -“You said something about journalism,” Lucilla reminded him, aware that -the word, which would certainly be distasteful to the Canon, must be -uttered sooner or later. - -Adrian looked at his sister, and not at his father, as he replied: - -“I think that’s really what I shall do.” - -“But who is going to employ you, Adrian?” Flora enquired with -simplicity. - -The boy frowned. - -“You don’t understand these things. I shall just get up one or two -things, and show them to the right people, and if they’re any good at -all I shall get taken on somewhere.” - -“The Press is a great force for good as, alas, for evil, my son, but I -confess that such a course would be a disappointment to me. Have you no -other ambition?” asked the Canon wistfully. - -“I can’t think of anything else, Father.” - -“I thought--” breathed Flora to Lucilla. - -Lucilla shook her head, in repudiation of Adrian’s erstwhile schemes of -clerical life, and she heard from Flora a sigh that probably denoted -relief. - -“Then, my dearest fellow, so be it. You know that we wish nothing -but your highest good, and your happiness here and hereafter. I will -increase your present allowance as far as I can do so without robbing -others, and that should enable you to maintain yourself in London until -you are earning enough to dispense with it. Have you any definite -starting point in your mind?” - -“Not yet, but I can write to a fellow I know. I say, Father--this is -very good of you.” - -There was both surprise and genuine gratitude in Adrian’s voice. - -The Canon, entirely regardless of anyone else as he always was when -deeply in earnest, rose and placed his hand on the young man’s shoulder. - -“I have no wish but your truest and highest good, dear lad, as I said -before. If I have been weak enough to indulge in plans and fancies -of my own, they shall not come between us now. I believe I may say -that I have learnt at last that whatever _is_, is best. Let us go on, -believing all things, hoping all things.... If there has been weakness -in the past, dear Adrian, I _know_ that you will justify my confidence -in the future, God helping you.” - -The Canon’s voice had grown husky over the last few words. He bent his -head and gently and solemnly kissed Adrian’s forehead. - -Then he went out of the room. - - -(iv) - -For many months after Adrian’s departure, the monotonous round of life -at St. Gwenllian remained undisturbed. - -News came from Canada of the birth of a son to Valeria, and the Canon’s -last resentment vanished, although he still spoke of “our poor Valeria.” - -He derived unmistakable satisfaction from Owen Quentillian’s presence -at Stear, and the young man received frequent invitations to the -Vicarage, after a first visit during which the host suffered infinitely -more than the guest, in the fear of reviving past associations. - -Adrian wrote occasionally, giving no very encouraging accounts of -his progress in journalism, and continued to receive the increased -allowance that his father sent him with scrupulous regularity. He did -not come home again, even in the summer. - -Then one day the Canon, at his writing-table, laid down his pen and -said to Lucilla: - -“_Nunc dimittis_.... My book is done, Lucilla; I can add no more to it. -It has been a long task, and at times a heavy one, for the flesh is -weak--for all that the spirit is willing, the flesh is weak. But it is -over now.” - -His rapt, smiling gaze held Lucilla’s for a long while, as she smiled -back her congratulation. - -“And now, my dear one, to give our work to the world!” He rubbed his -hands together exultantly. “For it is yours, Lucilla, almost as much as -mine.” - -She shook her head, still smiling. The Canon’s generosity, any more -than his occasional injustice, did not blind his daughter to the bald -facts of a case as she saw it. - -A shadow was across her genuine participation in his joy, now. - -“What shall you do with it, Father?” - -“There is no more to be done,” repeated the Canon. “All is copied, all -is corrected. Your typescript is admirable, Lucilla, and I trust that -my few emendations have not defaced it.” - -“Then is it going to the publishers?” - -“My practical Lucilla! Is your mind already in search of an adequate -supply of brown paper and sealing wax? These things are not done -so hastily as impetuous youth would wish, however. There will be a -preliminary correspondence, my dear, even when I have definitely -decided which of the publishing houses to approach. A work such as this -one, which has taken years of labour, is not sent lightly forth to take -its chance, as might be a work of fiction.” - -The Canon laid his hand lovingly upon the immense pile of typescript -before him. It represented, as he had said, the labour of years. - -“Owen is in touch with several publishers, I believe.” - -“Possibly so, Lucilla.” The Canon’s tone was not altogether pleased. -“But such a work--on such a subject--requires no casual introduction.” - -Lucilla wondered, not without foreboding, what it did require. Owen -Quentillian, who shared her own inability to take optimistic views on -principle, had spoken discouragingly of the modern market for such -works as the Canon’s on “Leonidas of Alexandria.” - -The Canon himself appeared to entertain no misgivings, until a few -weeks later, when he handed a letter silently to Lucilla. - -It was a courteously worded assurance from the most eminent of -theological publishing firms that the probable sales of such a work -as “Leonidas of Alexandria” would not, in their opinion, justify the -expenses of publication. - -The Canon seemed more bewildered than dismayed. - -“I shall approach the Oxbridge Press,” he declared. “I had decided -against them, but this very unexpected attitude leaves me no -alternative.” - -The reply of the Oxbridge Press, although longer delayed, was almost -identical in substance with that of its predecessors. - -“I do not understand it,” the Canon repeated, and wrote to another -publishing house. - -He still spoke as though the ultimate appearance of the book were a -certainty; even when confronted with a third refusal, but he allowed -Lucilla to consult Owen Quentillian. - -As the result of a letter to Quentillian’s own publishers, an offer -came from them to produce “Leonidas of Alexandria” if the author would -advance a substantial sum towards the cost of bringing out the book. - -“It’s more than I dared to hope for,” Owen told Lucilla candidly, in -private. “Only I’m afraid he’ll still be disappointed, if the book -appears and makes no stir.” - -“He has thought of it for so many years,” said Lucilla. - -“And always as a _magnum opus_--something that the world would -recognize?” - -“Yes, I think so. But even so, I’m not certain whether he’ll accept -these terms.” - -“He won’t get better ones,” said Owen with conviction. - -They awaited the Canon’s reply. It came, calm and very decided. - -“It cannot be. It is not within my power to accept the terms suggested. -Thank you, Owen, my dear--and you Lucilla--but my work must await -better days--better days.” - -For the first time, Owen was struck by the singular sweetness of the -Canon’s smile, as he stood with his hand resting on the great bulk of -papers that stood to him for the loving preoccupation of many years. No -faintest touch of bitterness accompanied his deep disappointment. - -“I have had the great pleasure of the work, and it has brought me into -close association with many writers, both living and dead. We have -derived great benefit from our toil, Lucilla, and if the fruits of -reward are to be denied us yet awhile, so be it. You remember the old -story of the dying man who bade his sons dig for a treasure beneath the -apple-tree. They did so, and the natural yield of the fertile earth -was their reward--their own industry proved to be their treasure. If it -is to be so with my book, I am content.” - -Quentillian’s stern sense of the futility of false hopes kept him -silent, but Lucilla said: - -“Is it any use to try another publisher?” - -The Canon shook his grey head. - -“This is neither our first attempt nor our second. No doubt times -have changed, and there is no longer the same interest taken in these -researches. The wheel will come round in due course, young people, and -I make no doubt that Leonidas will yet be given to the world, in God’s -good time whether in my day or not. I am very well content.” - -He put the heavy package into a drawer, of which he turned the key. - -“You remember, Lucilla, the words inscribed upon my front page--‘_Ad -majorem Dei gloriam_’? Surely we can trust the fulfilment of those -words to Him, and as surely He can justify them in obscurity as in the -notoriety of a day. We will say no more about this, children.” - -He turned towards Quentillian, and smiled again. - -“Nay, dear fellow, there is nothing to look so blank about. I will not -deny a natural disappointment, but it is no more than that--no more -than that. These things pass....” - -Even to Lucilla, in private, the Canon scarcely said more. The one -revelation that he did make, hardly surprised her. - -“All else apart, I could not have paid the money to that publishing -firm. The dear Adrian must be my first consideration at present, and -with the increased amount that he is receiving, the drain upon my purse -is too heavy to admit of a personal gratification. Some day the dear -fellow will pay it all back, I make no doubt, though even were it not -so--but it _will_ be so. And now, Lucilla, we will drop the subject. -What I have told you is between ourselves, and we need not refer to it -again.” - -A very little while later, the Canon began to make minute and elaborate -notes for a Commentary on the Epistle to the Philippians. - -Lucilla, according to her wont, acted as his secretary without comment. - -It was more difficult, however, to pursue this course when the -Canon, with a look of distress and perplexity, handed to her several -closely-written sheets of paper, and observed: - -“As you know, I hold very strongly to the sacredness of personal -correspondence. It was, indeed, at least partly on that account that -I have said nothing to you of a letter from Adrian that has caused me -some anxiety. He seems to me to be getting amongst a set of people -whom I can only call undesirable. They may be leading him into -foolish extravagance--I fear it must be so. It seems to me my clear -duty to write to the boy very frankly, but God knows how carefully I -have weighed every word, for fear of saying too much. I believe I am -justified in letting you read it. A sister’s influence can do much, -more especially when she has been obliged to enact the part of mother, -and it may even be that Adrian will listen to you more readily than to -me.” - -The Canon sighed heavily. - -Although his sudden, sharp outbursts of anger had, at one time or -another, included each and every one of his children, his tolerance was -always longest where Adrian was concerned. So, too, was his profound -distress when the shortcomings of his youngest-born were made only too -manifest. - -Lucilla read the letter with considerable inward disquiet. - - “MY DEAREST ADRIAN, - - “First and foremost, I enclose a cheque, with which you must _at - once_ discharge outstanding liabilities. You must not, however, - take this as an easy method of getting out of difficulties into - which you have placed yourself. I shall stop this money out of your - allowance, in justice both to yourself and to me, in quarterly - instalments. And now, my son, you must bear with me while I write - of several things that seem to me to be much amiss in your present - way of life. Your letters are so far from explicit (how I wish it - were otherwise!) that one can only guess at much which is left - unsaid, but your request for money, however veiled, is an admission - in itself. You write of ‘others,’ but can you not see that it is - absolute _dishonesty_ to give presents, stand host at various small - outings, and the like, when this implies the spending of money that - I give you for one purpose, on quite another? No one knows better - than myself the pleasure to be derived from such little attentions to - those whose kindness calls for recognition, or to whom we feel drawn - by sympathy, and before whom we perhaps like to pose in the light - of a benefactor. Such gratifications are harmless, and may even be - beneficial, in themselves, but they are at present amongst the things - which you _must_ learn to deny yourself. How I wish I could _say_ - this, instead of writing it! Could you not come to us for a few days, - and we would thrash all these matters out together as one can only - do in a long, tête-à-tête evening talk over the fire, or perhaps a - ten-mile tramp far out into the country. Let me know what hope there - is of your getting down here, and when. - - “In regard to the question of returning hospitality, it does seem - to me a most moot point how far such obligations should bind us. - Certainly they should not do so _if entailing interference with work - or prayer_. You say nothing on these points, so do consider this - question next time you write. It is so disappointing to receive - short notes, written in haste, telling one nothing of yourself, and - with questions in home letters left unanswered. _Do_ write more - fully of yourself--I am so much disturbed about you, and cannot - understand why you should say that you have ‘nothing to write about.’ - _All_ is of the deepest interest to those who love you so, and you - tell us so little! You give no account of your Sundays, spiritual - experiences, private readings and the like, but if this does not come - spontaneously, it is of no use to try and force it. - - “I should like to hear something, however, of your friends. With whom - do you work, spend your Sundays, evening leisure hours, etc.? All - these details would be of the greatest interest, and, although one - has no wish to press on that particular aspect of the case, they are - points upon which your father has every right to information. - - “Why did you not tell me of your little sketch in the _Athene_? Owen - Quentillian brought it to my notice, supposing me, naturally, to be - aware of its authorship. It seemed to me to be well and brightly - written, though perhaps a little trivial in conception, but you have - a slip in the first paragraph, line 4, where you make ‘etomology’ - do duty for ‘_en_tomology.’ If this is a printer’s error, and you - did not correct the proofs yourself, draw your editor’s attention - to it _at once_. The final quotation from de Musset, is, I _think_, - incorrect, but I am not sure of this, and cannot verify at present. - He is not a writer about whom I care. Do you read much of him?” - -At this point Lucilla laid down the letter and said emphatically: - -“No, he doesn’t. Read de Musset, I mean. Probably he got the verse he -quotes out of a book of quotations.” - -The Canon looked surprised. - -“I am aware that modern methods are slip-shod, but Adrian’s knowledge -of French is much above the average. Our evening readings-aloud have -seen to that.” - -Lucilla picked up the sheets of paper again, wondering if there was -very much more of the letter to come--a wonder not infrequently felt by -those with whom Canon Morchard was in correspondence. - - “Do eschew the use of slang _absolutely_, at least in writing! - I quite consider that ‘stunt’ comes under this heading, in your - article. It is an Americanism, and so ugly! These criticisms, if - such they be, are only the outcome, need I tell you, of my really - intense desire that you should do full justice to yourself, and to - the talent that I feel sure is in you. And let me repeat again, - my dearest lad, that this applies _doubly_ to the more serious - fault-finding that I have been obliged, as your father, to put into - this letter. You must write to me fully and freely if it seems to you - that anything which I have said is unjust, but I believe that your - own conscience, and the candour that I know is yours, will endorse - all that I have written. In that case, you will know well where to - seek for the _unfailing_ strength necessary to a fresh beginning and - a full confession of error. - - “I cannot tell you with what anxiety I shall await your answer, and - do make it a really open-hearted one, as I well know that you _can_. - There shall be no cloud upon our meeting when we do meet, once things - have been made clear between us by letter, but I do feel that for - your own sake, far more than for mine, this strange reticence on your - part must not continue. - - “Look upon me as your best earthly friend, dear lad, as well as your - father, for no one can be more eager to sympathize with you on every - point than I am--and have always been. It has always seemed to me - that the relationship of father and son could--and should--be an - utterly _ideal_ one. - - “My love to you, as always, and do write _at once_. I must not end - this without reminding you that business-like habits, which I am so - anxious that you should acquire, make it _obligatory_ to acknowledge - a cheque by return of post, even were there not other reasons for - writing without delay. Anything that you wish treated as confidential - will of course be sacred--but that you know already. - - “In all lovingness, dear Adrian, I remain your most devoted father, - - “F. L. M.” - -“Can I say more?” the Canon enquired sadly and anxiously, as Lucilla -laid down the letter. To which Lucilla, with restraint, replied by a -bald negative. - -“I have weighed every word,” her father repeated, with, as she knew, -only too much truth. - -“Perhaps Adrian may feel that you are taking him too seriously -altogether. He sometimes seems----” - -“Whom, and what, should I take seriously if not my son, and his earthly -and eternal welfare?” the Canon interrupted her rather sternly. “You -take a great deal upon yourself, Lucilla, in speaking so. No doubt you -say to yourself: ‘I am young, I am of the period, it is for me to act -as interpreter between the parent, who is of another generation, and -the youth, who belongs to mine.’ But if I read your thought correctly, -my child--and I have no doubt that I do--it is an arrogant one, and -altogether unworthy of you.” - -Lucilla did not explain that no such determination had crossed her -mind as the self-sufficient one ascribed to her. She was aware, in -common with all the Canon’s children, that he was prone to attribute to -them occasionally motives and attitudes of mind strangely and almost -incredibly alien to anything to which they could ever reasonably -lay claim. Far more often, did he credit them with aspirations and -intentions of a quite undeserved sublimity. - -Her inward fear, that Adrian would probably leave the major part of his -father’s letter unread, she did not put into words. - -“Owen tells me that he is shortly going to London, and I shall make a -point of asking him to see our dear fellow and bring me a full report,” -said the Canon. - -He proffered his request shortly afterwards to Quentillian, by whom it -was received with no enthusiasm whatever. - -“Will Adrian like it?” he enquired, although fully conscious that -Adrian would not. - -“Aye, that he will,” said the Canon with emphasis. “It is just because -we feel you to be so thoroughly one of ourselves, dear Owen, that I am -asking you to act the elder brother’s part that would be David’s, were -he at home.” - -Lucilla could sympathize in the entire absence of elation with which -Quentillian took his departure, under the new honour thus thrust upon -him. - -There was a certain rueful amusement under his discomfiture when he -left St. Gwenllian. - -On his return, Lucilla discovered instantly that any lurking amusement -had been stifled under a perfectly real anxiety. - -“What is it?” she almost involuntarily asked, as she mechanically made -her preparations at the tea-table for the Canon’s entrance. - -“I’m afraid I have news that will distress you all, about Adrian.” - -“Is he ill?” said Flora. - -“No. I’m sorry if I frightened you. He has taken up some work that I’m -afraid the Canon will disapprove of--on the staff of Hale’s paper.” - -“What is that?” Flora asked, with grave, innocent eyes. - -But Lucilla said at once: “That’s the new review that has been so very -much criticized for its attitude towards the Church, isn’t it?” - -He nodded. - -“Oh!” Flora caught her breath, and her delicate face expressed the -violent and instinctive recoil of her spirit. - -Owen looked at Lucilla. - -Her indignation took a line that was not altogether what he had -expected. - -“Well, surely Adrian need not have found a way of asserting his -independence that must run counter to everything Father has ever -taught!” - -“He isn’t exactly doing it out of the spirit of opposition. Hale has -taken a fancy to him, and it’s the first chance Adrian has had of -regular, paid work. From a worldly point of view, he’d be a fool not to -have accepted it.” - -“A worldly point of view!” echoed Flora. “One doesn’t expect that in -Father’s son, somehow.” - -Theoretically, Quentillian felt, one didn’t. - -“Surely Adrian isn’t capable of controversial writing?” Flora added, -with a severity that saw apparently nothing humourous in the suggestion. - -“Nothing of that sort will be required of him. He will only write light -articles, like that thing you saw in the _Athene_. The point is that -he is working for a man like Hale, whose reputation--which is fairly -considerable in its own way--rests entirely upon his very anticlerical -attitude.” - -“But how can Adrian reconcile that with his duty as a Church member?” -said Flora tersely. - -“I didn’t ask him,” was Quentillian’s equally terse reply. - -They all three remained silent. - -“Is Adrian going to write to Father, or has he written already?” Flora -asked at last. - -“He hasn’t written.” - -Lucilla’s short-sighted gaze, with the rather intent look -characteristic of a difficulty in focussing, rested for a moment upon -Quentillian’s face. Then she asked quietly: - -“Did he ask you to tell Father for him?” - -“He did.” - -“How like Adrian,” said Lucilla. - -She made the statement very matter-of-factly, but Quentillian knew it -to be none the less a condemnation. - -“There was--is--no chance of making Adrian give it up?” Flora asked. - -“None, I should think, at present. Hale is a man of great personality, -and Adrian is a good deal flattered, naturally enough, at being taken -up by him. Of course he knows as well as you or I that it’s the thing -of all others to distress the Canon most. He’s genuinely upset about -it, in a way, but he struck me as being rather childishly bent on -showing that he can strike out a line of his own.” - -“Poor, poor Father! He has had so much to bear lately. Must he be -told?” said Flora. - -“Of course he must. But I don’t think Owen is the person to do the -telling. Adrian should do it himself.” - -“So I told him,” Quentillian observed rather grimly. “The utmost I -could get out of him was a very short note, that I am to give to the -Canon when he knows the facts.” - -No comment followed the announcement of so slender an achievement, and -they were sitting in silence when Canon Morchard came in. - -He greeted Owen Quentillian affectionately, as he always did, but said -quickly: - -“I am afraid that you bear no very glad tidings, dear fellow. No -matter. We will have our talk later. Let us forget grave subjects, and -partake of ‘the cup that cheers,’ which I can see that Lucilla there -has ready for us. What think you of this political crisis?” - -In the ensuing conversation the Canon, if not merry, was at least -gravely cheerful. - -Afterwards he took Owen into the garden, his arm laid across the young -man’s shoulders in the fashion that he so often adopted. - -They remained out for a long while. - -Lucilla did not see her father again until evening, when it was evident -that a weight of unhappiness had descended upon him. - -He read Prayers as usual, and the servants left the room. - -“One moment, my daughters. It is right that you should know the very -grievous news I have learnt today. Adrian has definitely adopted a -career which must cut him off from those of us who are living members -of the Church. He has cast in his lot with an enemy of the Church--a -man who makes his living, and has acquired a disgraceful notoriety, by -attacking the Church. Your brother has been seduced into a friendship -with this man--he is working for him, writing for his paper.” - -The Canon’s voice broke. - -“I am going up to seek him tomorrow, and plead with him, but I have -little hope. He does not answer the letters that I write with such -yearning anxiety and love--I have lost my influence over him. If it is, -as I fear, then--‘if thy right hand offend thee, cut it off.’ My dear -children, I ask you to join with me here and now in intercession for -our erring one.” - -He broke down, and the tears ran down his face. - -It was as though Adrian’s defection cost him a double pang: that to his -own fatherhood, and that to the ministry of the Church which he felt to -be such a living reality. - - - - -III - -DAVID AND FLORA - - -(i) - -“It cannot be, my dear,” the Canon repeated. So inexorable was his -voice, in all its kindness, that his daughter Flora felt that it could -not, indeed be. - -But it was Lucilla who had launched the “it” in question, and it was to -Lucilla that the parental negative had been already addressed no less -than three times. - -“If I am thus patient with this strange persistence of yours, Lucilla,” -said the Canon, his voice deepening after a fashion which indicated -not at all obscurely that he might not continue to be patient very -much longer, “if I am thus patient, it is because I do you the justice -to believe that it is sisterly affection for our poor Valeria and -her little one, and not a mere restless desire for change, that has -induced you to put forward this astonishing proposal. But consider the -folly and selfishness of this scheme, my child. You propose to spend -money--which we can ill afford, any of us--and sacrifice time and -strength in a wild rush overseas, an insensate dash through an unknown -country, in search of your sister’s new home. No doubt you say to -yourself ‘I am the winged Messenger of the Gods. I fly to take help and -comfort to our erring one. I will assist this new little life that is -coming into the world.’ You picture to yourself a triumphal progress--a -rapturous welcome--the acclamations of a New World. But you deceive -yourself, Lucilla. You deceive yourself grossly.” - -Flora felt herself colouring as she bent over her needlework. A -display of violent emotion as that into which Canon Morchard was now -working himself by force of his own eloquence, was always distasteful -to her, and she felt a vicarious shame for Lucilla, convicted of such -presumptuous flights of fancy. - -Flora was astonished at the calm of her sister’s reply, when it came. - -“But I don’t, Father. I hadn’t any idea of doing anything but -travelling to Canada in the ordinary way, and being with Val when her -new baby arrives. You know, it is dreadfully soon after her first one, -and she really isn’t----” - -“Have a care, Lucilla! Who are you to question the time and seasons -appointed by the All-seeing Wisdom for the bestowal of the infinite -blessing of children?” - -If Lucilla represented an infinite blessing to Canon Morchard, the fact -was not over evident at the moment. His brow was thunderous as he gazed -at her. - -“It is Valeria’s own choice that has sent her into a far country. She -might have been at our very gates, had she but willed it so.” - -“Well,” said Lucilla reasonably. “I don’t think if Val had been so near -us as all that, she would have written and begged one of us to come to -her. It’s just because she’s out there, such a long way off, and with -no one to help her, that she’s frightened. Why, she may not even be -able to get a servant.” - -“Poor child!” The Canon’s voice softened. “The way of transgressors is -hard. But two wrongs never yet made a right, Lucilla. I recognize the -generous impulse that moves you--if I spoke sharply just now, it was -only from my intense wish to see you do justice to your own _really_ -noble character, my child. Believe me, your duty lies here, in the -state to which it has pleased God to call you.” - -Lucilla’s brows contracted slightly, after her short-sighted fashion, -but it was not at all with an effect of vexation, but rather of some -slight perplexity. - -At last she said: - -“Could Flora go?” - -Flora, startled, looked at her father. For a moment it occurred to her -that perhaps he would be willing to spare her. Her heart leapt at the -thought of seeing Val, and Val’s babies. A vista of new experiences, of -hitherto undreamed-of independence, startled even whilst it pleasantly -excited her. - -Then her father said: “My dear, of what are you thinking? Your zealous -desire to befriend one sister makes you strangely inconsiderate of the -other. Flora is neither accustomed to responsibility, nor is she very -robust in health. Certainly, were it a clear question of duty, one -could put all that aside--but the call would have to be unmistakable, -the leading beyond all question. I can see no such indications here.” - -Flora, quietly bent over her needlework once more, was ashamed of the -realization that she was disappointed. - -Inwardly, she offered instant expiation for the rebellious moment, -consciously addressing herself to the personal Divinity by whom, she -had always been taught, every hair of her head was numbered. - -The reflection came, in immediate consolation, that she was not without -her spiritual glory, by this very act of resignation. - -“They also serve who only stand and wait,” she thought. - -The Canon had often quoted this to Flora, and indeed to any of his -children who showed a desire for alien activities. - -Flora might be said to have stood and waited for some time now. It -occurred to her that if Lucilla went to Canada, responsibilities at -home, other than passive ones, would become her own portion. The -thought did not displease her. Flora, too, though far less consciously -than Valeria, had sometimes glimpsed the sterility of her days. - -“Lucilla, you know where to seek counsel, I believe,” said Canon -Morchard gravely. “I make all due allowance for your natural, loving -impulse towards our poor Valeria--all due allowance. If your heart -bleeds for her, how much more does not mine? But there are times when -we must do violence to our natural feelings and I believe that some -such necessity is upon you now. Deny yourself, my daughter, and He will -bless the sacrifice both to you and to our dear one far away.” - -“But who will look after her when her baby is born?” said Lucilla -reflectively. - -“Lucilla, where is your trust?” - -“Mostly in myself, I think,” said Lucilla gently. “I really shouldn’t -feel it right not to go to Val, Father. I hope you will forgive me.” -She spoke so gently, with so simple a note of sincere regret in her -quiet voice, that the Canon, to Flora’s perceptions, appeared to -overlook the slightly blasphemous implication in the first words of her -sentence. - -“No man is more averse than myself from tampering with another’s -conscience,” he said, with gravity and displeasure. “You are no longer -a child, Lucilla, but have a care lest self-will should blind you. I -have long since warned you of the danger of self-complacency. I lay -no commands upon you, but I do most earnestly beg, my child, that you -will submit your own judgment to a higher Tribunal than any earthly -one, before coming to any decision. Commune with your own heart, -Lucilla, and be sure that self-seeking is not lurking under the guise -of loving-kindness.” - -The Canon went out of the room and Flora and Lucilla were left together. - -It was evident that Lucilla saw no urgent necessity for complying with -her father’s advice and communing with her own heart. She sat down at -her writing-table, wrote for a few moments, and read over what she had -written. Then she handed the half-sheet of notepaper to Flora. - -It bore the announcement that a lady wishing shortly to travel to -Canada, would give her services on the journey in return for part -passage. - -“But you mean to go, then?” - -“Oh, yes.” - -“I thought Father advised you to think it over?” - -“I did think it over. Didn’t you hear me say just now that I should -think it wrong _not_ to go to Val?” - -“You are setting your own judgment up above Father’s,” Flora pointed -out coldly. - -“I suppose so,” Lucilla assented, seeming rather surprised, as though -such an aspect of the case had not hitherto presented itself to her. - -Flora softened. - -“I can’t help being glad you’re going to be with poor Val when she -wants you. And oh, Lucilla! You’ll see little Georgie!” - -“I know. I wish you could, too.” - -“So do I.” She suddenly caught her breath. “Not that I should do what -you’re doing, for a moment. I don’t see how you _can_, in direct -opposition to Father’s advice.” - -“I’m sorry you see it like that,” said Lucilla gently. “Now, Flora, as -I may have to take my passage when I can get it, without much notice, -I’d like to arrange one or two things with you. Would you like me to -give Ethel a month’s notice? She’s a bad housemaid, but if you’d rather -she stayed on till----” - -“Lucilla, you talk as though it were all settled!” - -“My dear, it _is_ all settled. I told you that my mind was made up.” - -“You know that Father will miss you most terribly? And, though he never -speaks about it, he still grieves dreadfully over Adrian.” - -“I know. That hasn’t really got anything to do with it, though, has it? -If you keep on Ethel, you will have to make certain that she----” - -“I can’t talk about Ethel now, Lucilla. I’ll do the best I can, if you -really do go. Don’t think I’m unkind, please. I do understand that it -must be a great temptation, after poor Val’s letter saying how much she -wants you. I daresay if she’d written like that to me,” said Flora with -an effort, “that I might have felt it dreadfully difficult to refuse to -go to her.” - -Lucilla paused on her way to the door, and looked at her sister with -friendly, reflective interest. - -“But you would have refused?” - -“Isn’t it always safest,” said Flora diffidently, and yet with the -implacable certainty of rightness, too, “isn’t it always safest, when -there’s a choice--or what looks like a choice--to do whatever one likes -least?” - -“Lucilla!” called the Canon’s voice. - -She opened the door. - -“No, I shouldn’t call that a very good rule, myself. You’ll let me know -about Ethel as soon as you can, won’t you? Her month’s trial will be up -next Wednesday.” - -“_Lucilla!_” - -“I’m coming, Father.” - -She went. - -Flora let her work drop into her lap and folded her hands, allowing her -thoughts to wander. - -Could it be right to feel that the wrong-doing of another might prove -to be one’s own opportunity, come at last? She felt herself to have -striven for so long with the endeavour to prove faithful in that -which was least, all the time stifling resentment that no greater, -more heroic task should be set her. She had always felt herself to be -“little Flora” to her father, a child, to be petted and sheltered, and -in the minute introspection of a nightly examination of conscience, -she had frequently to reproach herself bitterly for an ungrateful -longing to emerge sometimes from the shielded into the shielding. If -Lucilla went away, their father would be alone, deserted except for -Flora. David was in India. He wrote very seldom, and then never of -coming home. Even his letters to Flora herself, always his favourite -sister, were neither confidential nor frequent. Val was married, in -Canada, and was claiming Lucilla’s presence almost as a right. Adrian, -in London, was the subject of daily intercession at St. Gwenllian but -it was known to all his children that the Canon would not again receive -Adrian at home until he should have severed all connection with the -atheist, Hale. - -How they had failed their father, all of them! Flora resolved -passionately that she herself would never fail him. Prayer was the -form of self-expression most natural to her, and she made ardent -inward supplication that if Lucilla were permitted to follow her own -way, good might come of it, and she herself prove worthy of her sacred -filial charge. No such exaltation of spirit could be indulged in when -Lucilla’s decision had been openly accepted, and her preparations begun. - -She preserved all her usual even cheerfulness, and her conversation was -rather more severely practical than before. - -“Don’t let the key of the storeroom out of your own possession, -Flossie, please. I’m sure both the maids are trustworthy, but it’s no -use breaking rules.” - -And: - -“Remember _not_ to order anything eggy when Mr. Clover comes to a meal. -He can’t eat eggs.” - -“I mean to do my very best for everyone while you’re away. But of -course it won’t be the same for Father.” - -“I expect it will, if you’re careful,” said Lucilla kindly. “Don’t let -her put flavourings into everything, though--he can’t bear them.” - -She seemed not at all preoccupied with less material considerations. - -Even at the last, she bade them good-bye without any of that aspect of -remorse which Flora privately considered that she ought to have worn. - -The Canon was very kind and forbearing, and said at the last moment: - -“I hope and believe that you children understand what is meant by -large-mindedness, and that I myself am the last man in the world to -deny to each individual the right of an independent judgment. You -are acting according to your lights, Lucilla, and I am willing--nay, -eager--to believe in the sincerity of your motives. God bless you, my -dearest one, and prosper your mission.” - -Lucilla’s farewell was affectionate, but not at all emotional, Flora -was always undemonstrative by instinct, and it was only the Canon whose -eyes were moist, and whose voice shook. - -Nevertheless, he turned to his remaining child after a moment and spoke -very firmly. - -“You may wonder, little Flora, that I have no reproach for Lucilla. She -is leaving home against my advice, against my wishes. I believe that -she deceives herself. But Lucilla means well--she means well. As we go -through life, we learn to be very tolerant, very patient, to understand -better what is meant by forgiveness ‘unto seventy times seven’.” - -He smiled at her. - -“You and I must have some pleasant tête-à-tête evenings, Flora, now -that we are left to bear one another company. I should like to rub -up some of my old Italian lore. Shall we undertake some such task as -Dante’s _Paradiso_ for our leisure time?” - -Flora assented, gratified. - -Their days fell into a routine that suited her well, and although -in her daily and nightly prayers Flora mentioned the names of both -Adrian and Lucilla as candidates for Divine Mercy, she was not really -conscious of any very earnest personal wish for the return of either to -St. Gwenllian. - - -(ii) - -“On the 18th November, suddenly, at Bombay, David, beloved elder son of -Canon Morchard of St. Gwenllian Vicarage....” - -Owen Quentillian was away from Stear when he read the announcement, -with a strong sense of shock. - -Why should David Morchard die? - -He wrote to the Canon, and also, after a little hesitation, to Flora -Morchard. - -As he half expected, Flora’s reply told him more than the Canon’s -numerous pages. - - “MY DEAR OWEN: - - “Thank you for your letter. We knew that you would be sorry, and - would understand what this must be to my father, and all of us. He - is so brave and good, and everyone is kindness itself. We do not - know anything at all except the bare fact, which was cabled from the - Regimental headquarters, and it will probably be another three weeks - before letters can reach us. If you like, I will write again when - they do. We shall want to see you very much when you get back to - Stear. Father speaks of you so often, as though it would be a comfort - to him to see you again. - - “Yours sincerely, - “FLORA MORCHARD.” - -The Canon’s minute legible handwriting covered several pages, and he, -like Flora, but at far greater length, emphasized the kindness shown to -him. - - “My people here have shown feeling such as I dare hardly dwell upon, - lest I overset altogether such composure as I may have won. Some of - them, of course, remember our dear, dear fellow well, young though - he was when he left us. But even those who never knew him speak such - words as well-nigh break one’s heart with gratitude and pity and - tenderness. I tell myself that whatever is, must be best, and yet, - Owen, the longing, that I can only trust may not be repining, to have - had but one day--one hour--together, before this blow fell! It was - so long since we had spoken together! And sometimes I reproached him - for his long silences, for the absence of the details that one longed - for, in his letters home. How could I, ah, how could I, I now ask - myself sadly, who will receive no more letters from him again. How - one learns to be gentle, as the years go on, but the day comes when - each unloving word, each selfish thought, comes back to break one’s - heart! And yet, Owen, who could have thought that _I_ should be left, - who have seen nigh on three-score years, and that strong, gallant lad - taken in the very strength of his manhood. Truly, God’s ways are not - our ways. - - “It does not bear writing of. We must have many long talks together, - when you are with us again. What a contrast to that first visit of - yours, Owen, when our numbers were yet unbroken, save indeed that - first, great gap that only Lucilla and the dear lad who is gone, - could realize. At least, their mother has one with her! - - “When you first came to us after the war, it was to give us direct - news of our beloved boy. I seem to remember some merry gatherings - then, with Lucilla and Flora ‘making musik,’ and Valeria all fun and - brightness--I can write of her freely, dear Owen, can I not--the old - wound is healed now?--and Adrian still the veriest boy, the light and - sunshine of the house. - - “You will find change and stillness and emptiness about the old - place, now. All are scattered, only Flora left in the empty nest. - I can find no words to tell you what she has been, Owen. Friend, - companion, daughter, comforter! Of all my children, Flora and Lucilla - are the two who have never failed me, never failed their own higher - selves. And Lucilla, as you know, is away from us at present. Poor - child! What a punishment for her self-will in leaving us. - - “Flora and poor Clover have spared me in every possible way these - days, and whilst I have them, I can indeed never think myself wholly - desolate. Letters will not reach us yet awhile from India, and one - longs, and yet dreads, to receive them. There may be one from our - poor lad himself--yet why do I call him ‘poor,’ when he is so far - more blest than we who are left? We can only conjecture that cholera - or fever struck him down, he said nothing of sickness in his last - letter, and whatever it was must have come upon him with fearful - suddenness. One can only hope and pray that the Infinite Mercy - allowed him time to meet the dread King of Terrors as one knows that - he would have wished to do, but all, all is in other hands than ours. - - “I have said nothing of your letter, dear Owen, my heart is too full. - Let me answer it in person. Both Flora and I look for your return - with eagerness and hope to persuade you to come to us at least for - a day or two. You knew our loved one, and it is not so long since - you and he met. How I envy you that meeting now! We have heard of - it all in detail, I know, but you will have patience, and go over - it all once more with us. The only thing that gives one courage to - face the present (saving always that far-reaching Comfort which one - _knows_ to be there, but which poor humanity cannot always _feel_) is - a mournful, tender lingering over the past. Nor must you fear that - I always weep, dear Owen--there is often absolute rest and joy in - dwelling on the past happiness that one knows to be only a shadow and - faint forecasting of the Joy that is to come. - - “Bless you, dear fellow, and though I have said so little of thanks - for all the sympathy and understanding in your dear letter, do not - think of me as anything but profoundly touched and grateful. - - “Sorrowfully and ever affectionately yours, - - “FENWICK MORCHARD.” - -Quentillian folded the letter and put it away. - -He mentally visualized the silent and grief-stricken house, and his -heart contracted strangely. - -Valeria had gone, and would come back no more. Her heart was given to -her new life, to her new country. Lucilla was with her. Adrian--the -Adrian of the Canon’s tender love and pride--had never been. David, who -had not wanted to come home, who had left “long intervals” between his -scanty letters--David was dead. - -There was only Flora left at St. Gwenllian. - -He thought that he could see her, remote and austere, either devoid -of capability for human emotion, or regarding emotional display as -rebellion against Heaven. He had never known which. Flora would move -about the cold, silent house, and write the letters, and give the -orders, and remember the sane, everyday things that must be done. She -would be helped by the eager, anxious curate. Mr. Clover would remember -things, too, but he would not, like Flora, accomplish them in silence. -He would suggest, and remind, and humbly and timidly deprecate his own -efforts. - -Quentillian could see the Canon, too. - -The Canon would spare himself nothing, but he would break down, with -gusts of overwhelming sorrow and bitter remorse for his own want of -resignation. He would write, and write, and write, in the lonely -study, often blinded with tears, yet deriving his realest comfort from -the outward expression of his grief. - -Quentillian could accept that, now, could realize it as the -interpretation of a sincerity at least as complete as his own. - -Within the fortnight, he went to St. Gwenllian. It was all very much as -he had pictured it to himself. Only Flora was a little, a very little, -less remote than he had expected to find her. - -He thought that she dreaded the arrival of the letters from India, and -feared their effect upon her father. - -When the mail did arrive, the letters were brief, and said that David -Morchard had died in hospital of dysentery after three days’ illness. -The colonel of the regiment wrote in praise of a career interrupted -abruptly, and a parcel of effects was promised. - -There was no more. - -“Such letters have become so sadly common in the last few years,” said -the Canon wistfully. “How can one hope that in each individual case the -writer will realize the yearning with which one looks for one personal -touch--one word to show that all was well.” - -“Perhaps they will write from the hospital--the chaplain or the -matron,--when they send the things,” Quentillian suggested. - -He, too, was faintly disappointed and puzzled at the reticence of the -letters. - -Flora’s face, set in its sad composure, told him nothing of her -feelings. - -But the day following brought him enlightenment from Flora herself. - -They were sent out for a walk together. - -“Take her for a walk, dear Owen,” said the Canon solicitously. “Flora -is pale, and cold. She has shut herself up too much of late. Go, my -child, I shall do very well, and can find only too much to occupy me. -Enjoy the fresh air.” - -Flora made no protestations of inability to enjoy herself, nor any -assumption of indispensability at home. It was the Canon, again, who -suggested an errand to a distant cottage, and she acquiesced without -comment. - -It was a cold, grey day, with swiftly moving masses of cloud and a -chill in the wind. Flora and Owen walked quickly, and at first neither -spoke. Then Flora said: - -“How much, exactly, were you a friend of David’s?” - -His own surprise made Quentillian realize afresh how very seldom it was -that Flora initiated any topic of a personal nature. - -“We were not intimate,” he replied. - -“It was more the time that you spent with us here, when you were a -little boy, than anything else, that established a relationship between -you?” - -“I suppose it was.” - -“I think you are very much interested in people, and Lucilla says that -you are very observant,” said Flora, smiling a little. “Would you mind -telling me, quite dispassionately, if David was popular with other -men--the officers in his regiment, for instance?” - -He did not understand at what her question aimed, but replied with -unhesitating candour. - -“I should say he was very popular. He was a good sportsman, and -everyone liked him, although as far as I know he wasn’t a man of -intimate friendships. That type isn’t.” - -“No. You see, Owen, there have been no letters from people who were in -India with him, although you say he was popular. Only just those few -lines from the Colonel. And I was afraid before--and I’m afraid now--” -She stopped. - -“Of what?” - -“That it wasn’t dysentery, or anything like that. That they’re keeping -the truth from us out of pity, or to save some scandal. I--I can’t get -it out of my mind, Owen.” - -He heard her with something that was not altogether surprise. -Subconsciously, he felt that his own uneasiness had been only dormant. - -“Have you anything beyond intuition, to go upon?” - -“No.” - -“Why have you told me?” - -He felt certain that she had not spoken merely in order to be -reassured, nor in order to find relief. Speaking was no relief to -Flora, so far as Owen could see. - -“I want you to try and find out definitely.” - -“Yes. And supposing I do, supposing that what you fear is true--” he -hesitated. - -“That David took his own life?” said Flora, shuddering. “Then, don’t -you see, Owen, I shall have to tell Father--or else to make it -absolutely certain that no one will ever tell him.” - -“You can’t,” said Owen gently. - -“But I must,” she told him, with the same intensity. “He’s had a great -deal to bear already, and this would be worse than anything. Suicide -is a mortal sin. Bodily separation, one can resign oneself to--he _is_ -resigning himself, poor Father, to separation from nearly all those -whom he loves,--but suicide would mean eternal separation. It would be -worse than anything--the loss of David’s soul.” - -“I see.” - -Quentillian did indeed see. - -“Val, and Adrian, and David--they’ve all gone away from him,” said -Flora. “Only he knows there is another life, so much more real and -enduring than this one, to which he looks. It means everything to him. -If David did do--that--then the hope of meeting him again, in eternity, -is gone.” - -Quentillian felt the force of her low-spoken, anguished statement. - -“You are taking it for granted that a suspicion--which after all, rests -on very little indeed--is true.” - -“You see, if I am to safeguard my father from this thing, I can’t very -well afford to wait and do nothing, just because there’s quite a big -chance that it isn’t true at all. The chance that it _is_ true, may be -infinitesimal--the hundredth chance, if you like--but it’s that which -I’ve got to think about, not the other. Optimism doesn’t carry one far -enough, in preparing a line of defence.” - -“I agree with you.” - -“I don’t think that either you or I are optimists, Owen,” said Flora, -faintly smiling. - -“No.” - -“That’s why I want you to help me. Can you make enquiries at any of the -headquarter places in London where they might know something?” - -“I can try.” - -“Thank you very much,” said Flora, as though his unenthusiastic assent -had closed the subject. - -They went along the muddy road in silence. - -It was from no sense that it was necessary to break it, that -Quentillian spoke again at last. - -“Will Lucilla come back to England at once?” - -“I don’t think so. She promised to stay till the spring. You know Val -has another little boy? I wish we could see them, but Father will never -really be happy about Val, I’m afraid. He forgave her, long ago, but he -doesn’t forget things, ever, I don’t think.” - -“I don’t consider that the Canon had anything to forgive,” said -Quentillian in tones of finality. - -“But _he_ does.” - -If Quentillian had expected a certain meed of recognition for the -magnanimity of his point of view, he was not destined to be gratified. -Flora spoke rather as one giving utterance to an obvious platitude. - -“Is Val happy?” - -“Very. She has exactly what she always really wanted. Sometimes they -have a servant, but most of the time she does everything herself, and -has occasional help. She is so happy with the two little boys, too, all -her letters are about them, and about the house, and all they’re doing -to improve it. She’s got the life that she was really meant for, and -after all, isn’t that what makes happiness?” - -“I suppose it is. She was meant for the primitive things, you think?” - -“Lucilla always said so. There is the cottage, Owen. Will you wait -outside, or come in?” - -“I should like to come in with you.” - -Life was inartistic, Quentillian reflected whimsically, while Flora -delivered her father’s message to a middle-aged woman in an apron. - -To accord with all literary conventions, there should have been a sick -child in the cottage, and Flora’s tender soothing of its fretfulness -should have proved a revelation of the unfulfilled maternal instinct -within her. - -But there was no sick child to provide a _clou_ for Quentillian’s -observations in psychology, and he was by no means assured of Flora’s -powers of soothing. Rather would she urge the silence of resignation. - -He was convinced that never in her life had Flora Morchard been the -centre of a pretty picture. That her personality seldom dominated -any scene was not, he felt, from any conscious effacement, but from -an innate and instinctive withdrawal of her forces to some unseen -objective, to her infinitely worth while. He reflected with dismay on -his own undertaking to make enquiries concerning the death of David -Morchard. But he did not think that Flora, whatever the result of the -enquiries, would be dismayed. Dismay implied mental disarray, a quality -of taken-abackness. Flora, as she would herself have told him, was -strong in a strength not her own. - -They walked back together almost in silence. - -“Your little expedition did Flora good,” the Canon told Quentillian -that evening. “I am grateful to you, dear fellow, very grateful. Let -us see something of you still, from Stear. It means a great deal to us -both. There must not be ‘good-bye’ between us, save for the beautiful -old meaning of the word, ‘God by you.’ God by you always, dear Owen.” - -Quentillian went to London, made no discoveries at all, and wrote to -Flora. - -She replied, thanking him, in the briefest of notes. A week later he -received another letter from her. - - “MY DEAR OWEN: - - “The Indian mail came in yesterday, and brought me a letter from - David, written a week before he died. He asked me to break it to - my father that a Major Carey, in his regiment, was on his way home - to take divorce proceedings against his wife, citing David as - co-respondent. David asked me in the letter to do anything I could - for Mrs. Carey, as she is by herself, with no relations in England. - The case was to be undefended, and David had decided to leave the - Army and come to England as soon as possible to marry Mrs. Carey. I - gather that he was very unhappy, especially at having to leave the - regiment. I still do not know whether he found a dreadful solution to - the whole question, in taking his own life. - - “Mrs. Carey has written to Father, a strange note, which he showed - me. She says nothing of the divorce proceedings, but only writes - as a great friend of David’s, imploring to be allowed to see us. - Naturally, Father is only too anxious to see her, and as she says - that she is on her way to Scotland at once, we are coming to London - on the 10th so as to meet her. - - “I have told Father nothing whatever of David’s letter to me. I - cannot imagine that Mrs. Carey will want to make the facts known to - him, but I shall be able to judge better when I have seen her, which - I have decided to do, by myself, before the appointment with Father. - - “I can arrange this a great deal better with your help than - without it, therefore will you come and see us on the evening we - arrive--Thursday the 10th, at about six o’clock, Carrowby’s Hotel? - - “Please destroy this letter. - - “Yours sincerely, - “FLORA MORCHARD.” - -Quentillian, as he read Flora’s unvarnished statements, felt a -sensation as of being appalled. - -He could not believe that Flora, fanatically single-minded as her -determination to shield her father from the knowledge of the truth -might be, had any conception of the difficulties that probably lay -before her, and he asked himself also whether she had in any degree -realized what the consequences must be to the Canon, far more than to -herself, of a deception that should break down half way. - -His absolute conviction of Flora’s inflexibility, and his own strong -sense of the impertinence, in both the proper and the colloquial sense -of the word, of offering unasked advice, were not enough to restrain -him from the mental composition of several eloquent and elaborate -expositions of opinion. But they sufficed to restrain him from -transferring the eloquence to a sheet of notepaper. - -He went to Carrowby’s Hotel, to keep the appointment summarily made by -Flora. - -“You dear man!” - -The Canon’s exclamation of pleasure rang through the dingy hotel -sitting-room in which Quentillian found them. He always showed the -same pleasure in seeing Owen, and Owen’s old sense of inadequacy had -insensibly given place to a rather remorseful gratitude. - -“Is this the doing of Flora? She told me that she should notify you of -our coming, but it is good to meet with a friend’s face so early. Our -stay is to be a very brief one. I have to return home for the Sunday. I -cannot leave all in Clover’s hands. Besides, I trust there will be no -need. You know the errand on which we are come?” - -“I told him in my letter,” said Flora. - -“This lady, this Mrs. Carey, had seen much of our dear fellow in India -and her letter is full of feeling--full of feeling. She heard nothing -of our tragedy until she landed in England. It seems that she had been -in ill-health for some time, she writes of complete prostration, and is -on her way to Scotland now. So you will understand our hasty journey -hither. Has it not indeed been with us, ‘Ask and ye shall receive’? -Flora, here, knows what my yearning has been for one word with those -who knew him, who had been with him recently. And behold! it has been -given unto me, ‘full measure, heaped up, pressed down and running -over’.” - -The Canon leant back. He looked very tired and old. - -“Do you see her tomorrow morning, sir?” - -“We go to her, Owen. She is good enough to receive us on Saturday -morning, and I understand that she leaves that evening. Tomorrow I have -a conference in the afternoon, but the morning is our own.” - -He gazed wistfully at Owen. - -“I had thought of a memorial window to the beloved David, and this is -an opportunity which may not come again. I have the name of a place -to which I half thought of going, if it be not too trying for little -Flora.” - -“Let me accompany you,” said Quentillian. - -It was evidently what the Canon wished. - -“Will you, dear lad? I own that I should be glad of your arm, aye, and -your presence. Flora is overwrought and overtired.” - -She did indeed look very ill, not at all to Quentillian’s surprise. - -“She has been taking too much thought for me, dear child,” said the -Canon, Quentillian could not help thinking with more truth than he -realized. “I wish Flora to take some rest. Let the expedition tomorrow -be yours and mine, Owen. Tell me, my daughter, what time am I free?” - -“Tomorrow morning, till twelve o’clock. Your conference is at two.” - -“Flora is my deputy secretary,” said the Canon smiling. “I trust it all -to her, and her memory is unfailing. She is indeed my right hand.” - -“Will you come at ten o’clock tomorrow, Owen, and start from here?” -said Flora abruptly. - -He assented, determined to obtain an opportunity of speaking to her -alone. If he was to assist Flora in a scheme of concealment against -which he inwardly revolted strongly, he must at least know of what that -scheme consisted. His indignation waxed in proportion to his anxiety, -until Flora said to him with deliberation: - -“Ought we to keep you any longer, Owen? I’ll ring for the lift.” The -suggestion took them both out of the room, and she closed the door -after her. - -“What is it you’re doing?” said Quentillian, his urgency too great for -a choice of words. - -She leant against the passage wall, white and rather breathless, but -spoke low and very distinctly, as though to impress her facts upon him. - -“Listen--I want you to be quite clear about it. The appointment with -Mrs. Carey is for tomorrow--Friday morning. I’m going to her house. -I’m certain from her letter, that she’s not a woman to be trusted. -I don’t know why she wants to see us, but I think it’s to tell us -things--things about David. I shall know when I’ve seen her.” - -“But your father thinks the appointment is for Saturday?” - -“I told him it was. I wrote the letter to arrange it.” - -“And how are you to prevent his going there on Saturday?” - -“She leaves for Scotland on Friday night.” - -“You know that for certain?” - -“Of course I do, Owen. One doesn’t leave these things to chance. But I -shall telephone on Saturday and find out if she’s really left.” - -“I still don’t understand altogether. How can you explain to the Canon -that this lady isn’t there, when he goes by appointment to see her?” - -“I shall have made a mistake. I’m keeping his engagements written down -for him. And I shall have written down this engagement for Saturday, -instead of for Friday. He will go exactly one day too late.” - -“Flora, you can’t do it.” - -She lifted tired eyes to his face, overwrought to the point of -fanaticism. - -“Don’t waste time. Only tell me if I can count on you. All I want you -to do is to keep Father out, with you, tomorrow morning. I shall be at -Mrs. Carey’s at half-past ten and I promise to be back here before one -o’clock.” - -“Suppose this lady is not what you think her, and you find that she -will be--discreet--is your father to be disappointed of his hopes of -seeing her?” - -“I may be able to arrange something. Perhaps she’d put off going to -Scotland, and see him on Saturday after all. It would be all right -then, wouldn’t it? Or I might even be able to tell her the whole -thing,” said Flora wistfully. “It isn’t very likely, though.” - -He did not think that it was. - -“You see, you didn’t see her original letter, and I did. It was the -letter of a very hysterical person. She might say almost anything, I -imagine and--well, there’s a good deal that mustn’t be said, isn’t -there?” - -It was incontrovertible, but Quentillian said roughly: - -“I detest maneuvering, it’s utterly unworthy of you. All this juggling -with dates and letters----” - -“It’s no use doing things by halves,” said Flora stubbornly. “Yes or -no, Owen, are you going to back me up if necessary?” - -“If I say no, will it deter you from going through with this insane -performance?” - -“Of course it won’t.” She actually smiled. “What would be the sense -of making up one’s mind if it’s to be unmade again just because one’s -friends don’t agree with one?” - -“Very well.” He shrugged his shoulders as one in desperation. - -She evidently accepted it as the assent, however ungracious, that he -meant it to be. - -“Thank you very much,” said Flora with brief finality. - - -(iii) - -Flora followed Mrs. Carey’s maid upstairs, feeling as though the -beating of her heart were causing each breath she drew to crowd thickly -upon the next one. - -Mrs. Carey’s house--she supposed it was Mrs. Carey’s house--was a very -tiny one indeed, and looked tinier by reason of the number of pictures, -draperies, and flowers that covered every available corner of the steep -staircase and the small landing. - -The drawing-room was small, too, and so dark that the maid turned on -the rose-shaded electric lights as she ushered Flora into the empty -room. - -“Mrs. Carey isn’t down yet. I’ll tell her you’re here, m’m.” - -“Mrs. Carey is expecting me. Please say that it is Miss Morchard.” - -The maid went away. - -“Unpunctual,” reflected Flora. “She said half-past ten.” - -She gazed round the room, which confirmed the impression of Mrs. -Carey’s personality that Flora had already received from her pale mauve -notepaper, her methods of expressing herself in writing, and that which -she knew of her relations with David Morchard. - -Nearly everything in the room was rose-colour, except the walls, which -were grey, and laden with sketches, brackets, and a shelf on which -stood innumerable framed and unframed photographs, nearly all of them -of men. - -A minute writing-table, set corner ways, overflowed with papers, and -more photographs, including one that Flora recognized instantly, -although it had never been sent to St. Gwenllian. - -The chair in front of the table supported a number of illustrated -papers. - -“Untidy,” was Flora’s next verdict. - -She had resolutely closed the avenues of her mind to emotion and -speculation alike. The habits of observation, which she mentioned in -private spiritual consultation with her father as her own tendency -towards a lack of charity, she knew subconsciously to possess a -steadying effect. - -A quantity of cigarette ash in a small receptacle, presumably placed -there on the previous evening, and a general atmosphere of unopened -windows, did not serve to modify Flora’s already unenthusiastic -judgments. - -Neither did Mrs. Carey’s delay in making her appearance. - -When she at last came in, it was difficult to see what could possibly -have delayed her, since she had apparently only stepped out of bed into -a wadded silk kimono, a lace boudoir cap, and fur-bordered bedroom -slippers. - -She looked younger than Flora had expected her to be, and her little -pallid face was pretty enough, with violet semi-circles under big, -light blue eyes and a general air of fragility. Although nearly as -tall as Flora herself, she was slight enough to produce an effect of -daintiness, the adjective that Flora immediately felt certain would -appeal to her most. - -A short, thick plait of fair hair fell over her shoulders, and a -certain babyish plaintiveness of utterance made Flora think of Olga -Duffle. - -“I’m sure you’re David’s sister,” said Mrs. Carey, to which proof of -intuition her visitor offered no reply, thinking the fact sufficiently -self-evident. - -“Oh, do sit down. You must forgive me coming in like this, but I’m not -strong, and I arrived worn out after an awful voyage--and then to get -this news! Do you smoke?” - -“No, thank you.” - -“Do you mind if I do? I smoke too much, but my nerves are in an awful -state. A doctor friend of mine--the dearest thing--made me promise -faithfully never to inhale, but I’m afraid I do. It was the ship’s -doctor, on the way home, as a matter of fact. There were one or two -nice men on board, but the women were dreadful. Miss Morchard, I should -think other women generally confide in you, don’t they, and like you -most awfully. Now, I’m _not_ enormously popular with other women. -I don’t mean that I haven’t got women-friends, devoted ones, who’d -do anything in the world for me--but most of my very best pals have -been men. It’s funny, isn’t it? Your brother was one of my _dearest_ -friends.” - -The blue eyes looked warily at Flora. - -“That’s why I felt I had to see you, and oh! you are so like him! It’s -hardly like talking to a stranger at all!” - -It certainly was not, Flora reflected. - -“I feel I’m so dreadfully in the dark--I know nothing. Only the awful, -awful fact. When I got the cable--it was cabled to me, by a dear friend -at Government House--when I read it, I simply didn’t believe it. I -said, ‘It can’t be true.’ But it was.” - -Flora did not feel it incumbent upon her to reply. - -“When your father got my letter, I daresay he was astonished, but I’m -frightfully impulsive, Miss Morchard, and I felt I _must_ know more -or I should go mad. That’s why I begged you to let me see you. I’m a -thoroughly unconventional woman, as you may perhaps have guessed, and I -always act on impulse.” - -Flora looked at the frightened, furtive little face, and wondered what -purpose and what concealment lay behind the flood of words. - -“I’m going to be perfectly frank with you, because I feel I can trust -you. May I call you Flora? My name is Maisie--a silly little name, -isn’t it, but my friends all say it suits me. I don’t know why. Tell -me, did David write to you about me? He said he was going to, but it -was such a--such a short time before----” - -Mrs. Carey’s tongue moistened her lips as though they were dry. - -“I don’t know whether you’ve ever lived abroad, but if you haven’t, you -don’t know what the East is like for people who have to live there. -There’s a frightful amount of slander and gossip going on, and people -put a wicked construction on all sorts of innocent things. It’s awful. -It used to make me simply miserable. You see, live and let live has -always been my motto. I like to go my own way, and have my own friends, -and not do any harm to anybody, but simply be happy in my own little -way. After all, it’s what God meant for all of us, isn’t it? But in -India one can’t do that. My dear, you wouldn’t believe what it’s like. -I went out when I was awfully young--I was married at twenty--and I -know for a fact that the most beastly things have been said about me. -You see, I feel I can tell you this quite frankly, Flora, because of -your being David’s favourite sister. I know you’ll understand, and that -I can trust you.” - -Again that anxious, furtive glance was shot at her from under Mrs. -Carey’s long lashes. - -“I’ve had heaps of men friends, of course--especially in the Regiment. -I’m going to be _perfectly_ honest with you, and own up that one or -two of them got rather silly, and fancied themselves in love with -me. That wasn’t my fault, was it? I just wanted to be friends, you -know. A nice woman can do such a lot for young men. I couldn’t help -it--possibly--if they went and fancied themselves in love with me. Now -could I? But would you believe it, people--it was mostly women, I must -say, and some of them actually called themselves my friends--went and -invented the most disgusting lies about me. Out of jealousy, you know. -I was a good ten years younger than any of them, as it happened, and -you’d have thought the Colonel’s wife, or anyone like that, might have -wanted to mother me a little bit. (I lost my own mother when I was only -fourteen, and had a rotten time at home.) But instead of that, my dear, -_instead_ of that, they simply spread these filthy stories about me -and all my best friends. However, I don’t want to go into all that. It -was soon after I first went out, and of course nobody who really knew -me believed for an instant that there was anything in it. They heard -something about it at Government House, you know, and the Governor was -simply furious, I believe. My friend in the Secretariat told me about -it. The Governor said that Mrs. Carey was the only real lady in the -place, as well as being the prettiest woman in India. Of course, that -may have been nonsense, because I happen to know that he did like me -most awfully--personally, I mean--but I know I was most awfully touched -at his taking up the cudgels for me like that. It showed what the -people who really _mattered_ thought of me, didn’t it, and after all, -the Governor of a place does represent the King, doesn’t he?” - -“Yes,” said Flora. - -It was the first appeal to which she had felt able to give any assent. - -“You said that so like David!” cried Mrs. Carey clasping her hands -together. “We were the greatest friends, and he used to come to me -about everything. I used to tell him to marry....” - -Another pause, and another look. - -“I always want my young-men friends to marry. That just shows, doesn’t -it, what nonsense it is for anyone to talk as though there were -anything wrong about it? I don’t know whether your brother ever hinted -anything to you, in his letters, about any horrid gossip. Between -ourselves, he used to get angry, I know, at the things that were -sometimes said, and of course he knew that I wasn’t--well, very happy. -You’re not married, I know, so perhaps you won’t understand what it -means to a woman, especially a very sensitive one, which I am, to have -a husband who is jealous. I’m not blaming Fred, exactly, I suppose he -can’t help it, and he was madly in love with me when we married. Of -course, I was much too young and ignorant of life to marry, but I had -an awfully unhappy home, and if it hadn’t been Fred, it would have been -somebody else--men were always pestering me, somehow. Besides, people -made mischief between us. How people can be wicked enough to come -between husband and wife, I can’t think! I’ve been through hell once or -twice in my life, I can tell you!” - -Looking at the fear and the craftiness and the sensuality written on -Maisie Carey’s small, ravaged face, Flora could believe it without -difficulty. - -“I don’t really know why I’m telling you all this, exactly. It’s -not like me. I’m terribly reserved, really. But you’ve got such an -awfully nice face, somehow, and you’re David’s sister. I can’t tell you -how fond I was of David--we were just tremendous chums. It upset me -awfully, that he should die in that sudden way.” - -She began to cry in a convulsive, spasmodic way. - -Flora still remained silent. - -“I wish you’d tell me if he ever wrote anything to you about me,” -sobbed Mrs. Carey. - -In the midst of the tears which seemed to be really beyond her own -control, Flora caught a glimpse as of a terrible anxiety. She suddenly -knew that in the answer to that last, sobbed-out question lay, for Mrs. -Carey, the crux of their interview. - -“He did write,” said Flora. “But what he wrote is safe with me. It will -never go any further.” - -The figure in the gay silk kimono seemed to cower further back into the -armchair, but there was no self-betraying exclamation. - -“I suppose he told you about Fred and me?” - -“And about himself too,” said Flora. - -“Men are all alike! Why did he want to tell you?” - -“So that I could tell my father and sister. David was afraid of Father.” - -“Your father knows?” This time the note of alarm was undisguised. - -“No. The letter was only found and posted after the ones that told us -of David’s death. And I have told my father nothing.” - -Mrs. Carey broke into vehement, hysterical speech. - -“There’s nothing to tell! You people at home make such mountains out -of molehills. I swear to you that there was nothing between us, that I -never----” - -Flora interrupted her. - -“He told me everything,” she repeated. “He told me that the case would -be undefended, and that he was coming home to marry you. So you see I -know.” - -“You! What can you, who’ve never married, never seen anything of -life, know of things? You see evil where none exists--you’re like all -these good and holy people ... intolerant....” Tears poured unchecked -down her face, making streaks across the white powder. “You don’t -even _begin_ to know what I’ve gone through. My husband is a beast--a -_beast_. You don’t know what that means.” - -She flung herself backwards, almost prone, and wept hysterically. - -“What are you going to do?” said Flora. - -“Kill myself!” - -The rhetorical answer came almost automatically. - -Flora waited for a moment and then said very gently: - -“As you say, I don’t know anything about these things, but perhaps -you would tell me what you want. We might think of some way of making -things better. And you can see for yourself that your secret--and -David’s--is safe with me. I’ve deceived my father, sooner than let him -guess. I don’t think he need ever know, now.” - -“Why don’t you want him to know?” said Mrs. Carey with sudden curiosity -that seemed to check her crying. - -“It would make him very unhappy. He was proud of David and he thinks -that David had a career before him. Perhaps you’ve read in books,” said -Flora, speaking as though to a child, “about people thinking death is -better than dishonour. Well, my father is like that.” - -“He’s a parson, isn’t he?” - -“Yes.” - -Mrs. Carey shrugged her shoulders. - -“Where is your husband now?” Flora enquired. She felt that she could -ask this woman questions without fear or rebuff, but she thought that -it would be for her to disentangle the truth from the false in Mrs. -Carey’s replies. - -“Fred’s in Scotland. He’s staying with his mother. She’s a beastly old -woman and I hate her. If she’d been a decent sort, you’d think she’d -have used her influence to put things right between us, now wouldn’t -you? But she’s never let Fred alone ever since we married. Always -telling him tales about me, and saying I’m extravagant, and a flirt, -and wanting to know why I’ve never had a baby. It’s not my fault if -I’ve got rotten health, now is it? I’ve always been delicate. I’m sure -I only wish I had got a child. It might have made Fred nicer to me, and -I should have had something to care for.” - -She began to cry again. - -“I’m sure I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. Perhaps you think -I’m mad.” - -“I’m dreadfully sorry for you,” said Flora truthfully. - -“You’re a dear.” Mrs. Carey dropped the hostility out of her voice -abruptly. “No one knows what I’ve gone through. And now about -David--it’s simply awful!” - -“Did you really mean to marry David, after your divorce?” - -“I’d better tell you the whole story, I suppose,” said Mrs. Carey. She -dried her eyes and her voice insensibly hardened from self-pity into -tones of satisfaction. - -“I suppose I’ve always been attractive to men. I can’t help it, after -all. And I daresay I’ve played the fool, in my time--in fact I don’t -deny it. But David and I were simply tremendous friends, to begin -with. He was frightfully sorry for me, too. Everybody knew that Fred -was simply hateful to me, and made a scene if I so much as went out -riding with another man. He quite liked your brother, though, at first, -I will say that for him. We used to have him to dinner pretty often, -and one of the subalterns to make a fourth, and play Bridge. Well, I -never guessed that your brother did more than just like me as a great -friend, as heaps of men did--how could I? I used to advise him to -marry, often and often. Some nice girl at home, who’d come out and -look after him. Those boys all drink more than is good for them, out -there, if they’ve no wife to look after them. And David used to talk -nonsense about having no use for girls, and having met his ideal too -late, but of course I never took it seriously. Heaps of men say things -like that to one, now don’t they? We used to go out riding together a -good deal, and of course I danced with him. (That’s another of the ways -in which Fred is so frightfully selfish. He can’t dance himself ever -since he was wounded in the war, so he hates me to.) Then people began -to say the usual horrid things. The women out there are all cats, and -besides, a good many of them wanted David for themselves. I didn’t -take any notice. I think it’s so much more dignified not to, don’t -you? As I said to the Colonel’s wife, when she had the impertinence -to speak to me about it, I never _have_ taken any notice of gossip, -and I’m not going to begin now. I simply go my own way, and let people -say what they choose. It doesn’t matter to me if they’ve got horrible -minds. It’s themselves that are hurt by it, I always think, not me. -But I think women are much braver and more unconventional than men, -don’t you? David minded ever so much more than I did, when he found -people were talking about us. Well, things were going from bad to worse -between Fred and me, and one night he was so perfectly hateful to me -that I got frightened. He was--not drunk, but not altogether sober. -And I ran into the compound and down the road to David’s bungalow. He -shared it with another man, but the other man was away shooting. You -see, I was so frightened and upset that I didn’t know what I was doing, -and I just felt I must go to someone who’d take care of me.” - -Mrs. Carey swallowed, as though something in her throat were hurting -her, and lit another cigarette with a hand that trembled. - -“It was a frightfully imprudent thing to do, I suppose, but I’ve never -pretended to be a particularly prudent woman. I daresay I should have -been much happier if I’d been less impulsive, all my life, but after -all, one can’t change one’s nature, can one? Besides, I was nearly out -of my mind. Fred came to find me next morning. I was far too miserable -and terrified to go back to him that night. We had scene after scene, -after that, and he threatened me with divorce proceedings.” - -She glanced at her motionless auditor. - -“I may have been a careless fool, and I’ll go as far as to say that -I’ve flirted with other men, but it was wicked of Fred to think of such -a thing as divorce--to ruin my reputation, and spoil David’s career.” - -“Why was the case to be undefended?” said Flora steadily. - -“Why--why, don’t you see, when it all came to a crisis, I told David -how utterly wretched my whole life was, and how I couldn’t bear it and -should kill myself, and we had to talk things over, and see what could -be done with Fred, who was like a madman. And then it all came out--I -mean David said I was the only woman he could ever care for, and if I -was free, wouldn’t I marry him, and let him try to make up to me for -everything.” - -“Why was the case to be undefended?” - -“It would make less of a scandal if it was all done quietly. I--I -didn’t feel I could face the other.” - -In the truth of that last assertion, Flora could believe absolutely. - -“I think I know the rest,” she said. “David was going to send in his -papers, and come home to England as soon as possible after you and -Major Carey, and you’d promised to marry him when the decree had been -made absolute.” - -“How do you know those legal terms?” said Mrs. Carey, pouting like a -child that is trying to show displeasure. - -Flora did not pursue the irrelevance. She was following a chain of -thought in her own mind. - -“David _was_ in love with this woman. Otherwise he wouldn’t have -written and asked me to do anything I could for her. As for leaving the -case undefended--well, they probably hadn’t got a defence to put up. -He meant to marry her--probably wanted to marry her. Besides he’d have -felt that he owed it to her. And though he was afraid of Father, and -very unhappy about sending in his papers, and though he may have had -glimpses of what she really is--David wasn’t the sort to let her down. -_He didn’t kill himself._” - -The certainty came to Flora with a rush of relief so profound that she -could almost have thanked little Mrs. Carey for unwittingly bringing -her to it. - -It was characteristic of her that, instead, she glanced at her watch -and said: - -“I can only stay another twenty minutes, and we shall probably not meet -again. Are you going to Scotland tonight?” - -“Indeed I am. Fred is there now, at his mother’s, telling her all sorts -of horrible things about me, I suppose. They’ve both written to me.” - -“What is your husband going to do?” - -“I don’t know.” She began to cry again. “His mother, for once in her -life, wants to patch things up between us. She’s one of your religious -people, and she thinks divorce is awful.” - -“I don’t know whether a divorce is still possible, now that David----” - -Mrs. Carey broke into a sort of howl that, in its reminiscence of a -beaten animal, made Flora feel sick. - -“That’s just it--Fred _is_ a beast! He thinks there were other -people--other men--as well.” - -“Oh,” said Flora, and shuddered violently. - -“You’ve been rather a dear, so I don’t mind telling you that your -brother is out of it now, whatever happened. Oh, I don’t know what’ll -happen. I never cared for anybody like I did for David--never. I was -ready to go through anything for him, and we could have started fresh -somewhere, and no one would have thought anything of it. People aren’t -so narrow-minded as they used to be. He’s the only man I’ve ever loved!” - -Flora felt no inclination to point out to the unhappy woman the -inconsistency of her various statements. - -She even found it easy enough to believe that Maisie Carey for the -moment thought herself to be speaking the truth when she said that -David was the only man she had ever loved. - -“I’m sorry for you,” she said gently. “And I’m grateful to you, because -you’ve taken a great weight off my mind. My brother asked me to do -anything I could for you. Is there anything?” - -“I don’t know what _you_ could do, I’m sure. It isn’t even as though -you were married. Not that you haven’t been sweet to me, listening like -this. You do believe in me, don’t you? Even if you hear beastly stories -about me, ever, you’ll know they aren’t true, won’t you?” - -She put out a hand that still trembled, to Flora, but she went on -speaking rapidly, as though not daring to wait for an assent that might -not come. - -“You’re awfully like David, in some ways, you know. It’s been a comfort -to see you. Don’t tell your father about my troubles. Just say I was a -friend of David’s, you know. I’m glad he didn’t come with you. I hate -parsons, if you’ll excuse me for saying so, and I’m so frightfully -nervous and upset that I might have said anything. I wish you could -have seen Fred--he always says I haven’t got any decent women-friends. -Perhaps you could have made him give me another chance.” - -“Don’t you think he will?” - -“How do I know? He’s written me a horrid letter, and pages and pages of -cant from my mother-in-law. I believe if I promised to live at their -hateful place, right away in Scotland, and keep within my allowance, -and never have any fun at all, Fred would chuck the army and manage the -estate for his mother. Can you see me in thick boots and a billycock -hat, trudging up and down those hills to go and carry tracts to some -wretched old woman in a cottage?” - -She laughed melodramatically. - -“No,” said Flora, “I can’t see you doing that. But I shouldn’t think -you’d have to. Couldn’t you come here, for part of the year?” - -“I suppose I could. I don’t know. Fred got this house to please me, -when we were first married. He’d have done anything for me, then. I -little knew what a life he was going to lead me later on!” - -Flora rose. - -“I’ve got to go. I will burn the letter that David wrote me, about you. -Only one person knows what was in it, besides myself, and he will -never repeat it.” - -“Was that your father?” - -“No, oh, no. My father _mustn’t_ know, ever.” - -Flora paused for a moment, then judged that it would be useless to make -any appeal to Mrs. Carey’s discretion. For her own sake, she might -keep silence as to her relationship with David Morchard, and a fresh -emotional disturbance would eventually displace the episode--to her, it -could be no more--from her mind. - -Mrs. Carey looked at her curiously. - -“Of course, I remember you told me that your father didn’t know. Then -are you engaged?” - -“No,” said Flora, colouring slightly. - -“All men are beasts--you’re quite right to have nothing to do with -them. I’ve had such a rotten time, what with Fred’s jealousy, and other -men never letting me alone, that I sometimes wish I’d stayed an old -maid, like you,” said Mrs. Carey. - -Flora recognized the impulse that sought to inflict a scratch, where -Mrs. Carey’s self-revelation had left her vanity disturbed with the -instinctive fear that she had not been taken at her own valuation. - -She said good-bye to her. - -“I’ll let you know what happens,” Mrs. Carey promised. “I feel you -really _do_ care, you know. I shall think of you when I’m taking that -horrid journey tonight all the way to Scotland. Perhaps I really will -settle down there, if Fred is willing to make it up, and if he lets me -have a decent allowance, and part of the year over here.” - -She no longer looked desperate, and she bent over the banisters and -waved to Flora with the little handkerchief that was still drenched by -the tears she had been shedding. - -Flora did not suppose that she should ever hear from her. Impressions -made upon Mrs. Carey seemed to be transient affairs. - -She was conscious of nothing so much as of extreme physical fatigue, -and the intense relief of her new certainty that David had not, after -all, sought the last desperate remedy. She could be certain of that, -now. - -“Perhaps Owen won’t understand why I’m so positive of that now,” -she reflected. “But after all, I knew David. She counted on him, -and he’d promised to marry her. David would never have failed her -deliberately--it wasn’t in him. And he was taken away from committing a -frightful sin. Besides, who knows how much he repented, poor boy?” - -Within a few yards of the hotel, Flora met Quentillian. - -He turned and accompanied her to the door. - -“David didn’t take his own life, Owen. It was what they said--he must -have been taken ill suddenly.” - -“You know for certain?” - -“For certain.” - -He told her that he understood her relief, but his next words were: - -“And do you still think you were right, about going alone to this -woman?” - -“Whether I was right or not, I’m thankful I did. She would have broken -my father’s heart. She was a sort of--emotion-monger. She’d have spared -him nothing.” - -“She spared you nothing, then, Flora?” - -“It’s different, for me. I would do anything in the world, for my -father’s sake. That’s my only excuse, possibly, for deceiving him.” - -“Do you want excuses?” - -“No, I don’t. You’re right,” she said gravely. “I’ve planned it all -deliberately, and I’ve got to see it through.” - -“I think you’re wrong, all along the line, and I want to talk it over -with you. It will be a bitter disappointment to the Canon to be told -that he has missed seeing Mrs. Carey.” - -“Yes.” - -“But you’re going to leave it at that?” - -“Yes, more than ever. Owen, when do you go to Stear?” - -“As soon as possible.” - -“Then could you travel down with us tomorrow? We go by the three -o’clock train. I think it may do him good, to have you, and you see, -he’ll be thinking that the whole expedition has been a failure. It will -be easier for both of us, if you’re there.” - -“Very well, I’ll come.” - -They parted, and Flora went to seek her father. Except from a certain -curiosity, it could not be said that Quentillian looked forward to an -agreeable journey. - -By the time that he joined Canon Morchard and his daughter at the -railway station, he was beginning to feel as though the whole of the -involved deception perpetrated with such a conviction of righteousness -by Flora, must have been a figment of imagination. One glance at the -Canon’s sombre and pallid face dispelled the illusion. - -Flora looked pallid also, but her expression was one of rapt intensity, -as though only her own strange vision, that Quentillian felt to be so -singularly perverted, were before her. She had, undeniably, shielded -her father from knowledge that must have appalled him, and in that -security, remained calm. - -The Canon, out of his lesser awareness, had not, however, remained calm -at all. - -“I have been angry, Owen,” he admitted, as they paced the platform -together, at the Canon’s own invitation. “My disappointment has been -very bitter. This lady, this Mrs. Carey, the friend of my dear boy -David, left for Scotland last night. I went to her house this morning, -only to find her gone. Flora, whom I trusted, had made a mistake of -incredible carelessness. I could not have believed it, in a matter -which _must_ touch us all so nearly, which lay so close to my own -heart. Poor child, she has been highly tried of late, and I have -thought her looking ill. I should not have trusted to her accuracy. -Lucilla, who has been my right hand, my secretary ever since her -childhood, could never have failed me thus. I forgot that her sister -was younger, unaccustomed to the task, less to be relied upon. But it -has been a cruel disappointment, and I vented my first grief upon the -culprit. Is there _no_ stage of the journey, Owen, when one can see the -undisciplined impulse driven underfoot, the hasty word bridled? I, who -have striven all my life, I have again shown anger and violence--to my -own child!” - -The Canon’s peculiar predilection for making an amateur confessor of -Quentillian, was by force of repetition ceasing to seem anything but -natural. - -Quentillian said: “Flora looks overwrought, sir,” and inwardly hoped -that the train would arrive shortly. - -“Aye, poor Flora! She was David’s especial favourite, his best -correspondent. This stroke has fallen heavily upon Flora, Owen. And I, -who should have made all allowance, I turned against her! In my sharp -disappointment, I uttered those strong expressions that come back to -one, when the moment’s passion has cooled, as they must have sounded to -the unhappy sinner by whom they were provoked.” - -It was the same piteous round of self-reproach, remorse and profound -depression to which Owen had so frequently listened. He hoped that he -might be of some assistance, however, incomprehensibly to himself, in -listening yet once again. - -“I have written to Mrs. Carey. She must indeed have thought my -behaviour strange, ungrateful, unnatural even. That matters little -enough, yet it adds its feather weight to the burden--its feather -weight to the burden. That I should have appeared careless, -indifferent, where news of David was concerned! I, who would have given -my heart’s blood, for one hour’s intercourse with him since he left us -for the last time! Ah, well, it does not bear dwelling upon.” - -Nevertheless, the Canon dwelt upon it until it became necessary to -rejoining Flora and enter the train. - -During the journey he remained silent, with a profound and unhappy -silence. His manner towards his daughter was peculiarly gentle and -melancholy. - -Presently he leant back in the corner, the sad lines of his face -relaxing, and slept. - -Flora spoke to Quentillian in a low voice. - -“I’m so glad he’s asleep. Last night I heard him walking up and down -his room for such a long while.” - -“He is very much distressed,” said Quentillian severely. - -“I know.” She acquiesced apathetically in the truth of the statement. - -“Do you know that he has written to Mrs. Carey?” - -“Yes.” - -“How are you going to prevent her replying, and exposing the fact that -you have seen her?” - -Flora whitened perceptibly, but she answered him with sudden spirit. - -“You have no right to question me, Owen, or to demand explanations from -me in that tone.” - -“I have this right, that you have made me a passive partner in your -extraordinary schemes.” - -Owen, too, was conscious of a rising anger. - -“I feel like a traitor to your father, Flora. What are you going to do -next?” - -“I am going to see it through,” said Flora doggedly. “At least you will -admit that to do a thing like this by halves, is a great deal worse -than useless. I have saved my father from what must have broken his -heart.” - -“You have done evil that good may come,” he quoted grimly. - -“If you like to put it so.” Flora was inexorable. - -“He has suffered too much already.” - -“You mock your own God,” said Quentillian, with sudden, low vehemence. -“You profess to believe in Him, to trust Him, and yet you deceive and -manoeuvre and plot, sooner than leave your father to his dealings. -I have small belief in a personal God, Flora, but I can see no -justification in endeavouring madly to stand between another soul, and -life.” - -She gazed at him piteously. - -“Do you think I am not unhappy--that I have not been torn in two? -He was angry, Owen, when he thought I had made a mistake about the -appointment, and oh, the relief of it! I should have welcomed it if -he had hit me--I deserved it all, and far more besides. If I am doing -wrong, I am suffering for it.” - -Quentillian, looking at her haggard, tragic face, felt sure that she -spoke literal truth. - -“When does Lucilla come home?” he suddenly asked. - -“I don’t know. Soon, I hope.” - -Quentillian hoped so too. It seemed to him that only Lucilla’s -normality could adjust to any sort of balance the mental atmosphere of -St. Gwenllian. - -Flora gazed at her father. - -“Think what it would have been to him to know, now, that David had -sinned, even that he contemplated going through the form of marriage, -with that poor thing! The world’s standards of honour are not those of -my father.” - -“Nor yours either,” Quentillian had almost said, but he checked the -cheap retort as it rose. - -An impulse made him say instead: - -“Promise me at least, Flora, that if this becomes too much for you, if -it all breaks down, you will let me share it with you. You owe it to -me, I think, having let me be partly responsible. Will you promise?” - -“You are very good,” said Flora, her mouth quivering for the first -time. “But I don’t mean to fail.” - -It was evident enough that her whole being was strung up to the -accomplishment of her purpose, and that she was incapable of seeing -beyond it. - -Quentillian, at his own station, parted from Canon Morchard and his -daughter with the direst forebodings. Insensibly, he, too, had almost -come to feel that anxious preoccupation with the Canon’s peace of mind -that exercised the Canon’s daughters. - -Within a fortnight of his return he went over to St. Gwenllian and -found there no trace of catastrophe such as he had half expected, but -the usual atmosphere of calm melancholy. - -He had no conversation with Flora, but she told him briefly that there -would be no correspondence between her father and Mrs. Carey, and -Quentillian was left to surmise by what peculiar methods Flora had -achieved her ends. - -On the whole, he preferred not to dwell upon the subject. He had a -certain unwilling respect for Flora, even if none for her casuistries, -and he had no wish to dwell either upon her astonishing machinations or -his own complicity. - - -(iv) - -In the spring Lucilla came back to St. Gwenllian. - -The first time that Owen saw her was in the presence of the Canon. - -In his relief at her return, Canon Morchard had evidently forgotten -that he had thought it undutiful of her to go. - -“You see I have my right hand once more,” he said fondly. “Owen here -can tell you that you have been sadly missed, my daughter. Little Flora -did her best, but she is not my housekeeper, my experienced secretary. -Neither she nor our poor Valeria can equal Lucilla there.” - -Quentillian took his advantage and asked Lucilla for news of Valeria. -The Canon, habitually, seemed only too much inclined to view any -mention of Valeria and her husband as a rank indecency in the presence -of her quondam betrothed. - -“Val is very well and very busy,” said Lucilla. “George is doing well, -on the whole, though it’s a struggle, but the land there is wonderful. -I should like to show you the photographs of their little farm, and the -children.” - -“Lucilla is our photographer,” said the Canon forbearingly, as though -in extenuation of what Quentillian felt certain that he regarded as -Lucilla’s indiscretion. - -Not for the first time, Quentillian suspected that Lucilla was the only -one of the Canon’s children able to contemplate the Canon by the light -of a sense of humour, that detracted not at all from her affection and -respect. - -“They are not thinking of a visit to England, I suppose?” - -“No. Expense is a consideration, and there are the children.” - -“My grandsons!” said the Canon. “I should like a sight of my grandsons, -but there could not be unalloyed joy in the meeting. Nay, I ask -myself sometimes if there can be any unalloyed joy here below. Are -not the warp and woof intermingled even in the nearest and dearest -relationships? And the manner of poor Valeria’s leaving home was such -as to make one’s heart ache, both for her and with her. But enough of -reminiscences, my children. I am in no mood for them tonight. I wish to -rest, and perhaps read. You may some of you remember a very favourite -old story of mine,” said Canon Morchard genially. “That of the famous -saying, ‘We are none of us infallible, _not even the youngest_.’” - -This terrible pronouncement, however historical, seldom amused the -juniors of its _raconteur_, and Flora and Lucilla only accorded to it -the most perfunctory of smiles. Owen Quentillian remained entirely -grave. - -“No one has more admiration than myself for the quality of -infallibility,” the Canon continued, humourously “(always provided -that it is not that which is claimed by the Pope of Rome), but I -must confess that I am not amongst those who take the modern craze -for youthful intellectuals very seriously. This being so, dear Owen, -you will forgive me in that I have not yet read anything of yours. -Tonight I have a free hour--a rare treat--and I am going to rectify the -omission. Will you read aloud to us of your work, or is that too much -to ask?” - -It was indeed too much to ask, Owen felt. - -He could have read his own work aloud with comparative complacency -to any critic capable of taking it seriously, but to Canon Morchard -the slight, cynical epigrams, the terse, essentially unsentimental -rationalism of Owen’s views upon God and man, must come either as -wanton impertinence, or as meaningless folly. - -It was impossible to suppose that the Canon would keep either opinion -to himself, and Quentillian felt it unlikely that he would either -find himself capable of listening to him tolerantly, or be given an -opportunity for demolishing his views. - -“I think I had rather not inflict my trivialities upon you at all, -sir,” he remarked, with truth, and yet with an absence of sincerity of -which he felt that Lucilla, at all events, was quite as well aware as -he was himself. - -“I assure you that I’m not worth reading.” - -“I shall judge of that for myself,” said the Canon kindly. “Was there -not something in that Review that was sent to you, Flora?” - -“Yes,” said Flora unwillingly. - -“Fetch it, my dear.” - -Quentillian cast his mind over his more recent productions, and was -invaded by a grim dismay. - -His opinion of the Canon’s literary judgment, where writings not -directly connected with Church matters were concerned, was of the -slightest, but he disliked the thought both of the pain that the elder -man would feel in reading that which would offend his taste, and of the -remonstrance that he would certainly believe it his duty to make. - -It was a relief to him when Flora returned without the Review, and -said: - -“There is someone who wants to speak to you in the hall, Father. I’m so -sorry.” - -The Canon rose at once. - -“‘The man who wants me is the man I want’,” he quoted, and left the -room. - -When the door had closed behind him, Flora said to her sister, with -a certain ruthless disregard of Quentillian’s presence that at least -established the earnestness of her concern: - -“What shall we do?” - -“Nothing,” said Lucilla laconically. - -“But we can’t let him see that Review. Adrian sent it to me--it’s got -something in it by that man Hale. Father would hate the whole thing.” - -Lucilla looked at Quentillian. - -“He won’t like my article, and I should very much prefer him not to -read it,” said the author candidly. - -She smiled slightly. - -“It’s the one on the Myth of Self-Sacrifice?” - -Owen nodded. - -“It might have been worse,” said Lucilla. “It might have been the one -in which you said that the parental instinct was only another name for -the possessive instinct. And now I come to think of it, that one was -called The Sanctification of Domestic Tyranny, wasn’t it?” - -“It was,” said Quentillian, in a tone which struck himself as being -rather that of a defiant child to its nurse. - -“Well, Father would have liked that even less than the Myth of -Self-Sacrifice, I imagine.” - -She spoke without acrimony, without, in fact, any effect at all of -personal bias, but Quentillian said dispassionately: - -“You dislike the modern school of thought of which my writings are a -feeble example. May I ask why you read them?” - -“But I don’t dislike it, Owen,” she returned with a calm at least equal -to his own. “As for what you write, I think you’re very often mistaken, -but that doesn’t prevent my being interested.” - -Quentillian was slightly taken aback at being considered mistaken, and -still more at being told so. He had always respected Lucilla, both -morally and intellectually, and he would have preferred to suppose the -admiration mutual. - -“Owen, haven’t you got anything else that he could have to read?” broke -in Flora. - -“Nothing that he would--care for,” answered Quentillian, who had very -nearly said “Nothing that he would understand.” - -“Father has asked for the Review, Flossie, and you’d better get it. You -needn’t work yourself up about it. He knows its general character quite -as well as you do.” - -“I don’t think he ought to be allowed to make himself needlessly -unhappy,” said Flora obstinately. - -“You can’t prevent it.” - -“I suppose it would be wrong to say that I don’t know where the Review -is?” - -“It would be foolish, which is worse,” said Lucilla curtly. Her -un-moral pronouncement closed the discussion. - -Flora, looking grave and unhappy, left the room, and presently -returned with the instrument of destruction, as she evidently regarded -the production. - -“Let us hope that Canon Morchard will continue to be detained,” said -Quentillian, not altogether ironically. - -Flora made no reply. - -In less than a quarter of an hour’s time, the Canon came back again, -picked up the Review and made a careful scrutiny of the table of -contents. - -“The _Myth_ of Self-Sacrifice?” he enunciated, with a -strongly-enquiring inflexion in his tone, as though prepared to receive -the writer’s instant assurance that he was not responsible for so -strange a heading. - -Owen desired to leave the room, but was mysteriously compelled to -remain in it, glancing at intervals at the all-too expressive face of -his reader. - -The Canon read very attentively, pausing every now and then to turn -back a page or two, as though comparing inconsistencies of text, and -sometimes also turning on a page or two ahead, as if desirous of -establishing the certainty that a conclusion was eventually to be -attained. His eyebrows worked as he read, after a fashion habitual with -him. - -There had been evenings when Flora had made the slightest of pencil -sketches, hardly caricaturing, but embodying, this peculiarity, for -her father’s subsequent indulgent amusement. But no such artistic -pleasantry was undertaken tonight. The atmosphere did not lend itself -to pleasantry of any kind. - -At last the Canon closed the volume, laid it down, and removed his -glasses with some deliberation. - -“Dear lad, I am disappointed.” - -“I was afraid you would be.” - -“Is this quite worthy of you?” - -Owen felt that a reply either in the affirmative or in the negative, -would be equally unsatisfactory, and made none. - -“You have adopted the tone of the day to an extent for which I was -by no means prepared,” the Canon said gently. “I am sorry for it, -Owen--very sorry. I think you have heard me speak before of my dislike -for the modern note, that emphasises the material aspect, that miscalls -ugliness realism, and coarseness strength. Forgive me, dear Owen, if I -hurt you, but this--this trivial flippancy of yours, has hurt _me_.” - -Owen had no doubt that Canon Morchard spoke the truth. - -“How emphatically he belongs to the generation that took the errors of -other people to heart,” Quentillian reflected. - -He felt no great sympathy with such vicarious distresses. - -“There is so much that is sad and bad in life, that one longs to read -of happiness, and hope, and beauty,” said the Canon. “Why not, dear -Owen, seek out and write of the ‘something afar from the sphere of our -sorrow’?” - -“Because to my way of thinking, only first-hand impressions are of any -value. The only value that any point of view of mine can lay claim to, -must lie in its sincerity.” - -“Words, words! You delude yourself with many words,” said the Canon -sadly, rousing in Quentillian a strong desire to retort with the -obvious _tu quoque_. - -“Do not misunderstand me, dear fellow--there is talent -there--perversely exercised, if you will, but talent. I cannot but -believe that life has many lessons in store for you, and when you have -learnt them, then you will write more kindly of human nature, more -reverently of Divine.” - -Hope was once more discernible in the Canon’s voice and on his face, -and as he rose he laid his hand affectionately upon the young man’s -arm. “Hoping all things--believing all things,” he murmured, as he left -the room. - -Quentillian was left to the certainty that his brief exposition of -his literary _credo_ had entirely failed to convey any meaning to the -Canon, and that the long list of the Canon’s optimistic articles of -faith now included his own regeneration. - - -(v) - -“Father, I think Flora looks ill.” - -Canon Morchard gazed with concern at Lucilla as she made the -announcement, and at once devoted himself to the anxious analysis that -he always accorded to any problem affecting one of his children. - -“I have thought her altered myself, by the great grief of last year. -Spiritually, it has developed her, I believe. But there is a sustained -melancholy about her, an absence of all hopeful reaction such as one -looks for from youth, that is certainly not wholly natural. You, too, -have observed it?” - -“Yes.” - -Lucilla had observed a great deal more besides, and she was at a loss -for a definition of her secret, latent fears. - -“Flossie has become very irritable,” she said at last, voicing the -least of her anxieties. - -“My dear, is that perfectly kind? Flora has had much to try her, -and your own absence in Canada threw a great deal for which she is -scarcely fitted, upon her shoulders. I do so want you to overcome that -_critical_ spirit of yours, dear Lucilla. It has very often disturbed -me.” - -Lucilla thought for a moment, and decided, without resentment -as without surprise, that it would be of no use to say that her -observation had not contained any of the spirit of criticism at all. -She said instead: - -“She doesn’t sleep well, and she is always up very early.” - -“She is always at the early Celebration, dear child,” said the Canon -tenderly. “Our Flora’s religion is a very living reality to her--more -so than ever, of late, I think.” - -“It’s a pity that it should make her unhappy, instead of happy.” - -“What are you saying, Lucilla?” the Canon enquired in highly-displeased -accents. - -“It is perfectly true. She is very restless, and very unhappy, and the -more she goes to church, the less it seems to satisfy her.” - -“And who are you, to judge thus of another’s spiritual experiences? You -mean well, Lucilla, but there is a materialism about your point of view -that has long made me uneasy--exceedingly uneasy. You were encumbered -with household cares very young, and it has given you the spirit of -Martha, rather than the spirit of Mary. Leave Flora to my direction, if -you please.” - -“I should like her to see the doctor.” - -“Has she complained of ill-health?” - -“No, not at all. She resents being asked if she is well.” - -“Most naturally. She is not a child. You take too much upon yourself, -Lucilla, as I have told you before. Leave Flora’s welfare in Higher -hands than ours, and remember that it is not the part of a Christian to -anticipate trouble. Where is your faith?” - -Lucilla was not unaccustomed to this enquiry, and did not deem any -specific reply to be necessary. Whatever the whereabouts of that which -the Canon termed her faith, it did not serve in any way to allay her -anxiety. - -She watched Flora day by day. - -She saw her increasing pallor, her gradual loss of weight, the black -lines that deepened beneath her eyes. Above all, she saw the mysterious -sense of grievance, that most salient characteristic of the neurotic, -gather round her sister’s spirit. - -After a little while, she ceased to talk of her visit to Canada, of -Valeria, and Valeria’s children, because she saw that Flora could not -bear these subjects. - -“She’s _jealous_,” thought Lucilla, with a sick pang of pity. - -“I’m sorry for poor Val, living right away from civilization, and -absorbed by commonplace things all the time,” said Flora. - -She went to church more frequently than ever. - -Lucilla wondered very often if anything had happened while she was away. - -One day she asked Owen Quentillian. - -“There was the shock of David’s death,” he said rather lamely. - -“Yes. Father says it affected Flora terribly for a long while.” - -“Do you find her much changed, then?” - -“I find her very unbalanced,” said Lucilla with her usual directness. - -“I think she _is_ an unbalanced person,” Quentillian assented, levelly. - -“I wish she could leave home for a time.” - -But Flora, when this was suggested to her, said that she did not wish -to leave home. Her manner implied that the suggestion hurt her. - -At first the Canon was pleased, assuring Lucilla that the pleasant -home-life at St. Gwenllian, even if robbed of its old-time joyousness, -would best restore Flora to herself. But after a time, he, too, watched -her with anxiety. - -“Little Flora is not herself,” he began to say. - -“Let me send for the doctor, Father,” Lucilla urged. - -“We will see, my dear, later on. The unsettled weather is trying to us -all just now--no doubt things will right themselves in a day or two, -and we shall smile at our own foolish, faithless fears.” - -Meanwhile, however, no one at St. Gwenllian evinced any desire to smile -at anything, and Flora became subject to violent fits of crying. - -Her dignity and her delicate reticence seemed alike to have deserted -her. She cried in church, and sometimes she cried at home, regardless -of the presence of her father and sister. - -“My dear, what is it?” the Canon enquired at last, long after Lucilla -had given up asking the same question in despair. - -“Nothing,” said Flora. - -“It is not right to prolong your sorrow for your dear one in this -fashion,” said the Canon. “Can we not trust dear David to the -Everlasting Arms, and fulfil our own appointed days here below?” - -His daughter made no reply. - -“This is reaction, Flora,” said Canon Morchard decisively. “When -this heavy blow first fell upon us, you were my courageous daughter, -my comforter--so far as that was humanly possible. Do not falter -now--remember that whom He loveth, He chastizeth.” - -“I do remember,” she said, her face a mask of misery. - -“You are not well,” said the Canon tenderly. “I shall no longer allow -you to exert yourself as you have been doing. Lucilla here will -arrange that your class shall be temporarily given over to other -management, and no doubt she can herself arrange to replace you at the -choir-practices.” - -“I can arrange it,” Lucilla said, “but----” - -She looked at her sister. - -Flora broke into a tempest of tears. - -“Don’t take away what work I _can_ do,” she sobbed out. “My life is -useless enough, in all conscience.” - -“Flora!” the Canon thundered. “Have a care! Such a thought is -perilously near to being a blasphemous one.” - -She hid her face in her hands. - -“You are unstrung, my poor child,” said her father. He took to treating -her almost as an invalid, and failed to perceive that his watchful and -incessant solicitude produced upon Flora’s nerves an effect that was -the very reverse of soothing. - -“She ought to go right away from home,” said Lucilla to Quentillian. -“But it’s difficult to suggest it again, she was so much upset when I -spoke of it before. Will you try what you can do, Owen? She is a great -deal more likely to listen to someone who is not one of the family. -It’s one of the symptoms.” - -“Symptoms of what?” - -“Of hysteria,” said Lucilla succinctly, facing the word as she had -already faced the fact. - -Quentillian admired her directness, but it did not breed in him any -desire to adopt the measure suggested, and speak to Flora. - -At last, however, he did so. They had scarcely been alone together -since the day when she had told him of her visit to Mrs. Carey. - -“Is that business on your mind, Flora?” - -He had thought for some time that it might be. - -“What?” - -“Mrs. Carey, I mean.” - -She coloured deeply. - -“I did what I thought right at the time, Owen. Is there any necessity -to discuss it again?” - -“Not if you don’t wish to, certainly. I had an idea that it might be a -relief. I suppose no one knows besides ourselves?” - -“No one. She never wrote to me, you know, and I feel sure she never -will. She was the sort of person to be thoroughly absorbed by her -impressions of the moment. I sometimes wonder what happened to her, in -Scotland.” - -“It is not very difficult to guess what _will_ happen, sooner or later, -from what you told me. People like Mrs. Carey live from one emotional -crisis to another.” - -She gave him a curious look. - -“At least it’s living--not stagnation. That interview with Mrs. Carey -seems like a dream, almost, nowadays--something quite apart from the -rest of my life. I suppose it’s because it’s the only thing I’ve ever -done entirely by myself, without any of the family knowing about -it. I’ve never even seen anyone else at all like Mrs. Carey--it was -impossible to get into touch with her, really. She was like a painted -cardboard figure, with no back to it--nothing solid.” - -“But you’ve turned down that page, now--it’s finished with?” - -“Yes,” she said, looking down. - -He had wondered whether that which he sometimes thought of as Flora’s -Jesuitical plotting had come to prey upon her mind. - -Evidently, if it did, he was not to be told so. - -In the end he could think of no more subtle enquiry than: - -“Why are you unhappy?” - -“I don’t know,” she said with a trembling lip. - -“I feel I’m of no use in the world. Wouldn’t you be unhappy, if you -felt like that--that nobody really needed you in any way, and you had -nothing to do?” - -“Not in the least,” said Quentillian reflectively. “I am quite sure -that nobody does need me, and it doesn’t distress me. As for having -nothing to do, I imagine--if you will forgive me for saying so--that -one can always find something if one looks far enough.” - -“It’s different for a man.” - -“Perhaps.” - -Quentillian went away still undetermined whether Flora’s conduct of the -_affaire_ Carey was the cause or the result of her present deplorable -condition. - -That she had all the makings of a fanatic, he had long suspected, and -the Canon’s determination to treat her as an invalid, in need of rest -and complete inaction, seemed to him to be a singularly ill-advised one. - -In spite of his disapproval of her methods, Quentillian had come -to feel a certain affection for Flora, and he could not avoid a -sense of complicity that drew him to her, even while it chafed his -self-righteousness. - -With an entire lack of originality, he informed Lucilla that he thought -her sister would be better away from home. - -“Well, so do I. But even to go away for a few weeks would only be a -half-measure. Owen, I’m frightened about Flora--far more than I’ve ever -been about anyone before.” - -He could partly apprehend her meaning. - -“Don’t you think that perhaps this--phase--is only another -manifestation of the same spirit that made Val want to go and work -somewhere?” - -“In a sense, yes. You see, all the intellectual interests, and -the mental appreciations, to which we were brought up, although -those things did fill our days--at least before the war--were only -superimposed on what Val and Flossie and Adrian really were, in -themselves. Not essentials, I mean, to either of them.” - -Quentillian wondered what Lucilla’s own essentials might be. She had -given him no hint of them, ever, and yet he suspected her of an almost -aggressive neutrality with regard to the imposed interests of which she -had spoken. - -The odd contradiction in terms seemed to him expressive of the -difference that he felt certain existed between Lucilla’s daily life, -and the personal, intimate standpoint from which she all the time -regarded that life. - -Something of the same ruthlessness of purpose that had once -characterized Flora, he had always discerned in Lucilla, but he felt -very certain that her essential sanity and humour would have kept -her forever from the strange and tortuous means adopted by Flora to -safeguard those interests of which she apparently felt herself to be a -better judge than her Creator. - -Lucilla would neither juggle with fate, nor see any justification for -tampering with other people’s correspondence. - -“Flora thinks, now, that she doesn’t want to go away from home.” - -“It’s a pity, perhaps, that she didn’t go to Canada instead of you.” - -“Yes, but you see Father didn’t really want either of us to go, and -Flossie wouldn’t have disobeyed him.” - -Flora’s conscience! Owen felt as impatient at the thought of it, as -he had frequently felt before. He had, however, long ago sufficiently -assimilated the atmosphere of St. Gwenllian to refrain from pointing -out that Flora had been for some years of an age to act for herself, -independently of the parental sanction. He did not, indeed, suppose -that Lucilla needed to have anything so self-evident put before her. - -“Do you think Flora would consent to see a doctor?” - -“No.” - -Miss Morchard’s unvarnished No-es and Yes-es always took him slightly -by surprise, especially after any time spent with the Canon. - -“The fact is,” said Lucilla vigorously, “that Flora needs something -to occupy her mind. She is preying on herself, and unless something -happens to take her out of herself, Owen, I think she will go mad.” - -He instinctively paid the homage due to her habitual precision of -expression, by taking the startling phrase literally. - -“Have you told anyone?” - -“Not yet.” - -“But you must. If you really think that, you must tell the Canon so.” - -“I know.” Her voice was rather faint, but she repeated, more strongly -and with entire acceptance in her voice, “I know I must.” - -It reminded him of the long past days when one of the St. Gwenllian -children had been naughty, and the task of taking the culprit before -the Canon had invariably, and as a matter of course, devolved upon -Lucilla. - - -(vi) - -“Flora is treading the thorny way that saints have trodden. If your own -spirituality, which is in its infancy--in its cradle, I may say--does -not enable you to understand that _via dolorosa_, at least refrain from -trivial interpolations and misrepresentations, Lucilla, I beg.” - -Canon Morchard’s tone rather suggested commanding, than begging, and -his large eyes seemed to flash with indignation as they looked, from -beneath corrugated brows, at Lucilla. - -She was rather paler than her usually colourless wont. - -“I am afraid that Flora is suffering from a very common form of -hysteria, father, and I thoroughly distrust any inspiration of hers in -her present state of health.” - -“She has told me herself that she is in her usual health, and that she -positively objects to the idea of seeing a medical man. I see no reason -for disbelieving her own statement.” - -“Well, I do.” - -“Lucilla, you forget yourself.” - -Lucilla and the Canon looked at one another, each seeming momentarily -to despair of the other. - -At last Lucilla said: - -“A little time ago, you thought she was ill, too.” - -“Mind and body react upon one another, no doubt, and our little Flora -is highly strung. I do not recognize it as being in any way incumbent -upon me to explain to you my treatment of any soul in my charge, -Lucilla, but I may say that I have now come to the conclusion that -Flora’s malady was of the soul. With that, you must rest content.” - -Lucilla did not rest content at all. - -A philosophical acceptance of the inevitable had long been part of Miss -Morchard’s life, but in the weeks that followed she came nearer to the -futility of the spoken protest than ever before. - -From seemingly eternal weeping, however, Flora presently passed to a -tense exaltation of spirit that found its culmination in long hours -spent upon her knees. - -Lucilla made only one appeal to her. - -“Flossie, won’t you tell me what’s happening? I can’t help knowing that -you’ve been very unhappy.” - -“I’m not unhappy now,” said Flora quickly. “At least, not like I was -before. You know I’ve put myself absolutely under father’s direction, -Lucilla? How wonderful he is!” - -“He has made you happier?” - -“Not he himself. He has shown me where to find peace, at last.” - -“If you mean Church, I should have thought you’d known about it ever -since you were born, very nearly.” - -If the faint hint of impatient derision latent in her sister’s tone was -perceptible to Flora, she showed no resentment at it. - -She flushed deeply and looked earnestly at Lucilla. - -“I wish I could make you understand. But some things are too sacred to -be described, even if one could. The only thing I can say is that I was -unhappy, I felt I was wasting my life, and that nobody cared. And I was -full of remorse for a wrong I had done. I can’t tell you what it was, -Lucilla, nor anyone else, ever, and I can’t undo it, now, but at least -I can expiate it, and all my other failings.” - -“Expiation?” Lucilla spoke the word unenthusiastically. “But if you -can’t undo whatever it was you did--and really, Flossie, I can’t -believe it was anything so very desperate--will it be a good plan to -go on being miserable about it for the rest of your life, all to no -purpose?” - -“‘The heart knoweth its own bitterness,’” Flora replied gently. - -Lucilla was left to apply the truth of the adage to her own condition -of mind. - -She was very unhappy about her sister. - -Nevertheless, Flora had ceased to weep, and although she ate less than -ever and rose early for the purpose of going to church, she looked -rather less ill. Only the strained look in her eyes remained, ever -increasing, to justify Lucilla’s feeling of sick dismay. - -That it was entirely unshared by Canon Morchard, she knew already, but -she was not altogether prepared for the announcement that he presently -made. - -“I am very happy about dear Flora--peculiarly and wonderfully so. What -think you, Lucilla, of this? Flora is turning her thoughts towards the -Sisterhood at St. Marychurch.” - -It was never Miss Morchard’s way to respond over-emphatically to an -invitation from her father to state her thoughts freely, experience -having long since taught her what a tangled web we weave when first we -practice speaking the truth inopportunely. - -“Has she only just started the idea?” - -“Nay, she tells me--and I can readily believe it--that the grace of -God, according to its mysterious wont, has been working within her -for a long while now. There has been a period of darkness for Flora, -undoubtedly, but she is emerging more and more into the light--that -light that shineth into the Perfect Day!” - -The Canon seemed rather inclined to forget himself in profound musings. - -“It implies losing her,” said Lucilla. - -“Humanly speaking, yes, and it is hard to eradicate the human element. -But once that is done--and done it _shall_ be--what remains is -altogether joyful. I shall see her go, if go she does, with feelings -far other than those with which I saw our poor Valeria leave home!” - -Lucilla thought so, too, and would emphatically have given the -preference to Valeria’s method of inaugurating an independent career. - -“I _cannot_ be anything but glad that one of mine should be dedicated!” -the Canon exclaimed, as though the exclamation broke from him almost -irrepressibly. - -“But does Flora mean to go away at once?” - -“She wishes it greatly, and I should hardly feel justified in -restraining her. Flora is not a child, and her own desire, as she -says herself, is to feel that wayward, wayless will of hers at safe -anchorage at last. Dear child, her one regret is for me.” - -Tears stood in the Canon’s eyes. - -“The grief of last winter greatly developed Flora, I believe. There has -been a tendency to dreaminess, to a too great absorption in her music, -that I confess has made me anxious in the past. But she speaks most -rightly and nobly of her certainty that a call has come to her, and -if so, it is indeed a vocation that must not be gainsayed. She is all -ardour and anxiety to begin, and if all is well, she and I go to St. -Marychurch to view the establishment there next week, and enter into -the necessary arrangements.” - -“What sort of life will it mean for her?” - -“One of direct service, dear Lucilla, of shelter from the temptations -of this world, of close personal union with Christ Himself, I trust. -All indeed are not called to such union, but I believe with all my -heart that our Flora is amongst the chosen few, and grievous though -it be to lose her from our sadly diminished home-circle, I cannot but -rejoice for her, and with her.” - -The Canon’s voice trembled very much as he spoke, but his smile was one -of single-hearted sincerity. - -“But _does_ she rejoice?” said Lucilla rather faintly. - -“Indeed she does. I confess that Flora’s earnest desire for -self-immolation, her ardent spirit, have taken me by surprise. She -is of the stuff of which the martyrs were made. No austerity has any -terrors for her--she is already far advanced upon the way of the -mystic.” - -Lucilla wrung her hands together. - -“What is it, my dear one?” said her father gently. - -She could not tell him. She felt unable to voice the terror and -the profound distrust that possessed her at the thought of Flora, -fanatically eager for discipline of her own seeking, finding in -religious emotionalism an outlet for instincts that she had not dared, -so far as Lucilla could judge, to call by their right name. - -“One can only let other people go their own way, then?” she murmured, -more to herself than to the Canon. - -“Say, rather, the way appointed for them, dear Lucilla. Yours and mine -may lie together yet awhile longer, I trust, but I am no longer young, -and these repeated partings tell upon me. It is a sacrifice for you, -too, to make, but let us do so cheerfully--aye, and right thankfully, -too. Our little one has been chosen for the Bride of Heaven, as the -beautiful old devotional phrase has it.” - -Lucilla was only too conscious that the beautiful old devotional phrase -awoke nothing in herself but a shuddering distaste. - -She could not doubt, however, that its effect upon Flora was far -otherwise. - -Although she saw, as time went by, that no outside influence would have -power to shatter the vision so clearly before the Canon’s eyes and to -which he so unfalteringly directed Flora’s gaze, it brought to her a -slight sense of personal relief when the Canon, after inditing a letter -of his usual unbridled length and meticulous candour, informed her that -he had besought Quentillian to spend at St. Gwenllian that which he -emphasized as Flora’s last evening at home. - -“It will make it easier for us all, to have that dearest of dear -fellows amongst us. He is so truly one of ourselves, and yet the mere -presence of someone who does not always form part of our familiar -little circle, will prevent overmuch dwelling upon the tender -associations of the past that are well-nigh beyond bearing, at such a -time as this.” - - * * * * * - -Owen, laconic as Lucilla herself, made no attempt to conceal either -his personal dislike of the solution to Flora’s problem, or his innate -conviction of her complete right to any form of self-slaughter that -she might select. - -They exchanged no opinions, but he found occasion to say to her in -private: - -“One thing, Flora. Will you leave me to deal with the Mrs. Carey -equation, if it ever comes to be necessary?” - -“I hope it never will.” - -“So do I. But make it your legacy to me, so that if ever it has to be -thought of again, I may do as seems best to me.” - -Flora smiled, her shadowy, tremulous smile. - -“Wouldn’t you do that anyway?” - -“Perhaps I should. But I would rather have your permission. And after -all, you know, Flora--you won’t be able to pull strings from your -Sisterhood.” - -It was the last, almost the only, reference that he would permit -himself, and both could smile at it faintly. - -“Very well, Owen. I don’t want to remember it ever again, and I shall -only think of Mrs. Carey now in one way.” - -She lacked the Canon’s capacity for outward expression, even now, and -her colour rose as she spoke. - -Only in earnest and uncondemnatory intercession would Mrs. Carey find -place again in Flora’s thoughts. - -Owen knew it as well as though she had told him so. - -The evening was mild and beautiful, and the Canon sat at the open -window, leaning back as though greatly fatigued, and asked Flora for -some music. - -“Shall I sing?” she asked. - -“Are you able to, my dear?” - -“Yes, indeed,” she said earnestly, and Quentillian could surmise that -she was instinctively eager for the form of self-expression most -natural to her, as a vent for her own mingled emotions. - -Her voice was more beautiful than ever, with a depth of feeling new to -it. - -Quentillian was indignant with himself when he found that this -perfectly traditional setting for a pathetic situation was unmistakably -affecting him. - -The only light round them was that of the summer’s evening, and -Flora’s voice came with strength and sweetness and purity from her -scarcely-seen figure at the far end of the room, in well-remembered and -intrinsically-exquisite melody. She was part of his childhood--she was -going away--they would none of them ever again see Flora, as they had -known her, any more.... - -Quentillian, in a violent endeavour to react from an emotion that he -unsparingly qualified as blatant, turned his eyes away from the singer. - -He looked at Lucilla, and saw that she sat very still. He reflected -that for a face so sensitive, and possessed of so much latent -humour, hers was singularly inexpressive of anything but acceptance. -Nevertheless it was an acceptance that had its origin, most -unmistakably, in a self-control acquired long since, rather than in an -absence of any capacity for strong feeling. - -He wondered, not for the first time, what her life had taught Lucilla. - -He looked at Canon Morchard. - -The Canon had closed his eyes and his face, on which the lines were -showing heavily at last, was white with the grey pallor of age. -Nevertheless he, too, showed the deep, essential placidity of a -conscious acceptance, and for the first time Quentillian perceived a -fundamental resemblance between the Canon and his eldest daughter. - -As though aware of the scrutiny fixed upon him, the Canon opened his -eyes, and smiled as they met Quentillian’s. - -“That harmony will be lost to us for a time, perhaps,” he said softly. -“But is it not a foretaste of that great Song of Praise that will have -no ending, and in which all, all, will be able to join together? I -think so, Owen.” - -He turned his head slightly, his finger-tips joined together in the -position habitual to him. - -“Flora, my child, my dear daughter, will it be too much if I ask for -‘Lead, Kindly Light,’ as you have so often given it to us on long-ago -Sundays when we have been all together--all together?” - -For answer, she struck the opening chords very gently. - - “Lead, kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom - “Lead thou me on - “The night is dark, and I am far from home - “Lead thou me on ... - .... “Till, the night is gone - “And with the morn those Angel faces smile - “Which I have loved long since and lost awhile.” - -Flora’s voice was rapt and unfaltering. - -Lucilla did not move, nor raise her eyes. - -It was Owen Quentillian, poignantly and unwillingly conscious of -pathos, who set his teeth in a profound and intense resentment at the -obvious emotional appeal that he found himself unable to ignore. - -He unspeakably dreaded the breakdown of the Canon’s composure that he -foresaw, when Flora’s last note had died away into silence. - -He could not look up. - -“Flora!” - -The Canon’s voice was steady and gentle. - -“Thank you, my child. Bid me good-night, and go, now. You must have -some rest, before your journey tomorrow.” - -She came to him and he blessed and kissed her as usual, only letting -his hand linger for a moment on her head as he repeated as though -speaking to himself: - - “And with the morn those Angel faces smile - “Which I have loved long since and lost awhile.” - -“Good-night, Owen. Goodbye,” said Flora. - -She left the room, and the Canon raised himself with difficulty from -his low chair and said: - -“I have some preparations to make for tomorrow. I will leave you for a -little while.” - -When he had gone, Owen felt the relaxation of his own mental tension. - -For the first time, and with a sincerity that left him amazed, he found -himself making use of the phrase that from others had so often aroused -rebellion in himself: - -“He is wonderful!” - -Lucilla raised her eyes now, and looked full and gravely at Quentillian. - -“Yes. I’m glad you see it at last, Owen.” - -“At last?” he stammered, replying to her voice rather than to her words. - -“He is very fond of you. He has always been very fond of you, ever -since you were a little boy. And it has--vexed me--very often, to -see that you gave him nothing in return, that, because he belongs to -another school, and another generation, you have almost despised him, I -think.” - -Owen was conscious of colouring deeply in his sudden surprise and -humiliation. - -“Although you are so clever, Owen,” she said in the same grave, -un-ironical tone, “it has seemed as though you are not able, at all, to -see beyond the surface. I know that my father’s religious sentiment, -sentimentality even, his constant outward expression of emotional -piety, his guileless optimism, have all jarred upon you. But you have -had no eyes for his pathetic courage, his constant striving for what he -sees as the highest.” - -“Lucilla--in justice to myself--although what you say may be true, -if I have judged your father it has been far more on account of his -children--of what I have seen of their lives.” - -“You were not called upon to constitute yourself the champion of his -children. Valeria, even, had no claim on your championship. It was not -you whom she loved, and you, too, tried to make Val what she was never -meant to be. When Val threw you over, if my father tried to force -upon you what you could only see as the conventional _beau geste_ of -renunciation, it was because he was incapable of believing that you -could have asked a woman to marry you without loving her, body and -soul. His forgiveness of Val, whether you thought him entitled to -forgive or not, lay between him and her. And when you speak of our -lives, Owen, can’t you see that Val and Adrian and I, and perhaps in a -way even Flora, too, have come to what we were meant for? No one can -stand between another soul, and life, really.” - -He was oddly struck by the echo of words that he had himself once used -to Flora. - -“You admit that he tried, to stand between you and life?” - -“I do,” she said instantly. “But if he had succeeded, the fault would -have been ours.” - -She suddenly smiled. - -“Isn’t it true that to face facts means freedom? That’s why I’m not an -optimist, Owen. I am willing to face all the facts you like. But you, I -think, in judging my father, have only faced half of them.” - -“You find me intolerant!” he exclaimed, half-ironically. Never before -had such an adjective been presented to his strong sense of his own -impartiality, his detached rationalism. - -“Not exactly. Only, I’m afraid--a little bit of a prig.” - -She uttered the strange, unimposing accusation, not rudely, not -unkindly, but almost mournfully. - -“Christianity has been accused of intolerance very often, and with only -too much reason, but those outside the Churches, who frankly claim -to be agnostic, often seem to me to be the most intolerant of all, of -what they look upon as superstition. Why should you despise my father -for beliefs that have led him to lead an honourable life, and that have -given him courage to bear his many sorrows?” - -“You have said, yourself, that the facing of facts means freedom. I can -see no freedom, and therefore no beauty, in living in illusion.” - -“Not for yourself, perhaps. Illusions could never be anything but -conscious, for you.” - -“Nor for yourself, Lucilla,” he retorted swiftly. - -“But how does that entitle us to despise another for holding them?” she -demanded, quite as swiftly. Nevertheless Owen detected a lessening of -severity, in so far as she had coupled them together in her speech. - -“Tonight,” he said gravely, “I admired your father with all my heart.” - -“I’m glad.” - -On the words, the same as those with which Lucilla had begun their -brief and rather amazing conversation, the Canon returned into the -room. - - - - -IV - -THE DEATH OF AN OPTIMIST - - -(i) - -Quentillian’s next and final summons to St. Gwenllian came some months -after Canon Morchard had taken Flora to her Sisterhood, and returned -alone. - -Owen was unprepared for the change in the Canon’s appearance, although -he knew him to be ill. - -“Aye, dear lad! It’s the last stage of the journey. I have thought that -it was so for some time, and they tell me now that there is no doubt -of it. This poor clay is worn out, and the spirit within is to be set -free. Verily, I can still repeat those favourite words of mine: ‘All -things work together for good, to those that love God.’ If you but knew -the number of times during these last few years that I have cried out -within myself ‘O for the wings of a dove, that I might fly away and be -at rest!’ And now it has come! and I hope to keep my Christmas feast -among the blest. They tell me that it cannot be long.” - -Quentillian looked the enquiry that he felt it difficult to put into -words. - -“I can take very little. Soon, they tell me that even that little will -have become impossible. See how even the crowning mercy of preparedness -is vouchsafed to me! I have put my house in order as well as may be, -and have no care save for my poor Lucilla. She will be alone indeed, -and it is for her sake, Owen, that I want you to do a great kindness to -a dying man.” - -“Anything, sir. Do you want me to stay?” - -“You have it, Owen.” The Canon laid his hand, thin now to emaciation, -upon Quentillian’s. - -“Stay with us now until the end comes. It cannot be far off. I have -outlived my brothers, and Lucilla’s remaining aunt is old and infirm. -It is not fit, even were it possible, that she should come here. She -will receive Lucilla most tenderly after I am gone--of that I am -assured. But there is no one to uphold her, to spare her needless -distress, when the time comes.” - -“I will do everything that I can to help her.” - -“I know it, dear fellow--I know it. Thank you from the bottom of my -heart. It seems natural to treat you as a son.” - -The Canon paused and looked wistfully at Quentillian upon the word. - -“Perhaps Adrian will come home. I have written to him--a long letter. -He need not be afraid of me. - -“I have written to my three absent children: To Valeria--my blessing -for her little sons--I would have given much to see them before -going--aye, and their mother, too, my merry Valeria, as I once called -her! I have missed Valeria’s laughter in this quiet house, that was -once full of merriment and children’s voices. - -“And I have written to Flora, my Flora, who chose the better part. May -she indeed be blessed in her choice--little Flora!” - -He sank back, looking exhausted. - -“I will stay as long as you wish me to stay, and I will do all that I -can for Lucilla,” repeated Quentillian. - -“I know it. The last anxiety has been allayed. Aye, Owen, I have ceased -to concern myself with these things now, I hope. If Adrian comes to me, -and if Lucilla can count upon you as upon a brother, then I am well -satisfied indeed. My affairs are in good order, I believe. My will is -with my solicitors--Lucilla knows the address. What there is, goes in -equal shares to Lucilla, Valeria, and Adrian. Flora has received her -portion already. My books, dear Owen, are yours. All else--personal -effects, manuscripts, and the rest--are Lucilla’s. She has been my -right hand. There are mementos to Clover, to one or two old friends and -servants--nothing else. I have thought it well to make Lucilla sole -executrix--she has helped in all my business for so long! - -“So you see that my temporal concerns are over and done with. In regard -to the spiritual, I have had the unutterable honour and pleasure of -a visit from the Bishop himself. He was all fatherly goodness and -kindness. The dear Clover is always at hand for reading, and I can -depend on him utterly for those last commendations that are to smooth -my way down the Valley of the Shadow. There is nothing wanting. And now -you have come!” - -The Canon’s wasted face was both radiant and serene. - -The grief that had so often shown there seemed to have passed away, and -Quentillian found it almost incredible that he had ever seen the Canon -angry, or weighed down by a leaden depression of spirits. - -“Is he really happy, all the time?” Quentillian asked Lucilla. - -“Yes, all the time. Even when he has pain. But they say there won’t be -any more pain, most likely, now. He will just sink, gradually. If you -knew how very little he is living on, even now, you would be surprised.” - -“Are you doing the nursing?” - -“He wants a trained nurse. One has been sent for. He thinks that it -will spare me,” said Lucilla, smiling a little. - -In the days that followed, Owen saw how difficult Lucilla found it to -be so spared. - -The nurse was an efficient and conscientious woman, and the Canon -quickly became dependent upon her. He begged Owen to spend as much time -as possible with Lucilla, who remained downstairs, replying to the -innumerable letters and the enquirers who came to the house. - -She was now only with her father for a brief morning visit, and the -hour in the afternoon when the nurse took her exercise out of doors. -Very often Quentillian, at the Canon’s request, was also with them then. - -“Lucilla and I have long ago said our last words, such as they are,” -the Canon told him with a smile. “We understand one another too well to -need to be left alone together.” - -Time slipped by with monotonous regularity, the changes in the Canon -almost imperceptible to the onlookers. - -Then, preceded only by a telegram, Adrian came home. - -“My father isn’t really dying, is he?” he asked piteously. - -“He can’t take anything at all, now. It’s a question almost of hours.” - -Lucilla took him upstairs to where his father lay, propped upon -pillows, and they were left alone together. - -“You know, it is very bad for Canon Morchard to have any agitation,” -the nurse anxiously pointed out to Lucilla, when the interview had -lasted a long while. - -“Can it make any real difference?” - -“It may reduce his strength more quickly.” - -“He would say that it was worth it. He has not seen this son for a long -while.” - -Lucilla kept the woman out of the room as long as it was possible to do -so. - -At last Adrian came downstairs. - -That evening the Canon said to Quentillian, with tears in his eyes: - -“Adrian has promised me to give up his work for that man. Is it not -wonderful, dear Owen? All, all added unto me. If this pain of mine -is to be the price of my boy’s awaking to his own better nature, how -gladly shall I not pay it!” - -It was the only time that Quentillian had ever heard him allude to -having suffered physical pain. - -“I have not been so much at rest about Adrian since he was a little -boy,” said the Canon. “He was always the most affectionate of them all. -And he cried like a little child, poor fellow, this afternoon, and -voluntarily passed me his promise to leave that man.” - -Quentillian’s own involuntary distrust of the promise given by a weak -nature, under strong emotional stress, was profound, but he gave no -sign of it. It no longer caused him any satisfaction to be aware of a -deeper insight in himself than in the Canon. He could not share that -guileless singleness of vision, and felt no envy of it, and yet he -paradoxically desired that it should remain unimpaired. - -He asked Lucilla if she knew of Adrian’s promise. - -“He told me. He was crying when he came down. He can’t believe even yet -that father is dying, poor Adrian! And yet he must believe it, really, -to have made that promise.” - -“The Canon is so thankful for it.” - -“I know. He wanted it more than anything in the world. Everything has -come to make it easy for him to go, Owen.” - -Something in her tone made him say gently: - -“Poor Lucilla!” - -“Even if the impression is only temporary with Adrian, it will be a -comfort to him afterwards. He is very unhappy now, that there should -have been any estrangement between them.” - -It was evident enough that Lucilla, also, had no great reliance upon -Adrian’s stability of purpose, although his present reaction had -brought such joy and comfort to the dying man. - -That night for the first time the Canon’s mind wandered. He spoke of -his children as though all were once more of nursery age, and at home -together. - -“Little Adrian can take my hand, and then he can keep up with the -others. Less noise, my love--a little less noise.... Valeria’s voice -is too often raised, too often raised--although I like its merry note, -in fit and proper season. My merry Valeria! Now are we ready? The -sketch-book, Flora, the sketch-book.... I want to see that pretty -attempt at the Church finished.” - -Then he said with an apologetic note in his voice: - -“Flora lacks perseverance, and is too easily discouraged, but we hope -that she may show great feeling for art, by and bye. Lucilla’s _forte_ -lies in more practical directions. She is my housekeeper--my right -hand, I often call her. Look, children, at that effect of sunlight -through the beech-leaves. Is it not wonderful? Come, Adrian, my man--no -lagging behind....” - -Presently a puzzled, distressed look came over his face and he asked: -“Is not one missing? Is David here?” - -Lucilla bent over him to say, “Yes, father,” but the distressed look -still lingered. - -“Where is David?” said the Canon. “Was there not some sadness--some -trouble between us? No--no--all a dream.” - -His face lightened again. “David is safe home. I shall see David -tonight.” - -By and by he asked to be told the time. - -It was nine o’clock. - -The Canon’s voice had become a weak whisper. - -“I thought it was morning, and that I had them all again--little -children. Such trustful little hands lying in mine ... and the children -have grown up and gone away.... No ... Lucilla, you are there, are you -not, my dear love? And Owen--Owen, that was like a third son to me. My -own sons are there, too--David is safe home ... only a very little way -on ... and Adrian, little Adrian--he promised ... ah, all things work -together for good....” - -His voice trailed thinly away into silence, his wan face was smiling. - -“He will sleep,” whispered the nurse, and her words were verified -almost instantly. - -Owen took Lucilla away. - -There was a strong sense upon him that the summons would not be long -delayed now. - -Lucilla went downstairs and quietly opened the outer door into the -garden. They walked up and down there, Owen watching the red spark -waxing and waning from his own cigar. The night was extraordinarily -still, the dark arch of the sky powdered with stars. - -Neither spoke directly of that which occupied their minds most, but -Quentillian said by and bye: - -“Where shall you go, eventually?” - -“Torquay, perhaps. There is an old aunt there--father’s sister. I shall -have just enough not to be dependent upon her, even if I make my home -with her.” - -“Will that be congenial?” - -Lucilla gave a little low, sad laugh. - -“I don’t think there’s much alternative, is there? This house, of -course, goes to the next incumbent. If Mr. Clover is appointed--and we -very much hope that he will be--he would probably buy a good deal of -the furniture (which is just as well, as it would certainly drop to -pieces if we tried to move it). I couldn’t possibly afford to set up -house for myself, in any case. And I must have something to do. Aunt -Mary would find plenty for me to do.” - -“I daresay,” said Quentillian without enthusiasm. - -“Perhaps you are thinking of my taking up an occupation or a profession -seriously, but you know, Owen, it isn’t really a practical proposition, -though one feels as though it ought to be. Just think for a minute, and -tell me what I’m fit for--except perhaps being someone’s housekeeper.” - -“My dear Lucilla, with your education and the literary training your -father has given you, surely anyone would be glad of your services.” - -“Not at all. I can’t write shorthand. My typing, which I taught myself, -isn’t nearly as good or as quick as that of any little girl of sixteen -who has learnt it properly, and can probably use half a dozen different -makes of machine. I’ve never learnt office routine--filing, indexing, -bookkeeping, the use of a dictaphone. I believe all those things are -necessary nowadays. I don’t suppose, if I did learn them all now, I -should ever be very good or very quick.” - -“I’m not suggesting that you should become a City clerk at forty -shillings a week.” - -“A private secretary, then? I can’t honestly see why anyone should -employ a woman with no experience, when there are so many experts -wanting work. Languages might be an asset, but most people know French. -German isn’t likely to be wanted now, and I don’t fancy there is any -great demand for Latin or Greek. Even for teaching, schools want -diplomas and certificates, besides proficiency in games.” - -“But the higher professions are all open to women of education -nowadays,” he protested. “You’re not restricted to the kitchen or the -nursery.” - -“Do you really think that I could work up, now, for a stiff legal or -medical examination, and pass it?” she demanded with a sort of gentle -irony. “You don’t realize, Owen, that I’m nearly forty.” - -He had not realized it, and it silenced him momentarily. - -“I think my chances went by a long time ago,” said Lucilla. “I’ve never -told anyone about it, but I think I’d like to tell you now, because I -don’t want you to think of me as a victim.” - -Quentillian registered a silent mental appreciation of a reason -diametrically opposite to the reason for which the majority of -confidences are bestowed. - -“Before Val and Flossie grew up, it was obvious that I should stay at -home and look after the house. Besides, I liked doing it. My father -was--and is--the whole world to me. But there was a time, just once, -when Val grew up, and David had gone away, when I wanted to go away, -too. Of course I’m talking of a good many years ago, and there weren’t -so many openings to choose from. But I wanted very much to go to -college. Father could just have managed it, without being unfair to any -of the others.” - -“You told him, then?” - -“Oh, yes; I told him.” - -“Would he not consent?” inquired Owen, as she paused. - -“He promised to consent if I still wished it, after thinking it over.” - -“But he persuaded you not to wish it any more?” - -“No, it wasn’t that. It’s a little bit difficult to explain. He did ask -me what I should gain by it, and whether it wasn’t just restlessness -and seeking a vocation to which I was not called. You remember hearing -him say that about Val, too?” - -“I remember.” - -“Well, that was all. He didn’t say anything more. Of course I knew he -wouldn’t like my going away from him, without being told. But it was -I who decided that it was an occasion for making what I’m afraid I -thought of as a sacrifice.” - -She surprised him by a little laugh. - -“You see, Owen, I think _now_ that I was quite wrong.” - -“Quite wrong,” he echoed gravely. - -“It was an odd, muddled sort of time for some years after that. I -suppose I was resenting my own decision, and yet trying to buoy myself -up all the time by thinking of my own self-abnegation and generosity. -It had seemed rather a beautiful thing to do at the time--to sacrifice -my own life to my widowed father and my motherless brothers and -sisters. At first, I remember thinking that there would be something -almost sacred about my everyday life at home.” - -“When people begin to think that things are sacred to them, it -generally means that they’re afraid of facing the truth about them.” - -“Exactly. It was a long time before I told myself the truth. But in -the end I did, when I saw that no one was likely to want to marry me, -and that my life was going to be exactly what I had decided to let it -be. And of course from the minute I faced it fair and square--after -the first--it all became a great deal easier. Besides, there were -compensations, really.” - -He made a sound of interrogation. - -“Well, it’s really a great thing to have a home. I’ve always felt -sorry for women who lived in their boxes, and had nowhere of their -own. And being mistress of the house all these years--I’ve liked that, -and been fairly interested in it. And I’ve got imagination enough to -see that books, and music, and a garden, to anyone brought up as we -were especially, are quite important items. You know, women who have a -career don’t generally get those other things thrown in as well, unless -they’re exceptionally fortunate.” - -“You set them against independence and your own freedom?” - -“I don’t say that, but they _do_ count,” she said steadily. “If it -comes to a question of relative values, of course they take second -place. But once I’d admitted to myself, quite honestly, that I’d -relinquished my chance of the best things of all, then I could quite -see those other things as being intrinsically worth something--a very -good second best. They’re really only unsatisfactory when one tries -to think of them as substitutes. Taken at their own value--well, I’ve -found them helpful, you know.” - -There was a silence before she spoke again. - -“Most of all, there was Father.” - -“That relationship has been the biggest factor in your life, of course.” - -“Yes.” She paused, and then in a tone resolutely matter-of-fact, said: -“I think perhaps I won’t talk about that now. But I know just as well -as you do that in the course of nature, those particular links can only -be expected to endure for a certain number of years. They’re breaking -now, for me, and it means that part of my life goes too.” - -He could not contradict her. - -“Is Adrian any use?” - -“Poor Adrian! He says now that he and I must keep together, and make a -home for one another. He wants to comfort me, and he knows Father would -be glad; but you can see for yourself that it wouldn’t be fair to take -him at his word. Perhaps we may be together for a little while--till -things have worn off a little bit, for him. Adrian is emotional, isn’t -he? I don’t know what he’ll do, eventually.” - -The recollection of Adrian’s promise to the Canon, that he would -relinquish his work, was evidently not a factor that Lucilla took into -serious consideration. By tacit agreement neither of them alluded to it. - -“Valeria will hardly be able to come home, I suppose?” - -“Oh, no. It’s out of the question. She couldn’t leave the two babies, -nor very well bring them with her.” - -“Flora?” - -Already, Owen realized with faint surprise, he had come to remember -Flora’s corporeal existence only by an effort. He could scarcely feel -her to be less separated from the realities of life than one who had -died in youth, and been long forgotten. - -Lucilla only shook her head. - -“They are all gone. Whatever anyone may say, Owen, they didn’t shirk -their chances. They said Yes to Life as they saw it.” - -“Can you be glad of that?” - -“Very glad. Even selfishly, I can be glad. Think of -three--unfulfilled--lives to be spent side by side, held together by -affection if you like, but fundamentally built on an artificial basis! -No, no”--her smile held humour, rather than conscious valour, though -Owen saw it as valiant too--“I’m glad to have faced my facts at last, -though it ought to have been done long ago, when I made my choice. I’m -not optimistic now, but I--I’m free.” - -As they turned, at the end of the garden path, a dark figure sped -across the grass towards them. Adrian’s voice reached them, low and -urgent: - -“Come!” - - -(ii) - -The Canon lay back against his pillows and it did not need the nurse’s -gesture to Lucilla to tell them that he was dying. His breath came loud -and fast and his eyes were closed. - -Adrian had flung himself on his knees at the bedside and was sobbing, -his face hidden in his arms. Quentillian stood beside Lucilla, who held -her father’s hand in hers. - -“Is he conscious?” Lucilla asked. - -The nurse shook her head. - -“Can anything be done to make it easier?” Lucilla said then. - -“No, my dear. I’ve sent messages for the doctor and Mr. Clover, but----” - -Her face completed the sentence. - -They remained motionless, Adrian’s irregular sobs and the Canon’s -heavy breathing alone cutting intermittently across the silence. - -Quentillian never knew how long it was before Canon Morchard opened his -eyes and spoke, articulating with great difficulty. - -“All safe--all happy ... verily, _all_ things work together for good!” - -He smiled, looking straight across at Owen Quentillian, and suddenly -said with great distinctness: - -“_Mors janua vitæ!_” - -Owen could hear the cry still, ringing through the room, in the time of -dumb struggle that followed. - -It seemed a fitting epitome of the spirit that had been Fenwick -Morchard’s. - -Just before the first hint of day dawned into the room, Lucilla and -the nurse laid back on to the pillows the form that they had been -supporting. - -Adrian was crying and shivering like a child. - -“Take him downstairs and give him something hot to drink,” the nurse -commanded Owen. “There’s a fire in the kitchen.” - -Quentillian looked at Lucilla. - -“Please go,” she said. - -He went downstairs with Adrian. - -“If only I’d been better to him! He was awfully good to me, really,” -sobbed Adrian. “He used to make an awful fuss of me when I was a little -chap, and I wasn’t half grateful enough--beast that I was!” - -“Drink this.” - -“I can’t.” - -“Of course you can. Try and be a man, Adrian, for your sister’s sake.” - -“It’s worse for me than for any of them,” said Adrian ingenuously, -“because I’ve got things to be remorseful about, and they haven’t. And -now it’s too late!” - -“You were here in time,” said Quentillian, abominably conscious, and -resentful, of his own triteness. - -“And I promised him I’d chuck my job. I think it comforted him.” - -“I’m sure it did.” - -“It was a sacrifice, in a way, to throw the whole thing up, when I was -doing well and keen on it, and all that sort of thing; but I’m thankful -now that I did it. Perhaps it made up to--_him_--for my having been -such a hound, often and often.” - -It was oddly evident that Adrian was torn between genuine grief and -shock and a latent desire to make the most of his own former depravity. - -“I daresay you’re thinking that having been through the war and -everything, I ought to be used to the sight of death,” he said -presently; “but it’s quite different when it’s like this. One got sort -of hardened there, and everybody was running the same risk--oneself -included. But my father--why, it seems like the end of everything, -Owen. I must say, I think I’m a bit young to have my home broken up -like this, don’t you?” - -“Very young,” repeated Quentillian automatically, and yet not -altogether without significance. - -“I don’t know what will happen, but of course Lucilla and I have to -leave St. Gwenllian. It’s hard on her, too. I thought we ought to keep -together, you know, for a bit. It seems more natural. I shall have -to look for a fresh job, and I don’t know what Hale will say to my -chucking him.” - -Adrian was silent, obviously uneasy, and it was evident enough that -it was the strong revulsion from that anxiety which prompted his next -sudden outburst. - -“I’m so awfully thankful that I had the strength to make that promise -about leaving Hale. It’ll always be a comfort to me to feel that I -made a sacrifice for the dear old man, and that he--went--the happier -for it. Mind you, I don’t agree with him about Hale and Hale’s crowd. -Father had the old-fashioned ideas of his generation, you know, and of -course all progress seemed a sort of vandalism to him. I daresay if -he’d ever met Hale he’d have had his eyes opened a bit, and seen things -quite differently. Hale was always jolly decent about him, too--he’d -read some of his stuff, and had quite a sort of admiration for it, in a -way. Said it was reactionary, and all that, but perfectly sound in its -own way, you know--scholarly, and all that kind of muck.” - -“Have you written to Hale?” - -“No. Of course, in a way it’s an awfully awkward situation for me, -having to tell him why I’m not coming back to him, and so on. I thought -I’d pop up and see him as soon as it could be managed. Of course there -are arrangements to be made----” - -The boy broke off, in a fresh access of bewilderment and grief. - -“I simply can’t realize he’s gone, Owen. I say--you do think he was -happy, don’t you?” - -“Yes.” - -“That promise of mine meant a lot to him. I’m so thankful that I’ve -got that to remember. You might say, in a way, considering how much -he always thought of us, that some of his children had rather let him -down, in a way. I mean, Lucilla and I were the only two there, out of -the five of us. Of course, David, poor chap, had gone already, and -Val and Flossie couldn’t very well help themselves--and yet there it -was! Do you suppose that when he said--_that_--about ‘all safe, all -happy’--he was thinking of us?” - -“Yes, I do.” - -“It’s a comfort to know his mind was at rest. He wouldn’t have said -that if I hadn’t made that promise, you know,” said Adrian. - -“Look here, Adrian, hadn’t you better try and get some sleep? There’ll -be things to be done, later, you know, and you and I--if you’ll let me -help--must try and take some of it off Lucilla’s hands.” - -All the child in Adrian responded to the transparent lure. - -He drew himself up. - -“Thanks awfully, Owen. I shall be only too glad of your help. There’ll -be a good deal for me to see to, of course, so perhaps I’d better lie -down for an hour or two while I can. What about Lucilla?” - -“Would you like to come and find her?” - -The boy shuddered violently. - -“Not in there--I couldn’t,” he said piteously. - -They went upstairs together. - -As they passed the door of the Canon’s room, it was cautiously opened -and the nurse came outside and spoke to Adrian. - -“The doctor should be here presently. I want him to see Miss Morchard. -She turned faint a little while ago, and I’ve got her into her room, -but I’m afraid she’s in for a breakdown. I’ve seen them like this -before, after a long strain, you know.” - -The woman’s tone was professionally matter-of-fact. - -“Had I better go to her?” said Adrian, troubled, and seeming rather -resentful at the fresh anxiety thrust upon him. - -“I shouldn’t, if I were you. It’ll only upset her. She’s broken down a -bit--hysterical. It’ll relieve her, in the end. I shan’t leave her now, -till the doctor comes.” - -Lucilla hysterical! - -Owen, almost more amazed than concerned, watched the nurse depart to -what she evidently looked upon as a fresh case. - -“Well, I can’t do anything, I suppose,” said Adrian miserably. - -“Go to bed,” Quentillian repeated. “Shall I draft out some telegrams -for you, and let you see them before they go? It’s no use sending them -to the post-office before eight.” - -“Don’t you want to sleep yourself?” - -“Not just now, thanks.” - -“Well, I’ll relieve you at seven. Send someone to call me, will -you?--though I don’t suppose I shall sleep.” - -The boy trailed into his room, disconsolate and frightened-looking. - -Owen Quentillian, searching for writing materials, found them on the -table in the Canon’s study, a table scrupulous in its orderliness, each -stack of papers docketed, each article laid with symmetrical precision -in its own place. - -Owen would not sit there, where only the Canon had sat, under the -crucifix mounted on the green velvet plaque. He went instead to -another, smaller table, in the embrasure of a window, and sat there -writing until the morning light streamed in upon him. - -Then he laid down the pen, with a sense of the futility of activities -that sought to cheat reflection, and let his mind dwell upon that which -subconsciously obsessed it. - -Canon Morchard had died as he had lived--an optimist. An invincible -faith in the ultimate rightness of all things had been his to the end, -and perhaps most of all at the end. - -Quentillian envisaged the Canon’s causes of thankfulness. - -He had seen his children as “safe” and “happy.” Was it only because he -had wanted so to see them? - -David, who was dead, had been mourned for, but the Canon had been -spared the deepest bitterness of separation. He had known nothing of -the gulf widening between his own soul and that of his eldest son.... - -A fool’s paradise? - -He had seen Lucilla as safe and happy. - -And yet Lucilla’s life was over, unlived. As she herself had said, her -chances had gone by. Torquay remained. It was not very difficult to -imagine her days there. An old lady--the placid kindness accorded by -the aged to the middle-ageing--the outside interests of a little music, -a few books, a flower-garden--the pathetic, vicarious planning for -scarcely-seen nephews and nieces--the quick, solitary walks, cut short -by the fear of being missed, and then, as years went on, more solitude, -and again more solitude. - -Lucilla had said: “I’m not an optimist now--but I’m free.” - -From the bottom of his heart Owen recalled with thankfulness the fact -of Lucilla’s freed spirit. - -It was the best that life would ever hold for her now. - -His thoughts turned to Flora. - -Quentillian could not envisage her life: eternally secluded, eternally -withdrawn. She was lost to them, as they were lost to her. - -Subconsciously, he was aware of associations connected with Flora’s -vocation upon which he preferred not to dwell. He knew, dimly, -intuitively, that Lucilla’s merciless clarity of outlook had seen -Flora less as a voluntary sacrifice than as the self-deluded victim of -fanaticism. - -But no doubts had crossed the Canon’s mind on Flora’s behalf. He had -known no distrust of her craving for self-immolation, no dread of -reaction coming too late. - -He had thanked God for the dedication of Flora. - -The one of his children for whom he had grieved perhaps longest was -Valeria. And it was on Valeria that Owen’s thoughts dwelt most gladly. -She had purchased reality for herself, and although the price might -include his own temporary discomfiture, Quentillian rejoiced in it -candidly. Nevertheless, it was Val’s error, and not Val’s achievement, -that her father had seen. His hope for her had been the one of ultimate -reparation implied in his own favourite words--“All things work -together for good.” - -And the Canon had quoted those words yet again, when Adrian, his -favourite child, had come back to him. His deepest thankfulness had -been for the emotional, unstable promise volunteered by Adrian’s -impulsive youth. - -Quentillian could see no reliance to be placed upon that promise to -which the Canon, with such ardent gratitude and joy, had trusted. -Adrian would drift, the type that does little harm, if less good. -Strength of intellect, as of character, had been denied him. No -interest would hold him long, no aim seem to him to be worth sustained -effort. - -And yet the Canon had felt Adrian, too--perhaps most of all Adrian, in -the flush of reconciliation after their estrangement--to be “safe” and -“happy.” - -Then optimism was merely a veil, drawn across the nakedness of Truth? - -From the depths of a profound and ingrained pessimism, Quentillian -sought to view the question dispassionately, and felt himself -fundamentally unable to do so. - -Hard facts and--at best--resignation, or baseless hopes and undaunted -courage, such as had been Canon Morchard’s? - -The death of the Canon, bereft of all and yet believing himself to -possess all, had epitomized his life. - -Overhead, sounds and stirrings had begun, and Quentillian softly let -himself out of the house and stepped out into the fresh chill of the -morning air. His eyelids were stiff and aching from his vigil, and -sudden, most unwonted tears filled them. He glanced at the windows of -the old house. A light still burned in Lucilla’s, as though the nurse -had been able to spare no thought from her ministrations. - -Lucilla, the finest and bravest of the Canon’s children, had been -broken on the wheel. - -In the passionless sorrow that possessed him, Quentillian grasped at -the strand of consolation that he knew to exist somewhere. It had been -found for him once before, by Canon Morchard. - -He found it again, remembering. - -_Mors janua vitæ._ - -The Canon had proclaimed it, as a joyful certainty. Approached far -otherwise, Owen could yet proclaim it, too, as the supreme and ultimate -Fact to be faced, of which the true realization would strike forever -the balance between optimism and pessimism. - -He turned towards the entrance again, and as he did so the blinds of -Canon Morchard’s room were drawn down, by a careful, unseen hand. - - - - -V - -OWEN AND LUCILLA - - -(i) - -It was nearly a year later that Owen Quentillian went to Torquay to see -Lucilla Morchard, and asked her to marry him. - -Nothing in the occasional letters that they had exchanged could have -been regarded as in any way indicative of such a _dénouement_, and for -once Owen saw Lucilla thoroughly disconcerted. - -“But why?” she demanded, in a tone at once wistful and indignant. - -Her face was pale and lined, but her eyes had lost neither humour nor -sanity of outlook. - -“Not for the only reason that it ought to be, dear Lucilla,” he -answered humbly. “But because of the awful loneliness at Stear, and my -own weakness which makes me afraid of it. And a little because of your -sadness here, perhaps, but most of all because you are the only person -I know who can face facts, and _then_ be happy. It’s the most wonderful -combination in life.” - -“You have faced facts, yourself.” - -“And it has only brought me bitterness.” - -She reflected for a moment and then said: - -“That’s true. But you won’t find your remedy in marriage with me, Owen.” - -Her voice held all its old crisp, common-sense. - -“Are you staying to tea, because if so, my aunt will want some warning. -She is old, and fussy, and there’s only one maid.” - -They had met out of doors. - -“Pray don’t let me cause any inconvenience,” he said stiffly, offended -by the irrelevance. - -“It won’t be in the least inconvenient,” Lucilla assured him kindly. -“Aunt Mary likes to see people, very much, it’s a new interest for her. -Only it worries her if the drawing-room fire isn’t lit, or there’s no -cake for tea. Things like that, you know.” - -He hardly did know, so different was his own world, and he could -scarcely credit that Lucilla, the erstwhile mistress of St. Gwenllian, -could know. - -“You’ve remembered, of course,” she said reflectively, “that I’m -several years older than you are?” - -“What can that matter?” - -“Nothing at all, certainly, if you’ve faced the risk that it entails -and are prepared to take it. But, of course, that isn’t the only risk, -Owen.” - -“I suppose not. Is this an acceptance, or a refusal, Lucilla?” - -They both broke into laughter. - -“Here we are,” said Lucilla, stopping at a little gate in a row of -other little gates. “I’ll walk with you to the station afterwards.” - -She paused, with her hand on the little gate, and looked at him. - -“It’s only that we are--or we ought to be--past the stage of following -a generous impulse and hoping for the best. I--I don’t want either of -us to bite off more than we can chew.” - -On the elegance of her simile, Miss Morchard opened the front door of -“Balmoral” with a latchkey, allowing no time for a reply. - -She left Quentillian in the tiny, red-tiled hall while she went into a -room opening out of it, that was as obviously the drawing-room as the -room on the other side was the dining-room. - -Quentillian looked round him, at the walls crowded with foolish -brackets and bad water-colours, at the painted deal staircase and -balusters, at the window on the landing that looked out on to little -back gardens, all of exactly the same size and shape, and had a -momentary vivid recollection of the shabby, dignified rooms at St. -Gwenllian, and the old cedars close to the tennis court. - -Lucilla had been fond of gardening. - -From somewhere in the basement came the screeching note of a parrot. - -Then Lucilla summoned him. - -The drawing-room was exactly what he had expected it to be, and so was -the aunt. - -She talked a little about Torquay, and explained that she knew some of -the residents, but none of the visitors, unless there was “a link,” and -she asked Owen if he had read the life of Mary Slessor of Calabar. - -He had not. - -“You ought to read it. She was such a wonderful person,” said the -old lady with enthusiasm, and she talked about foreign missions for -some time, though even this failed to enlighten the uninterested -Quentillian on the identity of Mary Slessor of Calabar. - -Lucilla did not talk very much--but, then, she never had talked very -much. - -The old aunt referred to her several times, and once said to -Quentillian: “My niece is clever, you know. She reads a great deal. I -like having an opinion to go by, and she chooses my books for me so -much better than the girl at Boots’ lending library. So many people -just go by the name of a book, I fancy, but Lucilla and I like to know -something about the author as well.” - -She spoke with a faint air of justifiable pride. - -Quentillian suddenly thought of the mountain of manuscript concerning -Leonidas of Alexandria, at the laborious compilation for which Lucilla -had worked for so many years. He heard the oft-repeated tag of which -Canon Morchard had been fond: “Lucilla, here, is our literary critic.” - -A small, panting maid brought in tea, and the old lady poured it out, -and was very meticulous in inquiring into Quentillian’s precise tastes -as to milk and sugar. - -As soon as he could, he made his farewell. - -“I hope you’ll come again, now you’ve found the way here,” said -Lucilla’s aunt, kindly. - -Lucilla, as she had promised, went with him, when he left “Balmoral.” - -They walked in silence for a little way and then Owen said pleadingly: - -“You’ll let me take you away from that, won’t you, Lucilla? It’s an -impossible life for you.” - -“Why do you confuse the issue like that? It’s just what I said -before--you want to follow a generous impulse without counting the -cost. My life has really nothing to do with the question.” - -He was frankly confounded. - -“I thought it might be an argument in my favour,” he said resentfully. - -“There’s only one thing that could really count in that way--well, two -things, to be accurate. Your need of me, Owen.” - -“It’s quite real,” he returned levelly. “I’m lonely, and yet the -company of most of the people I know rather annoys me. And there’s -another thing. I’m frightened, very often. It’s since the war, and--and -you know I’d been shell-shocked, as they call it? I’ve thought lately -that if you were there--the realest person I know--I shouldn’t be -frightened, at Stear. I’m giving you facts, Lucilla--not romance. We’ve -both missed _that_.” - -“Val didn’t stand to you for romance, did she?” - -“No.” - -Quentillian could think of nothing at all to add to his bald negative. - -“Well, we’ve faced your risks,” said Lucilla. “What about mine?” - -“The worst one is that you should find me an intolerable egotist,” he -said rather unsteadily. - -“We can discount that.” - -She spoke curtly, and he made no rejoinder, uncertain of her meaning. - -“What was the other argument that might count in my favour, Lucilla? -One was my need of you. I think I’ve shown you that. But you said ‘two -things, to be accurate.’ Tell me what the other was.” - -“Is,” she corrected, with a sound that was very nearly a laugh, and -that caused him to look at her. - -She faced his gaze with all her own steadiness, but for the first time -he saw Lucilla’s mild imperviousness her implacable matter-of-factness, -as a shield for something infinitely fragile and sensitive. - -Her voice, always quiet, was quieter than ever when she spoke. - -“It’s fair to tell you, I think. I’ve loved you for a long time now. So -you see my risks would be greater than yours, Owen. That’s why I was -afraid of impulse. But you see I’ve told you this--which was rather -difficult to say--because it seems to me that our one chance lies in -absolute honesty. We’ve faced the fact together that you’re--just -lonely, and that’s why you want me--but--we’ve got to face the other -fact too--both of us--I mean that, for me--you _do_ stand for romance, -Owen.” - -Her voice had not altered, but the effort with which she had spoken had -brought tears, that Owen had never seen there before, to Lucilla’s eyes. - -Nevertheless she smiled at him valiantly. - -For the first time, perhaps, since his childhood, Quentillian found -himself unable to analyse his feelings or to translate them into -tersely sententious periods. - -In the long silence that fell between them, there began a process by -which he slowly reversed certain judgments, and eliminated certain -axioms, which hitherto had stood to him for wisdom. - -But it was with scarcely any knowledge of this, that Owen Quentillian, -reduced at last to making an appeal, asked Lucilla Morchard once more: - -“Will you marry me? The risks are all yours--will you take them?” - -With her most characteristic gesture, she bent her head in assent, -neither impulsive nor emotional, but fully accepting responsibility, -and said seriously and gently: - -“Yes, Owen, I will.” - - - - -TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES: - - - Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_. - - Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. - - Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized. - - Archaic or variant spelling has been retained. - - The cover image for this eBook was created by the transcriber and is - entered into the public domain. - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE OPTIMIST *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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Delafield</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: July 14, 2022 [eBook #68524]</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; text-align:left'>Produced by: Tim Lindell, David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)</p> -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE OPTIMIST ***</div> - -<div class="figcenter hide"><img src="images/coversmall.jpg" width="450" alt="" /></div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<h1>THE OPTIMIST</h1> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p class="center"><span class="smcap">By</span><br /> - -E. M. DELAFIELD</p> - -<hr class="tiny" /> - -<p class="center"><span class="smcap">Humbug. A Study in Education</span><br /> - -<span class="smcap">The Heel of Achilles</span><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Tension</span></p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> -<div class="chapter"> -<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_title.jpg" alt="" /></div> -</div> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="titlepage"> -<p><span class="xxxlarge">THE<br /> -OPTIMIST</span></p> - -<p>BY<br /> - -<span class="large">E. M. DELAFIELD</span></p> - - -<p><span class="antiqua">New York</span><br /> -<span class="large">THE MACMILLAN COMPANY<br /> -1922</span><br /> -<br /> -<i>All rights reserved</i></p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p class="center">PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA</p> - - - -<p class="center"><span class="smcap">Copyrighted, 1922,<br /> -By</span> THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.</p> - - -<p class="center">Set up and electrotyped. Published October, 1922.</p> - - -<p class="center">FERRIS<br /> -PRINTING COMPANY<br /> -NEW YORK CITY</p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> -<div class="chapter"> -<p class="center"><span class="antiqua">Dedicated</span><br /> -<br /> -TO C. A. DAWSON-SCOTT IN<br /> -AFFECTIONATE ADMIRATION OF<br /> -THE NOVELIST AND THE WOMAN.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_7">[7]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">I<br /> - - -<small>VALERIA AND OWEN QUENTILLIAN</small></h2> -</div> - -<h3>(i)</h3> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> ship swung slowly away from the side of the -wharf. Several people on board then said, “Well, -we’re off at last!” to several other people who had only -been thinking of saying it.</p> - -<p>Owen Quentillian remembered another, longer, sea-voyage -taken by himself at an early age. Far more -clearly he remembered his arrival at St. Gwenllian.</p> - -<p>It was that which he wanted to recall, aware as he -was of the necessity for resuming a connection that -had almost insensibly lapsed for several years.</p> - -<p>He deliberately let his mind travel backwards, -visualizing himself, a disconsolate, shivering morsel, -being taken away from Papa and Mamma at the very -station itself, and put into an open pony-cart beside -Miss Lucilla Morchard.</p> - -<p>The conversation between them, as far as he could -recollect it, had run upon strangely categorical lines.</p> - -<p>“Who are you?”</p> - -<p>“I’m Canon Morchard’s daughter. You can call me -Lucilla.”</p> - -<p>“How old are you?”</p> - -<p>“I’m fifteen, but you shouldn’t ask grown-up persons -their age.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, are you a grown-up person?”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_8">[8]</span>“Of course I am. My mother is dead, and I look -after the house and the children, and now I’m going -to look after you as well.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla had smiled very nicely as she said this.</p> - -<p>“How many children are there?”</p> - -<p>“Three, at home. My eldest brother is at school.”</p> - -<p>“What are the names of the other ones?”</p> - -<p>“Valeria and Flora and Adrian. Valeria and Flora -are sometimes called Val and Flossie.”</p> - -<p>He had discovered afterwards that they were seldom -called anything else, except by their father.</p> - -<p>“Why don’t Papa and Mamma come in this little -carriage too?”</p> - -<p>“Because there wouldn’t have been room. They -will come in the brougham, later on.”</p> - -<p>“They won’t go back to India without saying good-bye -first, will they?” he asked wistfully.</p> - -<p>He had known for a long time that Papa and Mamma -were going back to India and leaving him at St. -Gwenllian.</p> - -<p>“No, I promise you they won’t do that,” had said -Lucilla seriously.</p> - -<p>Owen had felt entirely that her word was one to be -relied upon. Very few grown-up persons gave him -that feeling.</p> - -<p>He remembered extraordinarily little about the house -at St. Gwenllian. It was large, and cold, and there -were a good many pictures on the walls, but the only -two rooms of which he retained a mental photograph -were the schoolroom, and the Canon’s library.</p> - -<p>He saw the latter room first.</p> - -<p>Lucilla had taken him there at once.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">[9]</span>He remembered the books against the wall—numbers -and numbers of books—and the big black writing -table, with a small bowl of violets next to a pile of -papers, and above the writing-table a finely-carved -ivory figure, crucified upon a wooden cross, set in a -long plaque of pale-green velvet.</p> - -<p>Lucilla had seemed to be disappointed because her -father was out.</p> - -<p>“He said he did so want to be here to welcome -you himself, but he is always very busy. Some one -sent for him, I think.”</p> - -<p>The youthful Owen Quentillian had cared less than -nothing for the non-appearance of his future host and -tutor. The prospect of the schoolroom tea had touched -him more nearly.</p> - -<p>But the schoolroom tea had turned out to be a sort -of nightmare.</p> - -<p>Even now, he could hardly smile at the recollection -of that dreadful meal.</p> - -<p>Eventually Val and Flossie had resolved themselves -into good-natured, cheerful little girls, and Adrian into -a slightly spoilt and rather precocious little boy, addicted -to remarks of the type hailed as “wonderful” -in the drawing-room and “affected humbug” in the -schoolroom.</p> - -<p>But on that first evening, Val and Flossie had been -two monsters with enormous eyes that stared disapprovingly, -all the time, straight at Owen Quentillian -and nobody else. Adrian had been an utterly incomprehensible, -rather malignant little creature, who had -asked questions.</p> - -<p>“Can you see colours for each day of the week?”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_10">[10]</span>Quentillian wondered whether he had looked as much -alarmed as he had felt, in his utter bewilderment.</p> - -<p>“<i>I</i> think Monday is blue, and Tuesday light green, -and Wednesday dark green,” Adrian had then proclaimed, -triumphantly, and casting his big brown eyes -about as though to make sure that his three sisters -had heard the enunciation of his strange creed.</p> - -<p>“Adrian is not a bit like other little boys,” one of -them had then said, with calm pride.</p> - -<p>Owen Quentillian, unconscious of irony, had ardently -hoped that she spoke truly.</p> - -<p>Adrian had pinched him surreptitiously during tea, -and had laughed in a way that made Owen flush when -they had asked him what India was like and he had -answered “I don’t know.”</p> - -<p>He had thought the thick bread-and-butter nasty, -and wondered if there was never any cake. A vista of -past teas, with sugared cakes from the drawing-room, -especially selected by himself, and brought to his own -little table on the back veranda by the Ayah, made him -choke.</p> - -<p>There had been a dreadful moment when he had -snatched at the horrid mug they had given him and -held it before his face for a long, long time, desperately -pretending to drink, and not daring to show his face.</p> - -<p>Lucilla, seated at the head of the table, had offered -the others more tea, but she had said nothing to the -little strange boy, and he still felt grateful to her.</p> - -<p>The miserable, chaotic jumble that was all that his -mind retained, of interminable slices of bread-and-butter -that tasted like sawdust, of thick, ugly white -china, of hostile or mocking gazes, of jokes and allusions<span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">[11]</span> -in which he had no share, all came to a sudden -end when he had given up any hope of ever being happy -again so long as he lived.</p> - -<p>Canon Morchard had come into the room.</p> - -<p>And, magically, Val and Flossie had turned into -quiet, insignificant little girls, looking gently and trustfully -at their father, and no longer staring curiously -at Owen Quentillian, and Adrian had become a wide-eyed, -guileless baby, and the thick bread-and-butter -and the ugly china no longer existed at all.</p> - -<p>Only Lucilla had undergone no transformation.</p> - -<p>She said “This is Owen Quentillian, Father,” in a -matter-of-fact tone of voice.</p> - -<p>“I know, my child, I know.”</p> - -<p>His hand, large and protecting, had grasped the -boy’s hand, and after a moment he stooped and put -his lips gently to Owen’s forehead.</p> - -<p>Quentillian remembered a presence of general benignity, -a strangely sweet smile that came, however, very -rarely, a deep voice, and an effect of commanding -height and size.</p> - -<p>Memory could not recapture any set form of words, -but Quentillian endeavoured, whimsically, to recast -certain speeches which he felt to be permeated with -the spirit of the Canon.</p> - -<p>“My dear little boy, I hope you may come to feel -this as home. We shall all of us endeavour to make -it so. Lucilla here is my little housekeeper—ask her -for anything that you want. Valeria—my tomboy. -She and you will have some grand romps together. -Flora is younger; nearer your own age, perhaps. Flora -plays the piano, and we hope that she may show great<span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">[12]</span> -feeling for Art, by and bye. Little Adrian, I am sure, -has already made friends with you. I call him the -Little Friend of all the World. There are some very -quaint fancies under this brown mop, but we shall -make something out of them one of these days—one -of these days.”</p> - -<p>Some such introduction there had certainly been. -The Canon had been nothing if not categorical, and -Quentillian could fancifully surmise in him a bewilderment -not untinged with resentment had his Valeria -one day tired of being a tomboy, and elected to patronize -the piano, or Flora suddenly become imbued with -a romping spirit, to the detriment of her artistic -propensities.</p> - -<p>But the Canon’s children had always refrained from -any <i>volte-face</i> calculated to disconcert their parent. -Quentillian was almost sure that all of them, except -Lucilla, had been afraid of him—even Adrian, on -whom his father had lavished a peculiar cherishing -tenderness.</p> - -<p>Quentillian could remember certain sharp, stern rebukes, -called forth by Valeria’s tendency to untimely -giggles, or Flora’s infantile tears, or his own occasional -sulks and obstinacy under the new <i>régime</i>. But he -could only once remember Adrian in disgrace, and so -abysmal had been the catastrophe, that imagination -was unneeded for recalling it clearly.</p> - -<p>Adrian had told a lie.</p> - -<p>Quentillian re-lived the terrible episode.</p> - -<p>“Which of you children took a message for me -from Radly yesterday? Not you, Lucilla?”</p> - -<p>“No, father.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">[13]</span>“Mrs. Radly died last night.” The Canon’s face was -suffused. “She asked for me all yesterday, and Radly -actually left her in order to find some way of sending -me a message. I hear now that he met ‘one of the -St. Gwenllian children’ and sent an urgent summons -which was never delivered. <i>Which was never delivered!</i> -Good Heavens, children, think of it! I was here, -in our own home-circle, enjoying a pleasant evening -reading aloud, when that woman was dying there in -the farm, craving for the help and comfort that I, her -shepherd and pastor, could and <i>should</i> have given her.”</p> - -<p>He covered his face with his hand and groaned -aloud.</p> - -<p>“In all the years of my ministry,” he said slowly, -“I have never had a more bitter blow. And dealt me -by one of my own household! Children,” his voice -boomed suddenly terrible, “which of you received -Radly’s message yesterday?”</p> - -<p>Quentillian, in the retrospect, felt no surprise at the -absence of any competition in laying claim to the implied -responsibility.</p> - -<p>At last Lucilla said tentatively:</p> - -<p>“Val? Flora?”</p> - -<p>“I never saw Radly at all, yesterday, nor any other -day,” said Val, her brown eyes wide open and fixed -straight upon her father.</p> - -<p>Flora’s little, pretty face was pale and scared.</p> - -<p>“It wasn’t me. No one ever gave me any message.”</p> - -<p>Her voice trembled as though she feared to be disbelieved.</p> - -<p>“Owen?” said the Canon sternly.</p> - -<p>“No, sir.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">[14]</span>“Adrian?” his voice softened.</p> - -<p>“No, father.”</p> - -<p>The Canon hardly appeared to listen to Adrian’s -answer. His hand was on the little boy’s brown curls, -in the fond, half-absent, gesture habitual to him.</p> - -<p>He faced the children, and his eye rested upon Owen -Quentillian.</p> - -<p>“If any one of you,” he said sternly and slowly, -“has been betrayed into telling me a lie, understand -that it is not yet too late for full confession. Selfish -heedlessness cannot be judged by its terrible consequences, -and if I spoke too strongly just now, it was -out of the depths of my own grief and shame. The -forgetfulness was bad—very bad—but that I can forgive. -A lie, I can <i>not</i> forgive. It is not too late.”</p> - -<p>His face was white and terrible as he gazed with -strained eyes at the children.</p> - -<p>Little Flora began to cry, and Lucilla put her arm -round her.</p> - -<p>“Understand me, children, denial is perfectly useless. -I <i>know</i> that message was given to one of you, -and that it was not delivered, and it is simply a question -of hours before I see Radly and obtain from him the -name of the child to whom the message was given. I -accuse no one of you, but I implore the culprit to speak -out. Otherwise,” he hit the table with his clenched -fist, and it seemed as though lightning shot from his -blazing eyes, “otherwise I shall know that there dwells -under my roof a liar and a coward.”</p> - -<p>Quentillian could hear still the scorn that rang in -that deep, vibrant voice, terrifying the children.</p> - -<p>Not one of them spoke.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">[15]</span>And the Canon had gone out of the room with -anguish in his eyes.</p> - -<p>The nursery court-martial that followed was held by -Lucilla.</p> - -<p>“Flossie, it couldn’t have been you, because you -stayed in all yesterday with your cold. Owen and Val -were out in the afternoon?”</p> - -<p>“We went to see the woman with the new twins,” -said Val, indignantly. “We never met anyone the -whole way, did we, Owen?”</p> - -<p>“No.”</p> - -<p>Owen Quentillian had known all the time what was -coming. He knew, with the terrible, intimate knowledge -of the nursery, that Adrian was the only one of the -Canon’s children who did not always speak the truth.</p> - -<p>Apparently Lucilla, also, knew.</p> - -<p>She said “Oh, Adrian,” in a troubled, imploring -voice.</p> - -<p>“I didn’t,” said Adrian, and burst into tears.</p> - -<p>“I knew it was Adrian,” said little Flora. “I saw -Radly coming up the lane very fast, I saw him out -of the night-nursery window, and I saw Adrian, too. -I knew it was Adrian, all the time.”</p> - -<p>None of the children was surprised.</p> - -<p>Adrian, confronted with their take-it-for-granted -attitude, ceased his mechanical denials.</p> - -<p>The preoccupation of them all, was Canon Morchard.</p> - -<p>“It’ll be less bad if you tell him yourself than if -Radly does,” Owen Quentillian pointed out.</p> - -<p>“Of course, it makes it much worse having told him -a lie,” Val said crudely, “but perhaps he didn’t much<span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">[16]</span> -notice what you said. I’m sure he thought it was -Owen, all the time.”</p> - -<p>How much better if it had been Owen, if it had -been any one of them, save the Canon’s best-loved child, -his youngest son!</p> - -<p>“You must come and tell him at once,” Lucilla decreed—but -not hopefully.</p> - -<p>“I can’t. You know what he said about a liar and -a coward under his roof.”</p> - -<p>Adrian cried and shivered.</p> - -<p>“He wasn’t angry the time I broke the clock,” said -Flora. “He took me on his knee and only just talked -to me. I didn’t mind a bit.”</p> - -<p>“But you hadn’t told a story,” said the inexorable -Val.</p> - -<p>They all knew that there lay the crux of the matter.</p> - -<p>Quentillian could see the circle of scared, perplexed -faces still—Lucilla, troubled, but unastonished, keeping -a vigilant hold on Adrian all the time, Val, frankly -horrified and full of outspoken predictions of the direst -description, Flossie in tears, stroking and fondling -Adrian’s hand with the tenderest compassion. He even -visualized the pale, squarely built, little flaxen-haired -boy that had been himself.</p> - -<p>They could not persuade Adrian to confess.</p> - -<p>At last Lucilla said: “If you don’t tell him, Adrian, -then I shall.”</p> - -<p>And so it had been, because Canon Morchard, re-entering -the schoolroom, had, with a penetration to -which his children were accustomed, instantly perceived -the tears and the terror on Adrian’s face.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">[17]</span>“What is it, little lad? Have you hurt yourself?”</p> - -<p>The kind, unsuspicious concern in his voice, as he -held out his hand!</p> - -<p>Quentillian was certain that a pause had followed the -enquiry—Adrian’s opportunity, conceded by Lucilla, -even while she knew, as they all did, that he would take -no advantage of it.</p> - -<p>Then Lucilla had told.</p> - -<p>Quentillian’s thoughts went off at a tangent, dwelling -for the first time, with a certain surprised admiration, -upon Lucilla’s resolute, almost matter-of-fact performance -of her painful and alarming task.</p> - -<p>Canon Morchard had been incredulous at first, and -Lucilla had steadily repeated, and reiterated again and -again, the dreadful truth.</p> - -<p>A black time had followed.</p> - -<p>It assumed the proportions of a twelve-month, in -the retrospect. Could it have extended over a week? -Strangely enough, Quentillian could not recall the exact -fate of Adrian, but he knew that the Canon first -fulminated words of wrath and scorn, and at last had -actually broken down, tears streaming down his furrowed -face, and that the sight of this unrestrained display -of suffering had caused the boy Owen to creep -from the room, with the strange, sick feeling of one -who had witnessed an indecency.</p> - -<p>All the children except Lucilla, who indeed scarcely -counted as one of them, had avoided Canon Morchard -in the ensuing days. They had crept about the house -silently, and at meals no one spoke until the Canon had -left the room. Owen Quentillian, playing with a ball -in the passage and inadvertently bouncing it against<span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">[18]</span> -the closed study door, had been suddenly confronted by -the Canon, and the look of grief and horror fixed -upon that handsome face had rendered any spoken rebuke -for levity unnecessary.</p> - -<p>After all, they had left an impression, those Morchards, -all of them, Quentillian reflected.</p> - -<p>Lucilla had been calm, matter-of-fact, competent—perhaps -a little inhuman. Val, impetuous, noisy, inclined -to defiance, yet frankly terrified of her father. -Flossie—impossible to think of her as Flora, unless -the name was uttered in the Canon’s full, deep tones—surely -the prettiest of the three, gentler than Val, less -self-assured than Lucilla, timid only with her father. -Adrian, of course, did not speak the truth. His contemporaries -had known it, although Canon Morchard -had not realized the little boy’s habitual weakness. -But then he had never realized that the children were -afraid of him.</p> - -<p>Why had they all been afraid of him?</p> - -<p>Quentillian decided that it must have been because -of his own phenomenal rectitude, his high standard of -honour, and above all and especially, his deep, fundamental -sense of religion.</p> - -<p>Canon Morchard, undoubtedly, lived “in the presence -of God.” Even the little boy Owen had known -that, and, thinking backwards, Quentillian was convinced -of it still.</p> - -<p>He felt curious to see the Canon again. David -Morchard had said to him in Mesopotamia: “Go and -see him. They’ve none of them forgotten you, and -they’ll be glad of first-hand news. I’ve only been -home once in five years.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">[19]</span>The shrug of his shoulders had seemed to Quentillian -expressive.</p> - -<p>But evidently David had judged his family correctly. -The Canon had written and invited his old pupil to -stay with him.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>“It will not only be joy untold to receive news of our -dear lad, David, but a real pleasure to us all to welcome -you amongst us once more. I have not forgotten -my pupil of long-ago days, nor my daughters their -erstwhile playfellow. You will find all at home, including -Adrian. Dear fellow, I had hoped it was to -be the Church for him, but he has been so open, so -anxious to decide the whole important question <i>rightly</i>, -that one can only leave the decision to him in all -confidence. I would not hurry him in any way, but -his brief Army days are over, thank God, and we have -the untold pleasure of having him with us now, so -full of fun and high spirits, dear boy. You, with your -pre-war experience of Oxford, will perhaps be able -to talk things over with him and help him to a right -and wise decision.</p> - -<p>“You will remember my eldest daughter, Lucilla. -She is still my right hand, mothering the younger -ones, and yet finding time for all sorts of wider interests -than those afforded by her secretarial work -for me. I think that you will agree with me that -Lucilla’s intellectual abilities, had she been less of a -home-bird, must have made their mark in the world.</p> - -<p>“Valeria is still something of the madcap that perhaps -you remember. Her energy and enthusiasm keep -us all in the best of spirits, even though we are sometimes -a little startled at the new ideas sprung upon<span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">[20]</span> -us. Both she and Flora worked valiantly during the -terrible war years, though I could spare neither of -my darlings to leave home for very long at a time. -Valeria, however, was six months in France at a Canteen, -and I believe rendered really valuable service. -Little Flora, as I still call her, gives pleasure to us all -with her music, and our men in hospital were sharers -in her gift as far as we could manage it.”</p> -</div> - -<p>Quentillian took up yet another sheet of notepaper -covered with small, legible writing. It came back to -him with a sense of familiarity, that the Canon had always -been an expansive and prolific writer of letters.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>“Make us a long visit, my dear boy. There are no -near ones to claim you, alas, and I should like you to -remember that it was to us that your dear father and -mother first confided you when they left you for what -we then hoped was to be only a short term of years. -God saw otherwise, my dear lad, and called them unto -Himself. <i>How</i> incomprehensible are His ways, and -how, through it all, one must feel that mysterious certainty -‘<i>all</i> things work together for good, to those -that love Him!’ Those words have been more present -to me than I can well tell you, during the years of -storm and stress. David’s long, weary time in Mesopotamia -tried one high, but when Adrian, my Benjamin, -buckled on his armour and went forth, my -heart <i>must</i> have failed me, but for that wonderful -strength that seems to bear one up in the day of tribulation. -How often have I not said to myself: ‘He hath -given His angels charge over thee ... in their hands -they shall bear thee up, lest haply thou dash thy foot -against a stone!’</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">[21]</span>“Perhaps you will smile at this rambling letter of an -almost-old man, but I fancy that as one grows older, -the need to bear testimony becomes ever a stronger -and more personal thing. His ways <i>are</i> so wonderful! -It seems to me, for instance, a direct gift from His -hand that the Owen Quentillian to whom I gave his -first Latin prose should be returning to us once more, -a distinguished young writer. I wonder if we shall -recognize you? I have so vivid a recollection of the -white hair and eyelashes that made the village boys -call out, ‘Go it, Snowball!’ as they watched your prowess -on the football field!</p> - -<p>“Well, dear fellow, I must close this. You have only -to let us know the day and hour of your arrival, and -the warmest of welcomes awaits you.</p> - -<p>“I <i>must</i> sign myself, in memory of old happy times,</p> - -<p class="right"><span class="indentright">“Yours ever affectionately,</span><br /> -“<span class="smcap">Fenwick Morchard</span>.”</p> -</div> - -<p>Quentillian, with great precision, folded the sheets -together again.</p> - -<p>“So Lucilla is a home-bird, Valeria is still something -of a madcap, Flora is still ‘little Flora,’ and Adrian -is a dear lad who is anxious to decide rightly about his -future career.”</p> - -<p>He wondered doubtfully whether he himself would -come to endorse the Canon’s opinion of the Canon’s -progeny.</p> - -<p>And what was the Canon himself, if labels were -to be thus distributed?</p> - -<p>The sensation of doubt in Quentillian’s mind was -accentuated, but he concluded his reflections by reminding<span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">[22]</span> -himself, half tolerantly, and half with a certain -grimness, that the Canon was at least, according to -himself, Quentillian’s ever affectionate Fenwick Morchard.</p> - - -<h3>(ii)</h3> - -<p>“<span class="smcap">This</span> is like old times,” said Quentillian.</p> - -<p>Lucilla Morchard smiled, shook hands with him, and -made no answer, and Quentillian immediately, and with -annoyance, became conscious that the occasion was -not in the least like old times.</p> - -<p>Apparently Miss Morchard did not accept <i>clichés</i> -uncritically.</p> - -<p>Her face, indeed, expressed a spirit both critical and -perceptive. Quentillian could still trace the schoolgirl -Lucilla in the clearly-cut, unbeautiful oval, with the -jaw slightly underhung, grey, short-sighted eyes, and -straight black brows. Her dark hair was folded plainly -beneath her purple straw hat, but he could discern that -there was all the old abundance of it. Her figure was -tall and youthful, but her face made her look fully her -age. He surmised that Lucilla must be thirty-five, -now.</p> - -<p>“This time, my father <i>is</i> here to welcome you.”</p> - -<p>She turned round, and Quentillian saw the Canon.</p> - -<p>“Ah, dear fellow! Welcome—welcome you be, indeed!”</p> - -<p>A hand grasped Quentillian’s hand, an arm was laid -across his shoulders, and the Canon’s full, hearty voice, -very deep and musical, rang in his ears.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">[23]</span>Quentillian felt inadequate.</p> - -<p>With all the acute self-consciousness of the modern, -he was perfectly aware that Canon Morchard’s warmth -of feeling and ardour of demonstration awoke in himself -nothing but a slight, distinctly unpleasant, sensation -of gratitude, and a feeble fear of appearing as unresponsive -as he felt.</p> - -<p>“I think it’s the same Owen Quentillian, isn’t it?”</p> - -<p>The steady pressure of the Canon’s arm compelled -his unwilling returned prodigal to remain still, facing -him, and submit to a scrutiny from kind, narrowed -eyes.</p> - -<p>“Just the same. All is well—well, indeed.”</p> - -<p>The Canon’s hand smote Quentillian gently between -the shoulders, as they walked down the platform.</p> - -<p>“The trap is waiting, dear boy. They are eager for -your arrival, at home. I have my whole goodly company -awaiting you, thank God—Lucilla here, and my -merry Valeria, and little Flora with her incurably shy -ways, and my Benjamin—the youngest of the flock—Adrian. -You and Adrian must have many talks, dear -lad. I want just such a friend for him as yourself—full -of youth, and fun, and merriment, as he is himself, -and yet able to help him when it comes to facing the -deeper issues—the deeper issues. You young people -must have many wise, deep talks, together, such as -youth loves. I remember my University days so well -and how ‘we tired the sun with talking’—aye, Owen, -your father and I were famous philosophers, once upon -a time! How does that strike you, eh?”</p> - -<p>It struck Quentillian principally that his father’s -contemporary reminded him oddly of a book of late<span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">[24]</span> -Victorian memoirs, but he did not voice the impression -aloud.</p> - -<p>Instead, it was a relief to him to be able to make -an obvious, and yet perfectly sincere, comment upon -the unchanged aspect of the old red-brick house, standing -well away from the small town.</p> - -<p>“Valeria is our gardener,” said Canon Morchard. -“You will be consulted about various borders and the -like, no doubt. But we have all of us an interest in -botany. You must remember that from the old days, -eh? There was a collecting craze, if I remember -rightly, that led to a great deal of friendly rivalry -amongst you children.”</p> - -<p>Quentillian’s recollection of the collecting craze differed -so drastically from that of the Canon, that he -glanced involuntarily at Lucilla. She met his eye -calmly, but he fancied a little latent hostility in her -unconsciousness.</p> - -<p>It rather served to confirm his impression of the -extreme lack of spontaneity that had characterized -those bygone excursions into the realms of Nature. -They had been undertaken, at least by himself and his -ally and contemporary, Valeria, with one eye, as it -were, upon the Canon’s study window. Even Adrian, -if Quentillian remembered rightly, had relaxed the -normal enthusiasm of boyhood in the pursuit of bird’s -eggs, after the wondrous eye for detail of the bird’s -Creator had been sufficiently often pointed out to -him.</p> - -<p>“Welcome home,” said the Canon happily. “You -remember the old garden? I seem to recollect some -capital fun going on amongst the old rhododendron<span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">[25]</span> -bushes at hide-and-seek, eh? We play lawn-tennis, -nowadays. I see a sett is going on now. Who is -here this afternoon, Lucilla?”</p> - -<p>“Captain Cuscaden is playing with Flora, and I suppose -it’s Mr. Clover in the far court.”</p> - -<p>“To be sure. Clover is my excellent curate, who -has been one of ourselves for several years now. Sit -ye down, young people, sit ye down. Tea will be -out here directly, and the players will no doubt come for -refreshment.”</p> - -<p>The Canon settled himself with the deliberation of -a heavily-built man, and leant back in his wicker chair, -with finger-tips joined together, the breeze stirring -the thick grey hair upon his temples.</p> - -<p>It was a cameo-like head, with something of the -ivory colouring of a cameo, but the cameo’s blank orbs -were replaced by deeply-set, brilliant hazel eyes of -which the flashing, ardent outlook recalled at once the -child and the fanatic. Innumerable fine lines were -crossed and recrossed at the corners of either socket, -but the broad forehead was singularly open and unlined.</p> - -<p>Quentillian noted the feminine sweetness of the -closed mouth, contrasting with the masculine jut of -the strong, prominent jaw. His mind registered simultaneously -the recollection of the Canon’s violent and -terrifying outbursts of anger, and his astonishing capabilities -of tenderness.</p> - -<p>The latter expression was altogether predominant, as -the tennis players came to join the group under the -cedars.</p> - -<p>“Valeria—Flora—you need no introductions here,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">[26]</span> -dear lad. Clover, let me present my old pupil—one -of whom you have very often heard us speak—Owen -Quentillian. This is my very good friend and helper. -And.... Ah, Captain Cuscaden—Mr. Quentillian.”</p> - -<p>Quentillian fancied less enthusiasm in this last introduction, -and it seemed to him significant that no -descriptive phrase followed the name. Either Captain -Cuscaden was not worth classifying, or he could not -satisfactorily be relegated into any class, and Quentillian -suspected that Canon Morchard would resent the -latter state of affairs more than the former.</p> - -<p>At all events, Cuscaden was good-looking, of bold -allure and sunburnt face, revealing the most perfect -of teeth in a pleasant smile.</p> - -<p>Mr. Clover was sandy and pale and seemed to be -talkative.</p> - -<p>“I believe I should have known you anywhere,” -Valeria Morchard told Quentillian, frankly gazing at -him. He was not sorry to have the opportunity of gazing -back as frankly at her.</p> - -<p>As children, the handsome or unhandsome looks of -Val, his inseparable playmate, had naturally interested -him not at all. He had vaguely acquiesced in the universal -nursery dictum that Flora, with her fair curls -and wide, innocent eyes, was pretty, but he now found -her blond slenderness insignificant in the extreme compared -to Valeria, with her tall and perfectly balanced -figure, ripe-apricot bloom, and brown laughing eyes. -No longer a very young girl, she somehow combined -the poise of her twenty-seven years with a shy, semi-abruptness -of diction reminiscent of seventeen.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">[27]</span>Quentillian thought her charming.</p> - -<p>So, apparently, did the other men.</p> - -<p>“And who bore off the palm of victory?”</p> - -<p>Canon Morchard indicated the tennis court.</p> - -<p>“We won, at five games all. A very good sett,” -Clover replied. “My partner’s service is almost invincible.”</p> - -<p>Canon Morchard smiled.</p> - -<p>“We think Valeria’s service is her strong point,” he -explained to Quentillian. “She was coached by our -dear David, and David is no mean player, I assure you. -Little Flora needs to stand up to the ball better—stand -up to the ball better. Flora has the feminine tendency -to hit out too soon—eh, Flora? Our champion is -Adrian, however. You and he will have some great -contests, I foresee.”</p> - -<p>The more the Canon foresaw, the more did Quentillian’s -own aspirations turn in search of contrary -directions. The only diversion of those predicted by -his host, of which he felt able to tolerate the thought, -was that of being consulted by Valeria upon the herbaceous -borders.</p> - -<p>“Clover, there, has a particularly good stroke on to -the back line, but you’ll get to know it. Have you -played at all since you left the ’Varsity?”</p> - -<p>“I got a good deal of tennis when I was home on -leave in nineteen-sixteen, but nothing after that, when -I was in Mesopotamia.”</p> - -<p>“Were you not in Flanders, dear boy?”</p> - -<p>“In ’fifteen and ’sixteen,” said Quentillian briefly.</p> - -<p>He wished to remember neither his two years on the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">[28]</span> -Western front, nor his many months in Hospital with -shell-shock.</p> - -<p>“Where did you and David meet, in Mesopotamia?” -inquired Lucilla.</p> - -<p>Quentillian had forgotten her presence, if not her -existence, but he felt grateful to her for sparing him -the tentative category of his soldiering capabilities -which he suspected the Canon of having in readiness.</p> - -<p>He was not, however, given time to answer Lucilla’s -question.</p> - -<p>The Canon’s hand was uplifted.</p> - -<p>“Ah, Lucilla my dear—please! My little talk with -Owen there, is to come later. There is so much that -I want to hear about our David—much, indeed. And -you shall have your share of news about your brother, -my child, but wait—at least wait—until we have had -our little private talk together.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla bent her head a little under the rebuke either -in acquiescence or to conceal some slight confusion; but -Valeria blushed hotly and unmistakably, and everyone -looked constrained except the Canon, who looked rather -severe, rather grieved, and at the same time perfectly -serene. When he spoke again, it was with marked -suavity.</p> - -<p>“Tell us something of your literary work, dear fellow,” -he requested Quentillian. “I am ashamed to say -that I have read nothing of yours, as yet. My time is -so little my own. Lucilla here is our literary critic.”</p> - -<p>He placed his thin, beautiful hand, for a fleeting -moment upon his eldest daughter’s hand.</p> - -<p>“Lucilla tells me that she knows your work. Critical -essays, is it?”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">[29]</span>“Yes, sir.”</p> - -<p>Quentillian gravely acknowledged the truth of the -assertion. His self-consciousness rather enhanced -than diminished in him a keen appraisement, perhaps -rather less detached than he would have liked it to be, -of his own literary value.</p> - -<p>“I published a small volume of essays before the -war, but since then I have only been a very occasional -contributor to one or two of the reviews.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, yes. You must let me see what you have done, -some day. This is the era of youth. Indeed, some -of the things I see in print today strike me as not only -crude and immature, but absolutely mischievous—false, -foolish, shallow teaching from those who have never -submitted to be taught themselves. I am not afraid -of that in your case, Owen. But remember this, all -you young people: Nothing can be of real or lasting -value that is not founded upon the broad principles of -Christianity—charity, self-sacrifice, humility, loving-kindness. -One feels that, more than ever, nowadays, -when cynicism is so much in fashion.”</p> - -<p>The Canon leant back in his chair again with his -eyes closed, as though momentarily exhausted by the -extraordinary passion with which he had spoken.</p> - -<p>So profoundly did Owen Quentillian disagree with -his host, that he remained absolutely silent. He reminded -himself that since his majority he had sought, -voluntarily, only the companionship of those whose -views were at least as progressive as his own. He -had almost forgotten that those other, older, views -existed, were held with a passion of sincerity contrasting -oddly with the cool, detached, carefully impersonal<span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">[30]</span> -logic that was the only attitude contemplated by himself -and his kind for the consideration of all problems -of ethics, morals, or of Life itself.</p> - -<p>No doubt the Canon did not admit the normal evolution -of the art of self-sacrifice to be self-advertisement, -and held the officious pelican to be the best of -birds.</p> - -<p>Quentillian, horribly aware of his own priggishness, -wanted to reform the whole of the Canon’s philosophy -at once.</p> - -<p>Nevertheless he retained enough humour to hope that -the preposterous desire had not been apparent in his -silence.</p> - -<p>His eyes met those of Valeria Morchard, and read -there amusement, and something not unlike protest.</p> - -<p>Lucilla, in her level voice, offered him tea.</p> - -<p>“The cup that cheers,” said Mr. Clover in a nervous -way.</p> - -<p>The ineptitude roused in Quentillian a disproportionate -sense of irritation and renewed his old conviction -that his nerves were not even yet under his complete -control.</p> - -<p>As though the Canon, too, were mildly averse from -such trivialities, he began to speak again.</p> - -<p>“What one feels in the cleverness of the day is the -note of ugliness that prevails. Do you not feel that? -The sordid, the grotesque, the painful—all, all sought -out and dwelt upon. That, we are told, is the new -realism. We know, indeed, that there is a sad side to -life, but is it realism to dwell only upon one side of -the picture? Surely, surely, a sane optimism were the -better outlook—the truer realism.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">[31]</span>“You don’t think, then, that the optimism of England -is responsible for her present plight, sir?”</p> - -<p>Quentillian’s tone was one of respectful suggestion, -but he was aware that Val, beside him, had suddenly -caught her breath as though at an audacity, and that -Flora and Mr. Clover were both gazing anxiously at -the Canon.</p> - -<p>A flash of lightning shot from those ardent eyes -straight into the passionless irony of the younger -man’s.</p> - -<p>“But for England’s optimism, there would be no -England today. It was the spirit of optimism that won -the war, Owen.”</p> - -<p>A sick recollection of men, armed and disciplined, -taking steady aim at other men, standing against a wall -to be shot for cowardice or treason, of grey-faced -commanders leading those who followed them into -certain death, all surged into Quentillian’s rebellious -mind. They, the men who had been there, had known -better than to prate of optimism.</p> - -<p>They had faced facts, had anticipated disaster, had -envisaged the worst possibilities, and their pessimism -had won the war.</p> - -<p>“Are you, too, bitten with the folly of the day?”</p> - -<p>The Canon’s voice was gentle again, his arm once -more laid across Quentillian’s shoulders.</p> - -<p>“Did I not hear something about shell-shock, dear -fellow? We must have no talk of the war here. -Thank God for that He hath brought it to an end. -Tell me, dear lad, will you play tennis?”</p> - -<p>Bewildered, almost affronted, Quentillian yet agreed -to play tennis, feeling himself more like a forward<span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">[32]</span> -boy, being treated with forbearance, than like a modern -intellect illuminating the way of thought for the older -generation.</p> - -<p>He played with Valeria as his partner, and found -the Canon’s eulogy of her service to be entirely justified.</p> - -<p>He found an opportunity at the end of the game -of expressing his admiration for her play, and she -replied, conventionally enough, that she had a great -deal of practice.</p> - -<p>“There isn’t much else to do,” she added, with a -slight grimace.</p> - -<p>Under pretext of looking for a distant ball, they -continued the conversation.</p> - -<p>“If you remember this place at all,” Val said, “you -know how dull it is. Just tennis in the summer, and -horrible bazaars and jumble sales, and never a new -person or a new idea from year’s end to year’s end.”</p> - -<p>“It sounds appalling. But, after all, you’re not -bound, in the old, antiquated way. You can go away.”</p> - -<p>“No I can’t,” she said bluntly. “I did get to France, -for six months, during the war, but it was only <i>because</i> -it was the war. And even then—oh, well, the sort -of letters I got were enough to make me feel that -Father really hated my being there.”</p> - -<p>Quentillian was genuinely aghast.</p> - -<p>“But I thought that sort of attitude had gone out -with all the other Victorian traditions. I thought -women did what they liked—were as free as men.”</p> - -<p>“That’s what it says in the books I read, and what -some of the girls I met in France told me. But it -isn’t like that here. And one <i>can’t</i> hurt Father. You<span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">[33]</span> -know what he’s like—so good, and so sensitive, and—and -so noble, somehow. He makes modern things -seem trivial—vulgar, even.”</p> - -<p>“Your father is a reactionary,” said Quentillian -kindly, rather as one might say: “Your father is a -Hottentot.”</p> - -<p>“You mustn’t think that he just wants us to stay -at home and arrange the flowers,” Val said. “You -know how he always wanted us to have intellectual -interests. Oh, Owen, don’t you remember the collections?”</p> - -<p>She broke off, and blushed and laughed.</p> - -<p>“It seems so very natural—I’ve so often thought of -you as Owen.”</p> - -<p>“That was very nice of you, Val,” said Quentillian -calmly.</p> - -<p>He had every intention of retaining his early privileges, -where Val was concerned.</p> - -<p>“I should like to read some of the things you’ve -written,” she said abruptly. “Lucilla reads your articles, -and has always admired them.”</p> - -<p>It seemed to Quentillian so extremely natural that -anybody who read his articles should admire them, -that he was conscious of receiving a slight shock when -Valeria added:</p> - -<p>“I gather that Father wouldn’t like them at all. Lucilla -always kept them out of his way.”</p> - -<p>“She is devoted to him, I can see that.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, of course.”</p> - -<p>Something in her voice made him look at her, and -she exclaimed, half laughing and half petulant: “We’re -all devoted to him, Lucilla and Flossie and I! I didn’t<span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">[34]</span> -mean the least shadow of a criticism of <i>him</i>. Only -that it’s a little difficult, sometimes, to keep up to his -level.”</p> - -<p>It seemed to Quentillian so monstrous a state of -affairs that the Canon’s three daughters should have -no worthier aim in life than the one implied, that -something of his feeling was reflected in his face, and -Valeria on the instant applied herself to looking for -the missing ball, found it, and returned to the tea-table -and the group there.</p> - -<p>The Canon was again speaking, this time to young -Cuscaden.</p> - -<p>“If it is to be Canada, I believe I could give you one -or two introductions that might be of service to you. -The Government people, for instance.... I have -one or two very good friends amongst them. You -are really anxious to leave the Army and try colonization?”</p> - -<p>“Quite determined to, sir.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, you young fellows, you young fellows! It -seems to me that there is none of the spirit of stability -that existed in our day! But perhaps the wish to see -further afield is a natural one. Certainly, my own -greatest regret is that I have had so little time for -travelling.”</p> - -<p>He turned to Lucilla.</p> - -<p>“Your dearest mother and I had planned a visit to -Italy the very year that she was taken from us. Well, -well! It was not to be. I shall never see the Eternal -City now, I imagine, except with the eyes of the mind. -Clover, you are amongst those who have seen Rome. -Think of it! Seen Rome, where Peter healed and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">[35]</span> -Paul preached the Gospel, where Laurence and Agnes -and Cyprian and countless others were martyred! Tell -us something of the Coliseum.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Clover did not give the effect of being an eloquent -person, but he had evidently been called upon -before by the Canon, and he gave a not unilluminating -little description, punctuated, and indeed supplemented, -by Canon Morchard’s exhaustive comments.</p> - -<p>Quentillian listened in a sort of amazement, not at -all untinged by a rather uncertain wonder as to how -he should ever sustain his own part in these ingenuous -conversations....</p> - -<p>The others, he saw, listened, with the possible exception -of Lucilla, whose eyes were fixed upon a distant -flower-bed.</p> - -<p>Captain Cuscaden kept his gaze upon Valeria, but -he put in an occasional question, generally upon a subject -of architecture. Flora played with a leaf and said -nothing at all, and Val, unconsciously, Quentillian felt -sure, repeated everything her father said in more colloquial -English.</p> - -<p>“It amazes me to realize that with a lack of all our -modern appliances, such veritable giants of architecture -should yet have been raised,” mused the Canon.</p> - -<p>“Yes, isn’t it wonderful to think they had none of -our machines and things, and yet made those enormous -statues and gates and things?” said Val.</p> - -<p>“Well for us, indeed, that they did so, my child. -Every fresh excavation proves to be a new link with -the past.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, indeed,” said Mr. Clover.</p> - -<p>“Yes, all the new things they dig up seem to make<span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">[36]</span> -a fresh link with those old Roman days,” echoed Val -faithfully.</p> - -<p>“Yes, indeed,” said Mr. Clover.</p> - -<p>“If any of you young people followed the accounts -of the recent Egyptian excavations—Valeria, I think -you are our keenest antiquarian—were you not struck -by the extraordinary confirmation of Scripture narrative -afforded by each fresh discovery?”</p> - -<p>This time Mr. Clover only said “Indeed?” and Valeria -repeated:</p> - -<p>“Yes, it all carried out the things one reads in the -Bible, didn’t it?”</p> - -<p>“We required no such confirmation, certainly, but -it comes to one as a fresh joy, and brings these things -home with full force.”</p> - -<p>And Mr. Clover, with what Quentillian perversely -chose to regard as misplaced ingenuity, once more -found a variation of his formula, and remarked, “Indeed, -yes.”</p> - -<p>On these lines they talked about Egypt.</p> - -<p>Then they talked about Rome again.</p> - -<p>Then they went back to Egypt.</p> - -<p>Quentillian looked at the rebellious profile beneath -Val’s shady hat, and came to the conclusion that, -whether she fully realized it or not, she was as profoundly -bored as himself.</p> - -<p>It was Captain Cuscaden who released them from -the strain, by rising to take his leave.</p> - -<p>“I’m sorry you have not seen Adrian. He will be -disappointed to have missed you,” Canon Morchard -said courteously. “Another day, when Adrian is at -home, you must come over again. He is spending the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">[37]</span> -afternoon with friends at a distance, and will hardly -be home before dinner-time. You must come over -again.”</p> - -<p>“Thank you, sir. I should like to very much.”</p> - -<p>Something in the Captain’s prompt reply convinced -Quentillian that his acceptance was not merely a conventional -one.</p> - -<p>“Your motor-bicycle is round by the hall door,” said -Valeria, and she and Captain Cuscaden left the garden -together.</p> - -<p>“And now, dear lad, you and I must have some talk -together.”</p> - -<p>Rather to Quentillian’s dismay, the firm and genial -pronouncement of his host seemed to have been anticipated. -Lucilla could be discerned bending over the -distant flower-bed which had been the object of her -solicitation during the talk about Rome, and Flora had -disappeared. Mr. Clover now turned and hastened -towards the house.</p> - -<p>“You and I have had our heart-to-heart talks before -now, Owen,” said the Canon affectionately. “We must -have many more of them, dear fellow—many more.”</p> - - -<h3>(iii)</h3> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> natural instinct of Quentillian, as of everybody -else, was to suppose that a heart-to-heart talk must -necessarily be upon the subject of himself.</p> - -<p>He was therefore slightly disconcerted, though also -undoubtedly relieved, when he perceived that the -Canon’s thoughts were only preoccupied with his own -two sons.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">[38]</span>They disposed of David with a rapidity that was -partly due to Quentillian’s own determined uncommunicativeness, -and partly to the Canon’s evident anxiety -to get on to the topic of Adrian.</p> - -<p>“I wish David had been able to come home before -returning to India, but no doubt these things are ordered -for us. He writes fondly and affectionately, -dear boy—fondly and affectionately. Not as often as -I could wish, perhaps, but the young are thoughtless. -It costs so little to send one line to those who are -anxiously waiting and watching at home! Well, well—it -has been a great joy to hear that the dear fellow -is his own bright self. And his faith, Owen? Is all -well there? Did he say anything to you of that?”</p> - -<p>“No, sir.”</p> - -<p>The Canon sighed.</p> - -<p>“Perhaps it was not to be expected. You of the -present generation do not discuss these things as we -did. Even at Oxford, I am told, the men no longer -preoccupy themselves with such questions in the same -way.”</p> - -<p>“Some do, sir,” said Quentillian, beginning to feel -rather sorry for the Canon.</p> - -<p>The Canon, however, received Quentillian’s consolatory -effort very much at its true worth.</p> - -<p>“Some do, perhaps, as you say, but they are not -those from whom any very valuable contribution to the -problems of the times is to be expected. The tone -of Oxford is not what it was, Owen—not what it was. -It lessens my disappointment at not sending Adrian -there, to find an Alma Mater indeed, as his father -before him. One had always thought of the Church<span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">[39]</span> -for him, dear boy, but these things cannot be forced. -His soldiering seems to have put an end to any leanings -that way. Adrian is one reason, amongst many others, -why I am glad to welcome you amongst us, Owen. He -may find it easier to discuss things with a contemporary,” -said the Canon wistfully. “Your own destiny, -I imagine, is sealed?”</p> - -<p>Quentillian assented, although he had thought of the -very small property recently inherited by himself in no -such grandiloquent terms.</p> - -<p>“When do you take possession of your kingdom?”</p> - -<p>“In a few months, sir. The place was let during my -uncle’s lifetime, and there are repairs to be done before -I go there. I intend to live there, and try my hand -at farming.”</p> - -<p>He purposely omitted any mention of his writing.</p> - -<p>“Good—good—excellent indeed. And we shall not -be very distant neighbours, eh?”</p> - -<p>“Just the other side of the county, sir. I should -like to go over there from here, if you’re kind enough -to put up with me for two or three days.”</p> - -<p>“By all means, of course—but let there be no talk -of two or three days, Owen, between you and me. -Make this your headquarters; come and go quite freely, -as one of ourselves. We have always thought of you -as one of ourselves,” said the Canon warmly. “I -think you have no very close ties, this side of the -Great Division?”</p> - -<p>“Thank you very much indeed,” said Quentillian, -feeling unable to accept the Great Division even by -implication, but sincerely grateful for the Canon’s most -genuine and spontaneous kindness.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">[40]</span>“It’s more than good of you to receive me so kindly, -and I shall be only too glad to take you at your word.”</p> - -<p>He wished that his self-consciousness had allowed -him to make this speech without a perfectly clear realization -that he only did so because the normal economy -of expression habitual to him would have left the elder -man dissatisfied.</p> - -<p>As it was, the Canon’s arm was, for the second time -that day, affectionately laid across Quentillian’s shoulders, -and thus they paced the garden and eventually -entered the house, to the extreme relief of the Canon’s -unresponsive prop.</p> - -<p>“Your room, dear Owen. Lucilla is my housekeeper. -Ask her for anything you want,” said the Canon, carrying -Quentillian back to his ninth year, and almost -making him expect to hear next that Valeria was the -Canon’s tomboy.</p> - -<p>No such inapposite piece of information followed, -and Quentillian expressed his pleasure at the very -charming room in which he found himself.</p> - -<p>“Make it your own, dear lad, for as long as you -will,” and, as though irrepressibly, the Canon added as -he closed the door: “Bless you.”</p> - -<p>At dinner, Quentillian saw Adrian Morchard. He -thought him very like his sister Val, and also very like -the little boy who had rehearsed aloud colours for each -day of the week.</p> - -<p>Adrian spoke of Quentillian’s writings, said that he -had read some of them, and was instantly and silently -disbelieved by the author. The subject was not pursued.</p> - -<p>In the drawing-room, later on in the evening, Flora<span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">[41]</span> -played the piano, and although Quentillian was no -musician, he had sufficient knowledge to understand -that Flora was one. She played Bach, at the Canon’s -request, and Debussy at Adrian’s. The Canon admitted, -with a slight, grave smile, that he did not admire -Debussy.</p> - -<p>Valeria occupied herself with needlework, but Lucilla -sat with her hands folded until her father said -gently:</p> - -<p>“Are we to see none of your great tomes tonight, -my dear?”</p> - -<p>Lucilla rose, and her father explained to the guest:</p> - -<p>“There are certain references for a small compilation -that I may one day attempt, which Lucilla is kindly -looking out for me. You remember her as a very -scholarly little girl, no doubt.”</p> - -<p>The nearest thing Quentillian could compass to this -was a very distinct remembrance of having listened to -several of the novels of Sir Walter Scott, read aloud -by Lucilla, and the Canon looked very much pleased -at the reminiscence.</p> - -<p>“We are not without our literary evenings now,” -he declared. “There have been some very pleasant -readings and discussions round the lamp on winter -evenings. Lucilla provides me with some absorbing -book, and Valeria has her strip of embroidery there, -and Flora is busy with her pencil. I enjoy a pleasant -evening of reading aloud.”</p> - -<p>The present occasion was not, however, one of reading -aloud; nevertheless, Quentillian had none of the -talk with Valeria that he had half-hoped to have.</p> - -<p>The Canon’s attitude towards his family circle was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">[42]</span> -patriarchal. He sat in an armchair and talked a great -deal to Quentillian, and his eyes rested with grave satisfaction -upon his children, grouped round him.</p> - -<p>They remained there until half-past nine, when the -Canon read prayers to the assembled household.</p> - -<p>“We break up early,” he said afterwards to Quentillian. -“Lucilla and I have work to do—she is always -my right hand. Valeria and Flora, I believe, discuss -mysterious questions of <i>chiffons</i> upstairs. Don’t prolong -the conference too late, though, my dears. I -heard voices last night as I came upstairs, which was -not as it should be—not as it should be. Owen, dear -boy, Adrian will look after you. Good-night to you -all.”</p> - -<p>The Canon kissed Val and Flora each on the forehead -and laid his hand for an instant upon either head -with a murmur that was evidently an habitual nightly -blessing.</p> - -<p>Then he went into his study with Lucilla, and Adrian -and Quentillian sat in the smoking-room making desultory -conversation that bore not the slightest resemblance -to the wise, deep talks of the Canon’s forecastings.</p> - -<p>The forecastings of the Canon, in fact, like those -of many other dominating personalities, were scrupulously -carried out in his presence, and thankfully allowed -to lapse in his absence.</p> - -<p>As of old, it was only Lucilla who was completely -at ease in her father’s company, and Quentillian presently -came to the conclusion that her silence, her unemotional -acquiescences, denoted a mind that was -merely a reflection of his.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">[43]</span>Flora, remote, gentle, preoccupied with her music, -gave him the odd illusion of being slightly withdrawn -from them all.</p> - -<p>Only in Valeria were to be discerned suppressed, but -unmistakable, flashes of rebellion, and with Valeria, -Quentillian, as usual scrutinizing his own impressions -under a microscope, presently suspected himself of falling -quietly in love.</p> - -<p>In common with most young men of his day, Quentillian -considered himself to have outlived passion. In -effect, the absorbing episode of his young manhood was -in fact over, and Val, ingenuous and beautiful, was -provocative of the normal reaction.</p> - -<p>One night she joined Adrian and Quentillian in the -smoking-room, after the Canon’s usual disappearance -into his study.</p> - -<p>With a look half-frightened and half-mischievous, -she lit a cigarette.</p> - -<p>Adrian laughed.</p> - -<p>“Don’t look so guilty, Val. It isn’t a crime, and -besides, no one will know.”</p> - -<p>Val coloured in a childish way, and said to Quentillian:</p> - -<p>“My father knows that I smoke—at least, I think -he knows, in a sort of way. He doesn’t like it, and -that’s why I don’t do it in front of him,” she concluded -naïvely.</p> - -<p>“You’re wrong, Val,” said Adrian. “You and -Flossie ought to assert yourselves more. It would -make it much easier for me, if you did. Father’s ideas -about women are so old-fashioned, one can’t introduce -him to any of one’s friends.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">[44]</span>Quentillian exchanged a glance with Valeria. It -required small acumen to translate the plurality of -Adrian’s “friends” into the singular, and the feminine -singular at that.</p> - -<p>“Father is very broad-minded,” said Valeria conscientiously. -“He never says that smoking is wrong; -only that it’s unfeminine.”</p> - -<p>“It isn’t anything of the sort,” Adrian declared with -the most astonishing violence. “Some people—girls—require -it for their nerves. It soothes them. It doesn’t -make them in the least unfeminine. I met a girl the -other day—you’d have liked her awfully, Val—and she -simply smoked <i>perfectly</i> naturally, the whole time, just -like a man.”</p> - -<p>“Who was she?” inquired Val smoothly.</p> - -<p>“Let me see—what was her name now?”</p> - -<p>This time Quentillian avoided Valeria’s eyes, positively -abashed by the extreme hollowness of Adrian’s -pretence at forgetfulness.</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes—Olga Duffle—Miss Olga Duffle. She is -staying with the Admastons—the people I was with -the day you arrived, Owen. Don’t you think you girls -might ask them all over to tennis, one of these days?”</p> - -<p>“I suppose so—yes, of course we will. Would -Father like Miss Duffle? He doesn’t much care for -the Admastons, does he?”</p> - -<p>“Absolute prejudice, my dear girl. You’ve got into -a rut, all you people down here—that’s what you’ve -done. You’d like Olga most awfully—everybody does. -She’s the most popular girl in London, and not a bit -spoilt, although she’s an only child and her people<span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">[45]</span> -adore her. Mrs. Duffle told me herself that Olga was -just like a ray of sunshine at home.”</p> - -<p>“What an original woman Mrs. Duffle must be,” -murmured Val.</p> - -<p>“I always think there must be something remarkable -about any girl, if her own nearest relations speak well -of her,” Quentillian said in detached accents.</p> - -<p>Adrian looked suspiciously at his audience.</p> - -<p>“You’d like Olga awfully,” he repeated rather pathetically. -“And I can tell you this, Val, she’d give -you and Flossie no end of hints about clothes and -things. She dresses better than any girl I’ve ever seen.”</p> - -<p>Valeria was roused to no display of enthusiasm by -this culminating claim of Miss Duffle on her regard.</p> - -<p>“What sort of age is she?”</p> - -<p>“She looks about eighteen, but I believe she’s -twenty-four and a bit,” said Adrian with some precision. -“She plays tennis, too, rippingly. You’d better -ask the Admastons to bring her over, I can tell you. -It isn’t everyone who gets the chance of playing with -a girl like that.”</p> - -<p>“We might have a tennis party next week,” Val considered. -“I shall only ask one Admaston girl; we’ve -too many girls as it is. One Admaston, and this Olga -person, and Lucilla and I—Flossie won’t play if anybody -very good is there. That’s four, and then you -and Owen and Mr. Clover—and we could have Captain -Cuscaden. I’ll talk to Lucilla about it, if you like, -Adrian.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I don’t care about it. It’s for your own sake, -really, that I suggested it,” Adrian explained.</p> - -<p>His forefinger carefully traced out the pattern<span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">[46]</span> -stamped upon the leather arm of his chair, and he -contemplated it earnestly with his head upon one side, -even murmuring a sub-audible—“One—two—three—and -a corner”—before clearing his throat.</p> - -<p>“H’m. No, my dear Val, don’t run away with the -idea that I’m wildly keen on this tennis stunt for my -own amusement. In fact, I may say I’ve been a bit -off tennis lately, simply from seeing how extraordinarily -good some amateurs can be. It discourages one, -in a way. But I thought you girls might like to know -Olga, I must say. She’d be an awfully nice friend -for you to have, you know.”</p> - -<p>There was a pleading note discernible in the tone of -Adrian’s philanthropic suggestions that might have -been partly accountable for the tolerance with which -his sister received them.</p> - -<p>Nevertheless, she said to Quentillian next day, with -a certain hint of apology:</p> - -<p>“We’ve spoilt Adrian, I’m afraid. You remember -what a dear little boy he was?”</p> - -<p>Quentillian remembered better still what a tiresome -little boy Adrian had been, but this recollection, as so -many others connected with the house of Morchard, -he did not insist upon.</p> - -<p>“I suppose he must have his Olga if he wants to, -but I hope she’s a nice girl. You know how very -particular Father is, and I think he’s especially sensitive -where Adrian is concerned.”</p> - -<p>“It struck me that perhaps he was almost inclined -to take Adrian’s affairs too seriously,” Quentillian suggested, -with great moderation. “Adrian, after all, is<span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">[47]</span> -very young, isn’t he, both in years and in character, -in spite of his soldiering?”</p> - -<p>“I suppose he is. He’s very susceptible, too. I -sometimes think that Father doesn’t altogether make -allowance for that.”</p> - -<p>Even the very negative criticism implied was so contrary -to the spirit of the house that it gave Quentillian -the agreeable illusion of partnering Valeria in a mild -domestic conspiracy, and pleased him inordinately.</p> - -<p>The sense of conspiracy was deepened on the day of -the tennis party, when a Miss Admaston, gawky and -unimpressive, duly escorted Miss Olga Duffle to St. -Gwenllian.</p> - -<p>She was less pretty, and possessed of more personality, -than Quentillian had expected. Very small and -slight, her face was of the squirrel type, her eyes very -large and dark, her black <i>crêpe</i> hair brushed childishly -away from her little round forehead, her nose unmistakably -<i>retroussé</i>. Two very white front teeth were -just visible, resting upon an habitually indrawn under-lip.</p> - -<p>Quentillian, quite irrationally, immediately felt certain -that she spoke with a lisp. She did not, but she -certainly pronounced the name of Captain George Cuscaden, -with whom she appeared to be upon intimate -terms, as though it were spelt “Dzorze.”</p> - -<p>She also called Adrian by his first name, but gave -no other startling signs of modernity. Indeed, a very -pretty, and most unmodern, deference marked her -manner towards Canon Morchard.</p> - -<p>“Father likes her,” Valeria murmured to Quentillian, -who was more concerned with her charming<span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">[48]</span> -air of imparting to him a secret than with Miss Duffle’s -conquest of the Canon.</p> - -<p>It was only at tea-time that the Canon joined the -tennis party. Immediately afterwards he made courteous -apologies and returned to the house.</p> - -<p>It was undeniable that the absence of the Canon -caused the conversation, which had circled uneasily -round cathedral subjects, to lapse into triviality. The -super-critical Quentillian could not decide which form -of social intercourse he found least to his taste.</p> - -<p>“Jam?” said Adrian.</p> - -<p>The Canon had said, a few minutes earlier:</p> - -<p>“You must try some of our strawberry jam, Miss -Duffle. My daughter Flora is responsible for it, I -believe. Lucilla there is our housekeeper, but I am -given to understand that her younger sisters are allowed -to try experiments. I will not quote: <i>Fiat -experimentum.</i>”</p> - -<p>“Jam?” repeated Adrian.</p> - -<p>“Oh, there’s a wasp in the jam! Oh, save me!”</p> - -<p>Olga laughed as she uttered little cries of alarm, and -her laughter really suggested the adjective “merry.”</p> - -<p>“Save the women and children!”</p> - -<p>There was much ineffectual slapping of teaspoons -against the air, the tablecloth, the jam pot, and many -exclamations.</p> - -<p>“Yonder he goes! Passed to you for necessary action, -Miss Admaston!”</p> - -<p>“Be a man, Cuscaden; he’s right under your nose.”</p> - -<p>“Dzorze, do be careful—you’ll get stung!” Olga -cried across the table.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">[49]</span>Captain Cuscaden neatly captured the wasp beneath -an empty plate.</p> - -<p>“That’s got him. He’ll never lift up his head again.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, then may I have my jam?”</p> - -<p>Olga, with her head on one side, might have been -imitating a little girl, but Quentillian could not decide -whether or no the imitation was an unconscious one.</p> - -<p>“The wasp has eaten all the jam,” Adrian rejoined -in the same tone as Olga’s.</p> - -<p>“Oh! he hasn’t eaten all of it.”</p> - -<p>“No, he hasn’t eaten it all.”</p> - -<p>“Oh! the wasp didn’t eat all the jam, did he?”</p> - -<p>“Not quite all.”</p> - -<p>“There are still a few spoonfuls left that the wasp -didn’t eat, Miss Duffle.”</p> - -<p>Neither Olga, Adrian, Captain Cuscaden, Flora nor -Miss Admaston appeared to regard themselves as being -amongst the extremest examples of brainless fatuity -produced by a fatuous century. Yet thus it was that -Owen Quentillian was regarding them, whilst at the -same time another section of his brain passionlessly -registered the conviction that his nerves were still on -edge and his tendency to irrational irritability passing -almost beyond his own control.</p> - -<p>After tea he remained idly in a long chair beside -Valeria, while they watched Olga’s little nimble figure -on the tennis court, where Adrian was her partner. -Lucilla played against them with George Cuscaden, and -Olga several times called out gaily: “Dzorze, I hate -you!”</p> - -<p>When Lucilla sent an unplayable stroke across the -net, she only cried: “Oh, well played!”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">[50]</span>“I don’t like her voice, do you?” Val murmured -confidentially.</p> - -<p>“Hideous,” said Quentillian, briefly and candidly.</p> - -<p>“I wonder if Adrian thinks he’s in earnest. Of -course, I don’t suppose she’d look at him. And of -course he couldn’t think of marrying anybody for ages. -He’s too young, and he’d have to get a job.”</p> - -<p>“He’ll have to do that anyway, won’t he? He says -he doesn’t dislike the idea of business, and I could give -him an introduction to a man who might be useful.”</p> - -<p>“It’s very kind of you. I know Father wants to get -him settled. Dear Father, he was so disappointed that -Adrian isn’t going into the Church after all, and he’s -taken it so beautifully.”</p> - -<p>Quentillian regarded the Canon’s disappointment -with so much more astonishment than sympathy that -he wished only to avoid a discussion on the beauty of -its manifestation.</p> - -<p>“Curiously enough, I have a living in my gift, belonging -to my very small property at Stear. The old -man there wishes to retire, and I want to consult your -father as to a new appointment. No one could be less -fitted than myself,” said Quentillian with an emphasis -not altogether devoid of satisfaction, “to nominate a -candidate for that sort of thing.”</p> - -<p>Val looked at him with all her peculiar directness -of gaze.</p> - -<p>“Sometimes you talk as though you rather despised -the Church,” she said bluntly.</p> - -<p>There was a pause.</p> - -<p>“If I have given you such an impression, I must<span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">[51]</span> -apologize. It was most discourteous of me,” said -Quentillian stiffly.</p> - -<p>He was fully prepared to acknowledge and to defend -his own purely rationalistic views, but the implication -of a lack of taste in his behaviour as guest in an orthodox -household offended him.</p> - -<p>“I didn’t mean that,” said Val, calmly and gravely. -“I know that a great many very clever people are not -believers in the sense that my father is one, for instance; -but they do respect the Christian ideal, all the -same. I only wondered whether you were one of them. -Do you mind my talking like this?”</p> - -<p>The relentless voice of Quentillian’s inner monitor -assured him that he was, on the contrary, ready to -welcome any intimate discussion of himself and his -views, on whatever subject.</p> - -<p>Val looked at him expectantly.</p> - -<p>“Where I differ from, for instance, your father, is -in separating Christian morality from what might be -called the miraculous element of Christianity. Frankly, -I can’t accept the latter.”</p> - -<p>“You don’t believe in the divinity of Christ?”</p> - -<p>Her voice was a very much shocked one, and Quentillian -replied only by a gesture. Val kept silence, and -presently he glanced at her face and saw that tears -stood in her eyes.</p> - -<p>He was half touched and half impatient.</p> - -<p>“Surely that point of view isn’t altogether a new -one to you. You must know that the trend of modern -thought is all very much in that direction.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose I knew it, certainly. But it has never<span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">[52]</span> -come very near me before. Father has sheltered us -from everything, in the most beautiful way.”</p> - -<p>She spoke very simply and sincerely.</p> - -<p>The time-honoured <i>cliché</i> as to never wishing to deprive -anyone of his or her faith—Valeria least of all—hung -unspoken on his lips.</p> - -<p>If the spiritual intimacy of which Owen Quentillian -was beginning to dream should come to pass between -them, he was quite clearly and definitely convinced that -Valeria’s early beliefs must go.</p> - -<p>“Have you really never felt any doubt at all—any -inclination to question?”</p> - -<p>Valeria looked troubled.</p> - -<p>“I suppose I’ve never thought it out very clearly. -One doesn’t, you know, brought up as we were.”</p> - -<p>Her eyes were full of thought.</p> - -<p>“Tell me,” said Quentillian gently, after a silence.</p> - -<p>“I was hoping,” said Val, with innocent eyes turned -full upon him, “that Father would never know about -you. It would make him so unhappy.”</p> - - -<h3>(iv)</h3> - -<p><span class="smcap">Val</span>, in accordance with time-honoured tradition, -nightly brushed out her long brown hair in her sister -Flora’s bedroom.</p> - -<p>They talked desultorily.</p> - -<p>“Choir practice tomorrow. I wish we could have -Plain Chant instead of those things....”</p> - -<p>“Father doesn’t care for Plain Chant.”</p> - -<p>“I know.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">[53]</span>“Give me a piece of ribbon, Flossie. I’ve lost all -mine.”</p> - -<p>“Val—here, will blue do?—Val, do you think Owen -is falling in love with you?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know. Well, to be honest, I think he is.”</p> - -<p>“So do I.”</p> - -<p>“That’s Lucilla going up to bed. How early they -are tonight.”</p> - -<p>They heard the Canon’s voice upon the stairs outside.</p> - -<p>“Good-night to you, my dear daughter. May God -have you in His keeping!”</p> - -<p>Then came a gentle tap upon the bedroom door.</p> - -<p>“Not <i>too</i> prolonged a conference, little girls! I -have sent Lucilla to seek her bed.”</p> - -<p>“Good-night, father,” they chorused.</p> - -<p>“Good-night to you, my dear children. Good-night, -and may God bless you.”</p> - -<p>“Father would be pleased.”</p> - -<p>Flora reverted, unmistakably, to the topic of Owen -Quentillian.</p> - -<p>“I suppose so,” said Val doubtfully.</p> - -<p>“But you know he would! He is delighted with -Owen, and it would be so close to us—only an hour’s -journey. I think it would be very nice, Val,” said -Flora wistfully, “and it’s time one of us got married. -Lucilla won’t, now, and nobody ever asks me, so it had -better be you.”</p> - -<p>They both laughed.</p> - -<p>“Nobody has ever asked <i>me</i>, except that curate we -had before Mr. Clover, and I always thought he was -more or less weak-minded,” Valeria remarked candidly.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">[54]</span>“They may not have asked you, but they’ve wanted -to,” said Flora shrewdly. “Don’t answer if you’d -rather not, but didn’t Captain Cuscaden ever...?”</p> - -<p>Val crimsoned suddenly.</p> - -<p>“No. That was all nonsense. I believe he’s in love -with that Olga girl.”</p> - -<p>“After you? Oh, Val!”</p> - -<p>“I don’t suppose it was ever me at all,” said Val -with averted head. “I can’t think why we’ve ever -imagined such nonsense. Anyway, it’s all over now, -and I—I think I rather hate him, now.”</p> - -<p>“Oh!” Flora’s tone was both highly dissatisfied and -rather incredulous.</p> - -<p>“One can’t hate a person and—and like them, at -one and the same time,” Valeria exclaimed, with all -the vehemence of those who affirm that of which they -are not convinced.</p> - -<p>“I suppose not. See if you can untie me, Val—I’ve -got into a knot.”</p> - -<p>There was silence, and then Valeria, without looking -at her sister, suddenly said:</p> - -<p>“Sometimes I wish we’d been brought up more like -other people, Flossie. I know Father’s care for us has -been beautiful—dear Father!—but somehow the girls -I was with in France seemed more alive, in a way. -They knew about things....”</p> - -<p>“Isn’t that rather like Eve wanting the knowledge -of good and evil? Father always says that one should -only seek the beautiful side—‘whatsoever things are -pure, whatsoever things are holy,’ like St. Paul says.”</p> - -<p>“Owen wouldn’t agree to that. He believes that one -ought to know everything, good and bad alike.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">[55]</span>“Perhaps it’s different for a man.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps. We don’t know much about men, after -all, do we, Flossie?”</p> - -<p>Flossie raised her eyebrows with an indescribable -effect of fastidious distaste, and closed her lips.</p> - -<p>“I don’t think I want to, particularly. Father is the -most wonderful man that anyone could ever want to -know, I should imagine.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes,” said Valeria.</p> - -<p>She was perfectly conscious of speaking anything -but whole-heartedly.</p> - -<p>She did indeed think her father wonderful, but she -could not, like Flora, feel herself to be forever satisfied -by the contemplation of parental wonderfulness.</p> - -<p>“You’re different since you came back from France, -Val. I think you’d better marry Owen,” said Flora -calmly.</p> - -<p>“He hasn’t asked me, yet.”</p> - -<p>There was a sound from the floor below.</p> - -<p>“That was Father! He hates us to sit up late. I’d -better go before he comes up again. Good-night, -Flossie.”</p> - -<p>“Good-night.”</p> - -<p>Flora looked at her sister, and once more murmured: -“Father would like it, you know,” half pleadingly and -half as though in rebuke.</p> - -<p>“Father doesn’t know everything about Owen. He -has been very much affected by the tone of the day, -as Father calls it. His faith....”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Val! Isn’t that one reason the more? You -might do so much to help him.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">[56]</span>Flora spoke with humourless and absolute earnestness.</p> - -<p>“Valeria!”</p> - -<p>The Canon’s voice, subdued but distinct, came to -them from without.</p> - -<p>“My dear, go to your room. This is not right. You -are acting in defiance of my known wishes, although, -no doubt, thoughtlessly. Bid your sister good-night -and go.”</p> - -<p>Val did not even wait to carry out the first half of -the Canon’s injunction. She caught up her brush and -comb and left the room.</p> - -<p>“Are my wishes so little to you, Valeria?” said her -father, standing on the stairs. “It costs so small an -act of self-sacrifice to be faithful in that which is -least!”</p> - -<p>“I’m sorry, Father. We both forgot the time.”</p> - -<p>“Thoughtless Valeria! Are you always to be my -madcap daughter?”</p> - -<p>His tone was very fond, and he kissed her and -blessed her once more.</p> - -<p>Valeria went to her own room.</p> - -<p>She sat upon the side of her bed and cried a little.</p> - -<p>Everything seemed to be vaguely disappointing and -unsatisfactory. What if Owen Quentillian was in love -with her? He was very clever, and Val was tired of -cleverness. Father was clever—even Flora, in her -austere, musical way, was clever. Val supposed grimly -that she herself must be clever, if imposed intellectual -interests, a wide range of reading, a habit of abstract -discussion, could make her so. Nevertheless she was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">[57]</span> -guiltily conscious of desires within herself other than -purely academic ones.</p> - -<p>Flora was right. Those six months in France had -made her different.</p> - -<p>She had worked in a canteen, where the preoccupation -of everyone had been the procuring and dispensing -of primitive things—food, and drink, and warmth. -Women had worked with their hands for men who -had been fighting, and were going to fight again.</p> - -<p>Valeria had been the quickest worker there, one of -the most efficient. The manual work, the close contact -with material things, had satisfied some craving within -herself of which she had not before been actively conscious.</p> - -<p>She had learnt to cook and had become proficient -with astonishing ease. Scrambled eggs interested her -more than herbaceous borders, more than choir practises, -more, to her own surprise and shame, than evening -readings-aloud at home.</p> - -<p>The canteen jokes, elementary, beer-and-tobacco-flavoured, -had amused her whole-heartedly. She had -laughed, foolishly and mirthfully, for sheer enjoyment, -knowing all the time that, judged by the criterion of -St. Gwenllian, the jests were pointless, the wit undeserving -of the name.</p> - -<p>Very soon she had ceased to dwell upon any remembrance -of the criterion of St. Gwenllian. She had let -herself go.</p> - -<p>There had been brief, giggling intimacies with girls -and young women whom Valeria could certainly not -visualize as intimates in her own home, allusions and -catchwords shared with the men or the orderlies, childish,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">[58]</span> -undignified escapades which she was aware that -the Canon would have regarded and apostrophised as -vulgar. Those days now seemed like a dream.</p> - -<p>Even the girl with whom she had shared a room -for six months no longer wrote to her.</p> - -<p>She, the bobbed-haired, twenty-two-year-old Pollie -Gordon, had had love-affairs. Valeria remembered -certain confidences made by Pollie, and still blushed. -Pollie had been strangely outspoken, to Miss Morchard’s -way of thinking, but she had been interesting—revealing -even.</p> - -<p>Valeria ruefully realized perfectly that Pollie Gordon, -whether one’s taste approved of her or not, had -lived every moment of her short life to the full. She -was acutely aware of contrast.</p> - -<p>“And I’m twenty-seven!” thought Val. “I’d better -go and be a cook somewhere. If only I could! Or -marry Owen—supposing he asks me. Anyway, one -might have children.”</p> - -<p>A humourous wonder crossed her mind as to her -ability to cope with the intelligent, eclectically-minded -children that Owen Quentillian might be expected to -father.</p> - -<p>“It’s a pity he isn’t poor. I believe I should be better -as a poor man’s wife, having to do everything for him, -and for the babies, if there were babies.... The -Colonies, for instance....”</p> - -<p>Although she was alone, Val coloured again and -tears stood in her eyes.</p> - -<p>“What a fool I am!”</p> - -<p>It was this painfully sincere conviction that sent her -to seek the oblivion of sleep, rather than any recollection<span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">[59]</span> -of the fidelity in that which is least, enjoined upon -her by her father.</p> - -<p>For the next few days Valeria was zealous in gardening -and tennis playing. She also, on two occasions, -fetched volumes of Lamartine and asked her father to -read aloud after dinner.</p> - -<p>Her physical exertions sent her to bed tired out, and -made her sleep soundly.</p> - -<p>It surprised her very much when Lucilla, who never -made personal remarks, said to her:</p> - -<p>“Why don’t you go away for a time, Val? You -don’t look well.”</p> - -<p>“I’m perfectly all right. I only wish I had rather -more to do, sometimes.”</p> - -<p>Valeria looked at her elder sister. She was less intimate -with her than with Flora. No one, in fact, was -intimate with Lucilla. She spoke seldom, and almost -always impersonally. At least, one knew that she -was discreet....</p> - -<p>Val, on impulse, spoke.</p> - -<p>“Do you suppose—don’t be horrified, Lucilla—do -you suppose Father would ever think of letting me go -away and work?”</p> - -<p>Lucilla gave no sign of being horrified.</p> - -<p>She appeared to weigh her answer before she replied.</p> - -<p>“I don’t think it would occur to him, of his own -accord.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no. But if one asked him? Would it make -him dreadfully unhappy?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Lucilla matter-of-factly.</p> - -<p>Valeria, disappointed and rather angry, shrugged -her shoulders.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">[60]</span>“Then, of course, that puts an end to the whole -thing.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla finished stamping a small pile of the Canon’s -letters, laid them on the table, and placed a paper-weight -upon the heap before turning round to face her -sister.</p> - -<p>“But why, Val?”</p> - -<p>“Why what?”</p> - -<p>“Why need it put an end to the whole thing? You -know as well as I do that it would make Father unhappy -for any one of us to suggest leaving home. But -if you really mean to do it, you must make up your -mind to his being unhappy about it.”</p> - -<p>“Lucilla!”</p> - -<p>Lucilla did not elaborate her astounding theses, but -her gaze, sustained and level, met Valeria’s astonished -eyes calmly.</p> - -<p>“You don’t suppose I’m as hideously selfish as that, -do you?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know what you are. But you’ve a right to -your own life.”</p> - -<p>“Not at anyone else’s expense.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla began to stamp postcards.</p> - -<p>“Lucilla, you didn’t mean that, did you?”</p> - -<p>“Of course I did, Val.”</p> - -<p>“That I should hurt <i>Father</i>, and go away just to -satisfy my own restlessness, knowing that he disapproved -and was unhappy? I should never know a -moment’s peace again.”</p> - -<p>“Well, if you feel like that, I suppose you won’t -do it.”</p> - -<p>“Wouldn’t you feel like that, in my place?”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">[61]</span>“No, I shouldn’t; but that’s neither here nor there. -It’s for you to decide whether a practical consideration -or a sentimental one weighs most in your own particular -case.”</p> - -<p>“Sentimental?”</p> - -<p>Val’s indignant tone gave the word its least agreeable -meaning.</p> - -<p>“It is a question of sentiment, isn’t it? Father likes -to have you at home, but he’s not dependent upon you -in any way.”</p> - -<p>“But wouldn’t he say that my place was at home—that -it was only restlessness and love of independence...?” -Valeria stammered.</p> - -<p>She suddenly felt very young beneath the remote, -passionless gaze of her sister. For the first time in -her life she saw Lucilla as a human being and not as -an elder sister, and she was struck with Lucilla’s -strange effect of spiritual aloofness. It would be very -easy to speak freely to anyone so impersonal as Lucilla.</p> - -<p>“It’s ever since I got back from France,” said Val -suddenly. “I don’t know what’s the matter with me, -exactly, but I’ve ... wanted things. I’ve wanted -to work quite hard, at things like cooking, or sweeping—and -I’ve been sick of books, and music, and -botany. I don’t feel any of it is one scrap worth while. -And, oh, Lucilla, it’s such nonsense, because no one -wants me to cook or sweep, so I’m just ‘seeking vocations -to which I am not called,’ as Father always says. -Perhaps it’s just that I want change.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla was silent.</p> - -<p>“Do say what you think,” Val besought her with -some impatience.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">[62]</span>“I will if you like, but it isn’t really what I think, -or what Father thinks, that matters. It’s what you -think yourself.”</p> - -<p>Valeria stamped her foot.</p> - -<p>“I don’t <i>know</i> what I think.”</p> - -<p>“Better go away,” Lucilla then said briefly.</p> - -<p>“Work?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, if that’s what you feel like. Of course, marriage -would be better.”</p> - -<p>“Lucilla.”</p> - -<p>“You asked me to say what I thought,” her sister -pointed out.</p> - -<p>“I suppose you mean Owen Quentillian,” Val said -at last. “But even if I did that—and he hasn’t asked -me to, so far—it would only mean just the same sort -of thing, only in another house. There’d be servants -to do the real work, and a gardener to do the garden, -and a nurse for the babies, if there were babies. Owen -talks about farming Stear, but he’d do it all out of -books, I feel certain. We should be frightfully—frightfully -civilized.”</p> - -<p>“Owen <i>is</i> frightfully civilized.”</p> - -<p>“Well, I don’t think I am,” said Val contentiously.</p> - -<p>“Lucilla, do you like Owen?”</p> - -<p>“Yes. I’m very sorry for him, too.”</p> - -<p>“Why?” Valeria could not believe that Owen would -be in the least grateful for Lucilla’s sorrow. It might -even be difficult to induce him to believe that anyone -could be sufficiently officious to indulge in such an -emotion on his behalf.</p> - -<p>“I think his shell-shock has affected him much more -than he realizes,” Lucilla said. “I think his nerves are<span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">[63]</span> -on edge, very often. He’d be a difficult person to live -with, Val.”</p> - -<p>Valeria remained thoughtful.</p> - -<p>She knew that Lucilla’s judgments, if rarely put into -words, were extraordinarily clear-cut and definite, and -as such they carried conviction to her own intuitive, -emotional impulses of like and dislike.</p> - -<p>“Father likes Owen so much. Wouldn’t he be -pleased if one ever did?” Val said elliptically.</p> - -<p>“Very pleased, I should think.”</p> - -<p>“Of course, that isn’t really a reason for doing it.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla apparently found the wisdom of her sister’s -observation too obvious for reply.</p> - -<p>“Not the only reason, anyway.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla’s silence was again an assent.</p> - -<p>“Gossiping in the morning, my daughters?”</p> - -<p>The Canon’s deep, pleasant voice preceded him as -he paused outside the open window.</p> - -<p>“Is that as it should be? Lucilla, my dear love, at -your desk again? You look pale—you should be in -the open air. Is not the day a glorious one? When -this world about us is so unutterably fair, does it not -make one think of ‘eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, -neither hath it entered into the heart of man to conceive, -what things He hath prepared for them that -love him’?”</p> - -<p>The Canon’s uplifted gaze was as joyful as it was -earnest.</p> - -<p>“Heaven seems very near, on such a day,” he said -softly.</p> - -<p>Val, always outspoken, and struggling with the unease<span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">[64]</span> -of her own discontent, joined him at the window -and said wistfully:</p> - -<p>“I can’t feel it like you do, Father. I wish I could.”</p> - -<p>“Little Valeria! It will come, my dear; it will all -come. These things become more real and vivid to us -as life goes on. So many of those I love have gone -to swell the ranks of the Church Triumphant, now—such -a goodly company of friends! How can I feel it -to be a strange or far-away country, when your mother -awaits me there, and my own dear father and mother, -and such a host of friends? What a meeting that will -be, with no shadow of parting any more!”</p> - -<p>Valeria was conscious of foolish, utterly unexplained -tears, rising to her throat at the tender, trustful voice -in which her father spoke.</p> - -<p>How she loved him! Never could she do anything -that would hurt or disappoint him. The resolution, -impulsive and emotional, gave her a certain sense of -stability, welcome after all her chaotic self-questionings -and contradictory determinations.</p> - -<p>“Will you give Owen and myself the pleasure of -your company this afternoon, Valeria? We meditate -an expedition to Stear—an expedition to Stear.”</p> - -<p>She said that she would go with them.</p> - -<p>None of the Canon’s children had ever refused an -invitation to go out with the Canon since the days -when the Sunday afternoons of their childhood had -been marked by the recurrent honour of a walk with -Father. An honour and a pleasure, even if rather a -breathless one, and one that moreover was occasionally -liable to end in shattering disaster, as when Flora had -been sent home in disgrace by herself for the misguided<span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">[65]</span> -sense of humour that had led her, aged five, -to put out her tongue at the curate. Or that other -unforgettable episode when Val herself, teased by the -boys, had vigorously boxed Adrian’s ears.</p> - -<p>She smiled as she recollected it, and wondered if -Owen remembered too, and yet there was a sort of -disloyalty in recalling the affair too closely.</p> - -<p>The Canon had been so <i>very</i> angry! His anger, as -intense as it was memorable, had been succeeded by -such a prolonged period of the blackest depression!</p> - -<p>Val realized thankfully that it was a long time since -any of them had seen the Canon angry.</p> - -<p>She turned aimlessly down the garden.</p> - -<p>The Canon had already gone indoors. He was never -other than occupied, and Valeria had never seen him -impatient of an interruption.</p> - -<p>“The man who wants me is the man I want,” the -Canon sometimes quoted, with his wonderfully attractive -smile.</p> - -<p>“Father <i>is</i> wonderful. <i>Never</i> could I disappoint or -grieve him,” thought Val vehemently.</p> - -<p>She suddenly wheeled round and returned to the -open window, determined that Lucilla, the astonishing -Lucilla, should know of her resolution.</p> - -<p>“You know what we were talking about just now?” -she demanded abruptly.</p> - -<p>Lucilla looked up.</p> - -<p>“I’ve quite made up my mind that your advice was -wrong,” said Val firmly. “I know you said what you -thought was best, and it’s nice of you to want me to -be independent, but, after all, one’s duty comes first.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">[66]</span> -I don’t believe it’s my duty to dash away from home -and make Father unhappy.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla looked down again.</p> - -<p>“Of course, if anything happened <i>of itself</i> to make -me leave home, it would be quite different. If I married, -or anything like that. But just to go away for -a purely selfish whim——”</p> - -<p>She paused expressively.</p> - -<p>“I couldn’t do it, you know.”</p> - -<p>“Well—” Lucilla’s tone conceded, apparently, that -Val had every right to judge for herself. Further than -that, it did not go.</p> - -<p>“Lucilla, if you really think like that, about living -one’s own life, and I suppose from the aggravating -way in which you won’t say anything, that you do—why -don’t you do it yourself?”</p> - -<p>“But I haven’t any wish to,” said Lucilla, looking -surprised.</p> - -<p>“Haven’t you ever had any wish to?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, once. But not now.”</p> - -<p>“Then why didn’t you?” Val pursued desperately. -She felt as though she was coming really to know -her sister for the first time.</p> - -<p>“I suppose because I thought, like you, that it -wouldn’t do to leave Father.”</p> - -<p>“But you don’t think that any more?”</p> - -<p>“No.”</p> - -<p>“Did anyone advise you?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no. There wasn’t anything to advise about. -One has to think things out for oneself, after all.”</p> - -<p>“Oh!” Val was conscious of her own perpetual<span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">[67]</span> -craving for approval from everyone, for any course -that she might adopt.</p> - -<p>“Did you ever ask anyone’s advice, Lucilla?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t think so. If I did, it would be because I -meant to take it, and I can’t imagine wanting to let -anyone else decide things for me. Just talking about -one’s own affairs isn’t taking advice, though people -like to call it so.”</p> - -<p>“I think it’s a very good thing you’re not married,” -said Val crossly. “You’re too superior.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps that’s why no one has ever asked me,” -said Miss Morchard with calm.</p> - -<p>Valeria, in spite of her momentary elevation of -spirits in resolving never to grieve her father, prepared -for the visit to Stear in a discontented frame of mind.</p> - -<p>At the last moment Adrian suddenly announced a -wish to accompany them.</p> - -<p>“My dear! But of course—” The Canon’s pleasure -was very evident. “Owen, you will welcome this -lad of mine as part of our little excursion, eh? Why -not make one of the old-time family parties? Why -not let us all go and explore this future home of -Owen’s? It’s not very often that I have a free afternoon -nowadays—and to have all my dear ones to make -holiday with me would be indeed a rare joy.”</p> - -<p>He looked round him expectantly.</p> - -<p>“The caretaker won’t be able to manage tea for so -many,” said Lucilla, looking at Quentillian.</p> - -<p>“There speaks my practical housekeeper!</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="verse">For though on pleasure she was bent,</div> -<div class="verse">She had a frugal mind.</div> -</div></div> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">[68]</span>“Eh, Lucilla? Could you not contrive a basket for -us, my dear, picnic fashion? Come, come, let’s have -an impromptu picnic. What say you, young people?”</p> - -<p>They said what the Canon wanted them to say. No -one, Val felt, could have done otherwise, in the face -of his eagerness. She was partly disappointed, and -partly relieved. There had been a certain romance in -going with Owen to see Owen’s home, with the barely -acknowledged wonder whether it might not one day -also be hers.</p> - -<p>But there was no hint of romance in the solidly -packed basket presently produced by Lucilla, and reluctantly -carried by Adrian, nor in Flora’s tardiness -that nearly caused them to miss the train, nor in her -Father’s gentle, humourously worded rebuke to her.</p> - - -<h3>(v)</h3> - -<p><span class="smcap">If</span> Valeria was slightly discomposed by the tribal -nature of the expedition to Stear, Quentillian was seriously -annoyed by it. He had figured to himself a -grave and gentle readjustment of values, when he -should see the place that he had known since boyhood -transformed into a setting for the figure of Valeria.</p> - -<p>He did not suppose himself to be tempestuously in -love, but he had made up his mind that he greatly -wished to marry Valeria.</p> - -<p>A wistful uncertainty possessed him as to whether -Valeria would wish to marry him.</p> - -<p>Stear looked forlorn and uninhabited, and the repairs -were even less advanced than Quentillian had -expected them to be.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">[69]</span>He reflected that he ought to be upon the spot, and -shuddered involuntarily, and to his disgust, at the -lonely prospect.</p> - -<p>Since his shell-shock, he had very often been afraid -of his own company, and the knowledge was peculiarly -galling to him.</p> - -<p>“Your lines have fallen to you in pleasant places, -Owen,” said the Canon genially.</p> - -<p>“You are optimistic, sir,” said Quentillian rather -dryly. “It will be months before these men are out -of the place.”</p> - -<p>“You should move in yourself,” Lucilla suggested.</p> - -<p>“I believe I should.”</p> - -<p>“Thoughtless Lucilla! Why should Owen leave his -present quarters, if he is happy with us, as I trust he -is? Aye, dear Owen, you are very welcome at St. -Gwenllian whilst your own nest is being prepared -for you.”</p> - -<p>The Canon’s ready hand sought Quentillian’s arm.</p> - -<p>Owen glanced at Lucilla half apologetically, but her -gaze, impervious to subtleties, and mildly cheerful, met -his very readily.</p> - -<p>“Please stay on with us, if you should care to.”</p> - -<p>“Thank you,” said Quentillian non-committally.</p> - -<p>Later, at the Canon’s suggestion, he took them to -visit the church.</p> - -<p>“You will one day have the responsibility of finding -a new shepherd for the flock here, I understand, -Owen.”</p> - -<p>“I shall hope for some advice from you, sir.”</p> - -<p>“Aye, indeed? It’s a very good living, is it not?<span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">[70]</span> -Though that is very far from being the first consideration—very -far, indeed.”</p> - -<p>“What’s it worth?” Adrian inquired.</p> - -<p>“I believe it’s considered worth about £700 a year.”</p> - -<p>“A job for a married man,” said Adrian casually.</p> - -<p>An involuntary flash of amused comprehension -passed between Quentillian and Valeria. He understood -it to be in reference to this when she said to -him in a low voice on leaving the church:</p> - -<p>“I don’t think Olga Duffle would make a clergyman’s -wife, do you?”</p> - -<p>“I should doubt it.”</p> - -<p>“But Adrian couldn’t really be thinking of it.”</p> - -<p>“I thought he’d decided against the Church.”</p> - -<p>“So he has. I think it was one of the greatest disappointments -Father has ever had.”</p> - -<p>“Your father would only have wished it if Adrian -had wished it.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes,” said Val emphatically. “Naturally, he -looks upon it as a question of vocation. Father is the -last person to ignore that.”</p> - -<p>She hesitated, and then said: “Owen, do you believe -that everyone has a vocation?”</p> - -<p>The question, to him so oddly reminiscent of the -perplexities of a bygone age, nearly made him laugh, -but his amusement was wholly tender.</p> - -<p>“I don’t believe in a special vocation straight from -Heaven for each one of us,” he admitted. “You know, -I never can believe that Heaven takes that acute personal -interest in individuals that religious people always -emphasize when they’re talking about themselves. But, -of course, there are certain lines of development——”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">[71]</span>“I think,” Val said seriously, “that I should like to -feel I had a definite job in life, that no one but myself -could do. I feel so—indefinite.”</p> - -<p>“I believe I might enlighten you on that subject,” -Owen replied in measured accents.</p> - -<p>“I don’t mean Sales of Work or a botanical collection, -Owen.”</p> - -<p>“I know you don’t. The sales of work and the -collections were never a means of self-expression, were -they?”</p> - -<p>“They did stand for something, though.”</p> - -<p>“For your wish to please somebody else?”</p> - -<p>“The wish is still there, Owen.”</p> - -<p>“Val, you know I think self-abnegation is all wrong.”</p> - -<p>He was half laughing, but the flushed face that she -turned towards him was altogether earnest.</p> - -<p>“Don’t think me arrogant, Val, but I do so wish I -could make you see it as I do. Don’t you see that the -Christian ideal of self-sacrifice was only the swing -of the pendulum, from the brutal old days when men -rejoiced in seeing their fellow-creatures tortured and -killed? Feelings had to be developed, and so the -Sermon on the Mount was preached. The pendulum -has swung too far the other way now—charity has -come to mean self-advertisement or sentimentality.”</p> - -<p>Quentillian, deeply interested in his own exposition -of views that were by no means new to him, was -brought up short by a call from behind him.</p> - -<p>“Hi, Owen! Are you walking for a wager? I want -to ask you something.”</p> - -<p>Quentillian, not at all disposed to welcome Adrian<span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">[72]</span> -and his interrogations, was obliged to slacken his steps -as Valeria did hers.</p> - -<p>Adrian was swishing at the long grasses on either -side of the road with a slender length of ash.</p> - -<p>“Look here, old man, have you got anybody in your -eye for that living?”</p> - -<p>Adrian’s head was studiously turned towards his -depredations with the ash-stick.</p> - -<p>“Because if you haven’t—not that it matters to me, -particularly, you understand, but I’ve got a friend, -who might be the man you want.”</p> - -<p>“Who is he?”</p> - -<p>“I should have to sound him first,” Adrian explained. -“I suppose you’d want a youngish fellow and—and -I suppose you’d rather he was married?”</p> - -<p>“Not in the least.”</p> - -<p>Adrian looked disturbed.</p> - -<p>“I thought a parson’s wife was useful in a large, -straggling sort of place like this. Not that it matters -to me.”</p> - -<p>“Is your friend married, Adrian?” Val enquired.</p> - -<p>Quentillian could not decide whether the simplicity -of her manner was ironical or no.</p> - -<p>“He isn’t married at present. I think he’s engaged. -You see, a living like this would justify a man in getting -married, wouldn’t it?”</p> - -<p>“It would depend on the sort of person he wished -to marry.”</p> - -<p>“Supposing she had a little money of her own?”</p> - -<p>“The sort of girls who marry clergymen never do -have money of their own,” said Quentillian, firmly.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">[73]</span>On this discouraging pronouncement, they were rejoined -by the rest of the party.</p> - -<p>Nevertheless Valeria contrived to enquire of Quentillian, -in a disturbed murmur:</p> - -<p>“What <i>can</i> Adrian be thinking of?”</p> - -<p>It was not at all difficult to guess what Adrian could -be thinking of, and became still less so as the days -slipped by and his infatuation for Miss Olga Duffle -led to her inclusion in innumerable games of tennis -and impromptu tea-parties at St. Gwenllian.</p> - -<p>“What can he <i>see</i> in her?” Valeria demanded, after -the fashion of sisters.</p> - -<p>Quentillian was unable to provide any adequate explanation -of the phenomenon, but he was fully prepared -to discuss it, and prolong thereby the sense of intimacy -with Valeria.</p> - -<p>It seemed to Quentillian that a new, slight, tinge -of gravity shadowed Valeria’s frankness.</p> - -<p>With all the logic and consistency of most persons -so situated, Quentillian alternately viewed this as being -hopeful or unhopeful, in the extreme, for the fulfilment -of his wishes.</p> - -<p>He was slightly amused at finding himself in the -extremely conventional position in which he had so -often viewed, with dispassionate distaste, the spectacle -presented by other men, and this amusement was not -without its share in determining him to submit his -proposal to Valeria in writing.</p> - -<p>A tendency, real, or fancied by Quentillian’s self-consciousness, -on the parts of Flora and Adrian at -least, to vacate any room in which he and Valeria -might be, upon excuses of a shadow-like transparency,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">[74]</span> -finally brought Quentillian to the point of leaving St. -Gwenllian, under promise of an early return.</p> - -<p>“You must come back, to us, dear Owen—you must -come back,” the Canon repeated. “I want many a talk -with you yet, and Adrian here will miss the evening -confabulations in the smoking-room—eh, Adrian? -Stear will hardly be ready for you yet awhile, to our -advantage be it spoken, so you must make your home -with us in the meanwhile. Come and go quite freely, -dear lad.”</p> - -<p>“Thank you very much.”</p> - -<p>Quentillian felt that he had already said these words -all too often, and conscientiously sought to vary the -formula.</p> - -<p>“It’s been a delightful time altogether, and I’m more -than grateful. It’s been wonderful to get such a kind -welcome after these years abroad.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, dear fellow!”</p> - -<p>The Canon’s fine face softened as he laid his arm -across the younger man’s shoulders.</p> - -<p>“Never doubt your welcome here, Owen,” he said.</p> - -<p>Owen suspected significance in the words, and then -derided himself.</p> - -<p>Whatever his certainties as regarded the Canon, it -was with Valeria that Quentillian was concerned, and -he could augur nothing from her frank and cordial -regret at his departure.</p> - -<p>“I shall write to you, Val.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, do. And I’ll tell you what happens with -Adrian and that Olga.”</p> - -<p>“I hope nothing will happen.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no—but it’s amusing.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">[75]</span>She did not look amused. Something of her ripe-apricot -bloom had faded, and there were shadows beneath -her brown eyes. Before he left St. Gwenllian, -Owen said rather earnestly to Lucilla that he thought -Valeria looked tired.</p> - -<p>“So do I.”</p> - -<p>“Is she ill?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t think so.”</p> - -<p>“I should hate to think of her being ill.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t think she’s ill, Owen.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla evidently accepted his solicitude as a natural -thing.</p> - -<p>“I’ve always thought that Val needed a greater outlet -for her energies than she gets here. She’s very -strong, really, and she did splendidly in France when -she was working so hard at her Canteen. I wish -she could go away and work again.”</p> - -<p>“Really?”</p> - -<p>“Don’t you think so yourself?”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps—if she wished it very much. There are -other things besides work, though,” said Owen Quentillian.</p> - -<p>“Well—” Lucilla’s favourite monosyllable held, as -usual, a sound of concession.</p> - -<p>“Couldn’t one do anything for her—take care of her, -somehow?”</p> - -<p>“I will order a cup of beef-tea for her at eleven -o’clock,” said Lucilla with seriousness, but with amusement -lurking in her eyes.</p> - -<p>They parted upon a mutual smile of excellent understanding.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">[76]</span>Quentillian thought that he liked Lucilla, with her -impersonal calm, and her unquestioning acceptances.</p> - -<p>He wrote to Valeria from London, letters that he felt -to be self-conscious, and received uneloquent replies. -He had left St. Gwenllian a fortnight when he finally -composed an epistle that left him a little—a very little—less -than profoundly dissatisfied with his own powers -of composition. He received her reply by return of -post.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>“Owen, dear, I’ve got your letter. I can’t answer -it in the way I should like to, making you understand -everything that I mean. But do understand first of -all that your thinking of me like that makes me very -proud, and I wish I was more worth it all.</p> - -<p>“I’m glad you loved someone else before, and thank -you for telling me. The reason I’m glad is because -I used to like someone very much myself once, but -it wasn’t like yours, it was only my own foolishness, -and never came to anything. But I think perhaps it’s -prevented my falling really in love, because, dear Owen, -I am not in love with you. If I married you, it would -be because you are, as you say, very lonely, and because -I am very, very fond of you, and also perhaps, a -little, because it would make Father so happy. But -none of those reasons are <i>the</i> real, true reason for -marrying, are they?</p> - -<p>“We have known one another so long, and understand -one another. Can’t we discuss it honestly together, -before settling anything? Either way, we are -always friends, so I will sign myself your friend.</p> - -<p class="right">“<span class="smcap">Valeria Morchard.</span>”</p> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">[77]</span>Quentillian read the letter with a strange mingling -of disappointment, relief, and mortification.</p> - -<p>Nevertheless it was in all sincerity that he wrote -to Val of his admiration for her candour.</p> - -<p>“You and I are moderns, my dear. Let us, as you -wish, discuss the future impersonally, but let me first -of all say that when—or if—ever you should come -to the decision which I want you to come to, then so -far as I am concerned, philosophical discussion will -go for nothing. I shall wait for your sign, Val, and -if it comes, there shall be no more pen and ink between -us, but a meeting for which I long with all my heart.”</p> - -<p>“Academic,” said Owen’s inner monitor, relentless -as ever.</p> - -<p>He posted his letter in spite of it.</p> - -<p>It was with relief, and yet with a happiness less -defined than he had expected it to be, that Quentillian -found himself engaged to Valeria.</p> - -<p>He regretted his own absence of ardour, and was -all the time aware of a faint, lurking gratification at -having so early outlived the illusions of passionate -emotion.</p> - -<p>He returned to St. Gwenllian.</p> - -<p>This time it was Valeria who met him. Something -in the simplicity with which she accepted their new -relationship touched him profoundly, and rendered of -no account his own temperamental subtleties.</p> - -<p>It was with a deepening sense of sincerity that Quentillian -said to her:</p> - -<p>“You have made me very happy, dearest.”</p> - -<p>“I’m glad, Owen. I’m happy too.”</p> - -<p>Her hand lay trustfully in his.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">[78]</span>“They want to see you so much, at home, Owen. -I’ve told them. They’re all so pleased.”</p> - -<p>It evidently added to Valeria’s content, that it should -be so.</p> - -<p>“You know that Father has always really looked -upon you as another son, even in the days when you -and I got into trouble for playing at Greek sacrificial -processions with the guinea pigs on silver salvers.”</p> - -<p>They laughed together at the recollection.</p> - -<p>The Canon had not been hard upon the classically-minded -delinquents.</p> - -<p>Quentillian believed himself to have realized fully -the adjuncts, necessary and fitting in the eyes of the -Morchard family, but to himself distasteful in the -extreme, of his engagement to Valeria.</p> - -<p>He was prepared for conventional congratulations, -for the abhorrent necessity of discussing his personal -affairs, for an emotional absence of reticence that would -differ as widely from his own impersonal, dissecting-room -outspokenness as would the Canon’s effusive -periods from Quentillian’s cultivated terseness of expression.</p> - -<p>Nevertheless, he was less well-armoured, or more -severely tried, than he had expected to be.</p> - -<p>Canon Morchard seemed to shower welcome, blessings, -congratulations upon him. He said:</p> - -<p>“Dear lad, you and I must have a long talk together, -at no distant date.”</p> - -<p>They had many.</p> - -<p>It seemed to Quentillian that he saw more of the -Canon than of Valeria, in the days that ensued.</p> - -<p>“Val, when will you marry me? I’m quite selfish<span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">[79]</span> -enough to want you to myself,” Quentillian said to her -with firmness after a week at St. Gwenllian that -seemed to him to have been mainly differentiated from -his last visit there by the increased number of one-sided -talks with the Canon to which he had been subjected.</p> - -<p>Val said tentatively: “The end of January?”</p> - -<p>“Why not before Christmas? Stear should be quite -ready for us by then.”</p> - -<p>It relieved him with a strange intensity to know -that he would not, after all, go alone to Stear.</p> - -<p>Valeria looked at him, and although her voice when -she spoke was serious, a certain mischievous amusement -lurked in her eyes.</p> - -<p>“Before Christmas, it’s Advent,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Advent?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t think Father would like my wedding to be -during Advent, at all.”</p> - -<p>“I see.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, don’t be vexed, Owen. It’s only a month’s difference -after all.”</p> - -<p>“It isn’t that,” began Quentillian candidly, and then -shared in her slight, unoffended laughter at his lack -of gallantry.</p> - -<p>“I only mean, my dear, that I don’t like to see you -bound by that sort of convention. Do you really think -it can make any difference if we’re married on one particular -date rather than another?”</p> - -<p>“I’m thinking entirely of Father,” gently said Val, -thus altogether evading the real point at issue.</p> - -<p>Quentillian was again and again made aware of this<span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">[80]</span> -capacity in Val for the avoidance of any discussion -between them on the subject of religion.</p> - -<p>It was as though the faint rebellion that he had -discerned in her at her own way of life had been extinguished -by the mere prospect of its coming to an -end. Nor, when he finally forced an issue, did Val -appear to possess his own capacities for impartial, -essentially impersonal, discussion.</p> - -<p>“Can’t we leave it alone, Owen? You told me what -your views were—and you know what mine are. -We’ve been honest with one another—isn’t that all that -matters?”</p> - -<p>“In a sense, of course it is. You don’t think that -perhaps it’s a pity to know there’s one subject we must -tacitly avoid—that we can’t discuss freely?”</p> - -<p>He spoke without emphasis of any kind.</p> - -<p>“It <i>is</i> a pity, of course,” said Val literally. “But how -can we help it? I can hardly listen to you without disloyalty -of the worst kind. If you look at it from my -point of view for a moment, you do see that, don’t -you, Owen?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I suppose I do see that,” he said heavily.</p> - -<p>He felt strangely disappointed and disillusioned.</p> - -<p>“Do you wish me to say anything to your father -about that?”</p> - -<p>Val blushed deeply, but spoke quite resolutely.</p> - -<p>“No, I don’t. I’ve thought it over, and I can’t see -that it concerns anyone but you and me. Lucilla says -so, too. I asked her what she thought. It’s not as -though I were eighteen, and it’s not as though I didn’t -trust you, absolutely, not to interfere with my beliefs, -any more than I with your—unbeliefs.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">[81]</span>Confronted with her grave trustfulness, no less than -with the obvious justice of her words, Quentillian could -only agree with her.</p> - -<p>His rather arrogant conviction of earlier days, that -Val’s beliefs must go, gave place to an unescapable certainty -that they would not even be modified. Rather -would Valeria, enforced by tradition and by the inherited -faith that was in her, expect with the course -of years to influence her husband’s views.</p> - -<p>Owen felt strongly the hopelessness of such expectation, -and still more strongly the inexpediency, not to -say the impossibility, of urging that hopelessness upon -Valeria.</p> - -<p>It was decided that the wedding should take place in -January, and the engagement be made public just before -Christmas.</p> - -<p>“You do not want to let the world in upon your -joy too soon, young people,” the Canon told them with -a grave smile.</p> - -<p>Val’s answering smile acquiesced in the assumption, -as indeed the smiles and silences, no less than the -spoken words, of his entire family were always apt to -acquiesce in any assumption made by Canon Morchard, -whether the facts warranted such acquiescence or not.</p> - -<p>The days slipped by, very much as they had slipped -by before Quentillian and Valeria had become engaged. -If Quentillian had expected a greater difference, a more -profound element, he was destined to be disappointed.</p> - -<p>Val was charming and—he would not have to face -loneliness at Stear.</p> - -<p>Indeed at one moment, it almost appeared as though<span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">[82]</span> -Valeria would not be alone in accomplishing the destruction -of the spirit of solitude at Stear.</p> - -<p>Adrian Morchard sought his prospective brother-in-law, -and said, with singularly ill-chosen colloquialism:</p> - -<p>“Tell me, old thing, have you had any talk with the -governor about that living at Stear?”</p> - -<p>“Not yet. The present incumbent hasn’t even resigned.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose—ha-ha—you’ll laugh—in fact I shouldn’t -be surprised if you thought it dashed funny—it makes -me smile myself, in a way—you’ll <i>roar</i> when I tell you -what I’m thinking of.”</p> - -<p>Quentillian felt as melancholy as do the majority -of people thus apostrophised, and was aware that his -melancholy was reflected on his face in a forbidding -expression.</p> - -<p>Adrian had turned rather pale.</p> - -<p>“You know the old man’s always been desperately -keen on my going into the Church? Well—I say, you -can laugh as much as you want to, I shan’t be offended—I’m -not at all sure I shan’t do it.”</p> - -<p>Quentillian felt no inclination whatever to indulge in -the prescribed orgy of merriment.</p> - -<p>“You coming into the family like this, with a good -living going begging, makes it a pretty obvious move -in a way, doesn’t it—and then it’d please the old man -frightfully—and really there are precious few openings -for a man who hasn’t been brought up to anything -special, nowadays.”</p> - -<p>“Yes. And what is the real reason?”</p> - -<p>Adrian laughed uncomfortably.</p> - -<p>“Sherlock Holmes! Well, between ourselves, I don’t<span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">[83]</span> -mind telling you that I want to see some prospect of -being able to marry, and if I had a definite thing in -view, like Stear, I might be able to bring it off.”</p> - -<p>“You can’t be ordained in five minutes. Don’t be -absurd.”</p> - -<p>“I’ve got to wait, anyhow,” said Adrian gloomily. -“She won’t even be engaged, yet. I thought I might -as well fill in the time at Cambridge or somewhere, -if it’s going to lead to something. I’m quite willing to -wait if I must, and of course I shall never change.”</p> - -<p>“It’s Miss Duffle, I suppose. I can’t say I should -have thought she’d enjoy the life of a country parson’s -wife.”</p> - -<p>“You haven’t the least idea of what she’s really -like.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps not.” Owen’s voice implied the contrary. -“What about yourself? Do you really suppose you -could stand it?”</p> - -<p>“Of course I could, if it meant <i>her</i>. My dear fellow, -my mind’s <i>absolutely</i> made up, I may tell you, and has -been for—for days. But, of course,” he added ingenuously, -“it does depend a good deal on whether -you’ll promise me Stear or not at the end of it all.”</p> - -<p>“What about your father?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, he’ll jump at it, of course. It’s been the one -wish of his heart, all along,” said Adrian easily.</p> - -<p>Quentillian wondered how it was possible that any -youth, brought up in the intellectual atmosphere of St. -Gwenllian, could be so entirely devoid of insight. To -his own way of thinking, it was utterly incredible that -Canon Morchard, ardent Christian and idealist, should -contemplate with any degree of equanimity, his son’s<span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">[84]</span> -proposed flippant adoption of a vocation which he regarded -as sacred.</p> - -<p>Owen committed himself to no promises.</p> - -<p>“I should like to talk it over with Val.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose if you must you must,” said Adrian, -grudgingly. “But don’t let her tell anyone else.”</p> - -<p>Valeria’s views were not far removed from Quentillian’s -own.</p> - -<p>It sometimes, indeed, seemed to Owen that the identity -of their points of view on every other subject only -rendered more evident the deep gulf dividing them on -the topic that Valeria had decreed should be a barred -one—that of religion.</p> - -<p>Spoken, their very difference might have brought -them closer together. Unspoken, it seemed to Owen -to pervade all their intercourse since their engagement -as it had never done before.</p> - - -<h3>(vi)</h3> - -<p><span class="smcap">Valeria</span> had been engaged for nearly a month when -she wrote a letter.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>“<span class="smcap">Dear Captain Cuscaden</span>,</p> - -<p>“I thought I would like to tell you myself that I am -engaged to be married. It is to Owen Quentillian, -whom I have known all my life, almost, and we hope -to be married in January.</p> - -<p>“I hope you will have very good luck in Canada, and -that you will sometimes let us know how you get on. -We are expecting you on Saturday, to come and say -good-bye.</p> - -<p class="right"><span class="indentright">“Yours sincerely,</span><br /> -“<span class="smcap">Valeria Morchard</span>.”</p> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_85">[85]</span>Val spent a long while over the composition of her -brief letter, re-read it a great number of times, and -finally tore it up very carefully into small pieces.</p> - -<p>“What’s the use?” she said.</p> - -<p>Captain Cuscaden, however, did not seem to have -been dependent upon Valeria for news of Valeria’s -engagement. He congratulated her formally on the -Saturday afternoon when he came to pay his farewell -visit to St. Gwenllian.</p> - -<p>Olga Duffle was there, too, and Miss Admaston.</p> - -<p>“No more tennis this year. It’s going to rain again,” -said Flora.</p> - -<p>“Here it comes,” Mr. Clover pointed out.</p> - -<p>“It may clear up later—let’s have tea.”</p> - -<p>After tea the rain was still falling heavily.</p> - -<p>“How are all you young folks going to amuse yourselves?” -genially enquired the Canon. “Lucilla, can -you not organize some of our old <i>jeux d’esprit</i>, with -pencil and paper?”</p> - -<p>There was an inarticulate protest from the Captain, -to which no one paid any attention except Valeria, who -heard it, and Olga, who replied to it: “I’ll help you, -Dzorze, if you’re very good.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Clover was zealous in finding paper and pencils.</p> - -<p>“I can’t resist this,” said the Canon boyishly. “I -must give some of my old favourites a turn before -going to more serious affairs. Now what is it to be?”</p> - -<p>No one appeared to be very ready with suggestions. -Captain Cuscaden was gloomily gazing out of the -window. Olga and Adrian were talking in undertones, -and Miss Admaston was telling Quentillian how very<span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">[86]</span> -much she dreaded and disliked any games that required -the use of brains.</p> - -<p>“Are we all ready?” said Mr. Clover joyously.</p> - -<p>“I suppose we’re as ready as we ever shall be,” said -Captain Cuscaden.</p> - -<p>Thus encouraged, they began.</p> - -<p>Canon Morchard, Lucilla, and Owen Quentillian -outmatched the rest of the players with ease. Each -seemed to think with promptitude of great men whose -names started with A, battles that began with M, or -quotations—English—of which the initial letter -was W.</p> - -<p>They challenged one another’s references, and verified -one another’s dates. They capped quotations, and -they provided original <i>bouts rimés</i>.</p> - -<p>The entertainment gradually resolved itself into one -animated trio, with a faithful but halting chorus, in -the persons of Mr. Clover and Flora, and a rapid and -low-toned aside between Adrian and Miss Duffle.</p> - -<p>Captain Cuscaden played a listless game of noughts -and crosses with Miss Admaston, and Valeria leant -back in her chair and ceased to pretend that she was -occupied.</p> - -<p>She looked at the sapphire and diamond ring on her -finger, and thought about Owen’s cleverness. She remembered -that Lucilla had said he would be a difficult -person to live with. She remembered her own secret -desires for a life of work, and her assurance to herself -that such ambitions were out of place. She reminded -herself that her father had been, in his own -parlance, glad beyond words to welcome Owen Quentillian -as a son. And she looked at Owen himself, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">[87]</span> -saw him intent, over his little slips of paper, and a sudden -rush of tenderness came over her. His absorption -in the game seemed to make him younger, and -in more need of her. She could remember Owen as -a flaxen-haired, solemn, rather priggish little boy, and -she suddenly felt that perhaps he had not changed a -very great deal since those days, after all.</p> - -<p>Val felt happier, in a subdued and wistful way. She -woke to the realization that the games were ended.</p> - -<p>The Canon had arisen.</p> - -<p>“Look up that derivation, Clover, dear man, and -let me have it. I shall be curious.... Fare ye -well, young people, I recommend Lucilla here as a -veritable dictionary of dates, if you wish to continue -your amusement.”</p> - -<p>Nothing could have been more evident, the moment -the Canon had left the room, than that no one wished -to pursue amusement on the lines indicated.</p> - -<p>Even Mr. Clover joined in the general movement -that thankfully relinquished paper and pencil, and sent -everyone to the piano, flung open by Olga Duffle.</p> - -<p>“Do play something,” Adrian pleaded.</p> - -<p>“Oh, not me. Make your sister play. She plays so -much better than I do.”</p> - -<p>It was indubitably true that Flora played a great -deal better than did Olga, yet nobody seemed to want -Flora to play the piano, and Olga, even as she protested, -slipped on to the music stool and ran her small -fingers over the keys.</p> - -<p>“I say, how well you do everything!” Adrian murmured -ecstatically above her.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">[88]</span>She looked up at him and smiled, showing all her -little pointed teeth.</p> - -<p>They clustered round her.</p> - -<p>“Do you know ‘Oh, Kiss Me and I’ll Never Tell,’ -that comes in that revue—I forget it’s name—the new -one? It’s lovely.”</p> - -<p>To the perceptions of Valeria Morchard, trained in -the eclectic school of the Canon’s taste, the musical -inspiration in question was not only undeserving of -being called lovely, but was vulgar to the point of -blatancy, ringing through the St. Gwenllian drawing-room -in Olga’s little, high, soprano voice.</p> - -<p>She was not at all surprised that Owen should look -at her through his <i>pince-nez</i> with eyebrows expressively -elevated, nor that Mr. Clover, presumably in a futile -endeavour to spare the Canon’s ears, should unobtrusively -go and shut the door.</p> - -<p>Val looked at Lucilla.</p> - -<p>There was something not at all unlike amusement -on Miss Morchard’s face, but Val did not think that -it was caused by the humour of “Oh, Kiss Me and I’ll -Never Tell.” Rather it might have been born of a -gentle irony, embracing alike the puzzled distaste of -Flora, the obvious terror of the curate lest he should -be supposed to be enjoying the entertainment, the absorption -with which Captain Cuscaden, Adrian, and -even Miss Admaston stood and listened, the supercilious -detachment of Owen Quentillian, the complacent -unconsciousness of the small, pert singer at the piano. -No doubt Lucilla could have detected, had she cared to -do so, the unspecified emotions that Val suspected of -being written upon her own unsmiling face.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_89">[89]</span>She felt suddenly impatient.</p> - -<p>“We’re all intolerable. Lucilla is superior, and -Flossie takes this rubbish <i>au grand serieux</i>, like a -crime, and Owen is thinking how deplorable it is that -idiotic words should be set to inferior music, and put -before the British public for its education.... I -can hear exactly what he’ll say about it afterwards.”</p> - -<p>It struck her that the anticipation scarcely boded well -for a life that was in future to be spent in Quentillian’s -company.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="verse">“My dusky gal is black as coal</div> -<div class="verse">“But she’s just the whitest, brightest soul.”</div> -</div></div> - -<p>carolled Olga.</p> - -<p>“I love the darky girls, don’t you?”</p> - -<p>“Rather.”</p> - -<p>“Why does the English youth of today seek artistic -inspiration from the uncivilized population of Central -Africa, I wonder?” said Owen Quentillian. He addressed -himself to Lucilla, but his very distinct utterance -was perfectly audible to everybody else.</p> - -<p>Captain Cuscaden laughed, and Olga looked round -with perfect good humour. It was Adrian who glared -at Quentillian, and Mr. Clover who observed reproachfully:</p> - -<p>“I’m sure those old plantation songs are charming, -<i>as</i> Miss Olga renders them.”</p> - -<p>“You shouldn’t be so superior, Owen,” said Lucilla -tranquilly.</p> - -<p>It was what Val had been thinking, but she had -found herself quite unable to say it, from the very -intensity of her feeling.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">[90]</span>Lucilla placed an old album on the music stand, and -they all began to sing together “Comin’ through the -Rye.”</p> - -<p>The music affected Valeria almost intolerably.</p> - -<p>All the Morchards had good voices, and both Flora -and Lucilla sang well. Their true, deep voices gradually -dominated Olga’s high pipe, and the four men -sank to a mere murmur of accompaniment. Miss Admaston -had never done more than crane over everybody’s -shoulder in turn in an endeavour to see the -page at close quarters, and murmur the last words of -a verse in an undertone when everyone else was singing -the first line of the refrain. She was now altogether -silent.</p> - -<p>“Sing the Russian songs, Flora,” said Quentillian.</p> - -<p>Valeria pressed her hands closer together, and leant -against the wall.</p> - -<p>It was growing dark.</p> - -<p>The air of the Russian song that Flora chose was -wild and sweet.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="first">“You are my darling, you are my soul</div> -<div class="verse">Light of my life, my sun, my goal ...</div> -<div class="verse">You are my being, my delight</div> -<div class="verse">Star of my darkest night.”</div> -</div></div> - -<p>Direct, primitive worship of one man for one -woman: Flora’s voice held all the passion that was not -in her, save at her music.</p> - -<p>The ache at Val’s heart seemed to her physical in -its intensity.</p> - -<p>She knew what she wanted, now, and she knew that -Owen Quentillian would not give it her.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">[91]</span>To her own horror, a rush of tears blinded her.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="verse">“But all is well for thou art with me</div> -<div class="verse">“The world is full of only thee.”</div> -</div></div> - -<p>sang Flora.</p> - -<p>“What is the matter?” said the low, troubled voice -of Cuscaden beside her.</p> - -<p>Val started violently.</p> - -<p>“Val, you <i>must</i> tell me. What is it...?”</p> - -<p>They looked at each other.</p> - -<p>It suddenly became the thing that mattered most in -the world that Val Morchard and George Cuscaden -should speak alone to one another.</p> - -<p>Regardless of the rain pouring outside, Valeria -gently opened the French window behind her.</p> - -<p>“Come outside. I must speak to you,” she said urgently.</p> - -<p>She had no idea what she was going to say.</p> - -<p>Outside, in the rapidly gathering darkness, the rain -fell in torrents and splashed up from the ground -against the stone step of the low veranda that ran -round the house.</p> - -<p>Cuscaden stepped out of the warm room and closed -the window again behind him. It was as though he -had shut them out of the world of music and companionship, -into some colder, more virile atmosphere.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="verse">“But all is well for thou art with me</div> -<div class="verse">“The world is full of only thee.”</div> -</div></div> - -<p>Flora’s song reached them as faintly as possible, -and neither heeded it.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">[92]</span>They faced one another, and Val found that she -was shivering from head to foot.</p> - -<p>“Why do I never get a chance of speaking to you -nowadays?” said Captain Cuscaden violently.</p> - -<p>“You could have,” said Valeria, and her voice broke.</p> - -<p>His arms went round her.</p> - -<p>“Val, Val, I love you so.”</p> - -<p>It was as though Quentillian had never existed.</p> - -<p>“And you’re going to Canada,” she wailed.</p> - -<p>“You’re coming with me.”</p> - -<p>“I must,” Val said, and surrendered herself to his -kisses.</p> - -<p>“My daughter, how wet you are!” exclaimed the -Canon.</p> - -<p>His daughter, hastening to her own room, paused -under the light of a lamp, and inadvertently thereby -gave the Canon an opportunity of verifying his statement.</p> - -<p>Val, beneath his astonished gaze, became acutely -aware that her rain-wet hair was disordered, her face -flaming, and showing all the marks of recent and violent -weeping.</p> - -<p>“What is all this?” the Canon enquired rather -sternly.</p> - -<p>Valeria felt utterly incapable of replying.</p> - -<p>“Answer me, Valeria.”</p> - -<p>“Captain Cuscaden is looking for you,” said Valeria -almost inaudibly.</p> - -<p>“Captain Cuscaden?”</p> - -<p>“Yes.”</p> - -<p>They gazed speechlessly at one another.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_93">[93]</span>A weight had descended upon the Canon’s brow and -the lines round his mouth were set sternly.</p> - -<p>“Valeria, has he insulted you?”</p> - -<p>The intimate conviction overwhelmed her that the -Canon’s opinion of her recent interview with Captain -Cuscaden would certainly demand an emphatically affirmative -reply to the enquiry. She felt a purely -hysterical desire to burst out laughing at the thought.</p> - -<p>“How is Captain Cuscaden concerned with you? -If it is as I think, Valeria, you did well to refer him -to me.”</p> - -<p>“But it isn’t. He—I—we are both to blame, Father. -I’m going to break off my engagement to Owen. I -love George.”</p> - -<p>The words were said, and although Valeria broke -into a flood of tears, it was with a sense of relief. -Telling Owen that she did not intend to marry him -after all, was, she honestly felt, nothing to telling the -Canon so.</p> - -<p>She sank down on the stairs and hid her face in her -hands, afraid to face her father’s realization of the -implication that her words contained.</p> - -<p>It did not tarry.</p> - -<p>“Do you want me to understand that you are under -a solemn engagement to marry Owen Quentillian, and -that you have at the same time been allowing—encouraging—the -clandestine attentions of this—this -<i>fellow</i>? You, my daughter, behaving like a wanton? -I won’t believe it—I can’t believe it—” the Canon’s -voice rose violently. “Valeria, for God’s sake tell me -I’m mistaken—don’t crouch there like a guilty creature—tell -me I’m wrong, tell me you’re the pure, honest<span class="pagenum" id="Page_94">[94]</span> -maiden I’ve tried to make you and not—not—a -creature without honour, without decency——”</p> - -<p>The rising note of anguish broke on a strangled sob.</p> - -<p>Below, a door was shut sharply.</p> - -<p>“Get up,” said the Canon with violence.</p> - -<p>Valeria rose, and he pulled her to her feet and -gazed searchingly into her face.</p> - -<p>“And this is my child!” said the Canon, and in his -turn dropped his face into his hands, groaning.</p> - -<p>“I couldn’t help it,” she spoke between her sobs, like -a child. “Owen knew I wasn’t in love with him -... only I never realized, I didn’t know George -cared, too—it was always him....”</p> - -<p>“Stop!” thundered the Canon. “Are you without -shame, Valeria? Is that fellow waiting for me downstairs, -or has he crawled away as I should expect, -from one who has so repaid my hospitality?”</p> - -<p>The words gave Valeria a needed impetus.</p> - -<p>“He is ready to meet you, Father—he went to find -you. And I love him—I suppose I’ve been very dishonourable, -but I—I believe Owen will understand.”</p> - -<p>She broke into tears again, and left him.</p> - -<p>Overwhelmed with the sense of her own dishonour, -regarding the Canon’s wrath as might have a child, in -the light of the greatest calamity that life could present, -she turned with absolute relief to the thought of -Owen’s dispassionate judgments, his studiously impersonal -attitude towards life. Owen would understand.</p> - -<p>There came a knock at the door.</p> - -<p>“Val, may I come in?”</p> - -<p>“What is it?” said Valeria unwillingly.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_95">[95]</span>Lucilla entered the room, unperturbed, but fully accepting -the disordered aspect of its occupant.</p> - -<p>“I’m afraid, Val, that the drawing-room door was -open, and it was impossible to help hearing Father. I -thought you’d rather know, in case you wanted to -speak to Owen.”</p> - -<p>“Owen knows?” almost shrieked Valeria.</p> - -<p>“I suppose he does. He must have drawn his own -conclusions.”</p> - -<p>“I couldn’t help it,” said Val again. “I never meant -anything like that to happen—it’s George Cuscaden, -Lucilla. It was always him, indeed it was, only I -didn’t know it, and it all seemed to happen in a minute—it -was stronger than either of us.”</p> - -<p>“I daresay you did quite right. Why don’t you -wash, Val?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Lucilla, how like you!”</p> - -<p>Valeria laughed shakily, but she followed her sister’s -advice.</p> - -<p>Lucilla methodically produced Val’s brush and comb, -and dry clothing.</p> - -<p>“Maud Admaston and Miss Duffle have gone, and -Adrian went with them. Mr. Clover has gone, too, so -it was only Owen and Flossie and I that heard.”</p> - -<p>“What did he say?”</p> - -<p>“He didn’t say anything. Shall I fasten you up, -Val?”</p> - -<p>“Lucilla—what am I to do?”</p> - -<p>“Tell Owen you can’t marry him, and tell George -you will marry him.”</p> - -<p>“I wish it was as simple as that! You always take -things so literally.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_96">[96]</span>“Well,” said Lucilla unmoved, “I don’t see any -other way of taking this. You can’t be engaged to -two people at once. You know—Owen will understand.”</p> - -<p>“That’s what I feel,” said Val to her own surprise. -“But Father—Father will never, never understand.”</p> - -<p>“Probably not. But after all, it’s you, and Owen, -and George, isn’t it, that are concerned? I shouldn’t -let there be scenes and upsets about it, Val, if I were -you—really I shouldn’t. Why don’t you just see Owen -tonight, and tell him about it, and then you and he -and George could all talk it over quietly tomorrow -morning?”</p> - -<p>Val was conscious of profound astonishment and -also of extreme relief.</p> - -<p>“Do you think one could? But Father——”</p> - -<p>“You needn’t go downstairs again. I quite understand -that you don’t want to see Father again tonight. -Shall I tell Owen to come up here?”</p> - -<p>“Here? How could he, in my bedroom?”</p> - -<p>“Goodness me, child, you may just as well be hung -for a sheep as a lamb, surely. But if you think it’s -so dreadful, I suppose you can come out on the landing -and speak to him.”</p> - -<p>Impossible to disconcert Lucilla!</p> - -<p>Val assented to the surprising propositions so matter-of-factly -delivered.</p> - -<p>“Yes, tell Owen to come up. I’d better get it over. -But Lucilla—George——”</p> - -<p>“Do you want me to see him, or give him a message?”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_97">[97]</span>“I want to know what Father says to him,” Val -said faintly.</p> - -<p>“Very well. I’ll ask Father if George has gone.”</p> - -<p>“And, oh, Lucilla! I know you can’t prevent it, -really, but if only you could make Father not come -up to me tonight! I can’t bear any more—indeed I -can’t.”</p> - -<p>“Well,” said Lucilla, “you’d better lock the door -then.” She took the key from the lock, put it on the -inside of the door and tried it in a practical manner. -“That’s all right. You can lock it on the inside as -soon as Owen has gone.”</p> - -<p>She went downstairs, but turned and came up again -the next moment.</p> - -<p>“I’ll have dinner sent up to you, shall I?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t want any.”</p> - -<p>“I should think you’d better have something, Val. -I’ll send up soup and chicken. The pudding is only -ginger, and you know how badly she makes ginger pudding.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla departed in earnest, upon this prosaic pronouncement.</p> - -<p>She was succeeded by Owen Quentillian, and Val -went out upon the landing to meet him.</p> - -<p>“Will you forgive me, Owen? I can’t marry you.”</p> - -<p>“What has happened?”</p> - -<p>“I thought you knew,” she said piteously.</p> - -<p>“I suppose I do. Is it Cuscaden?”</p> - -<p>“Yes.”</p> - -<p>“Then why,” Owen demanded in reasonable accents, -“couldn’t he have proposed to you himself without -waiting for you to be engaged to me?”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_98">[98]</span>“He thought he couldn’t ask me to go to Canada—and -he’s badly off—and then, when you came, he—he -thought it was you I cared about.”</p> - -<p>“I see,” said Quentillian dryly.</p> - -<p>“I don’t think I knew, exactly, that I still cared for -him, and I was sure he hadn’t meant anything, and it—it -was really all over—only then—Flora’s music, -somehow—and he asked me what it was—and I cried. -Owen, won’t you forgive me? Surely it’s better than -if I’d tried to go on with it?”</p> - -<p>“Of course it is.”</p> - -<p>They looked at one another rather helplessly.</p> - -<p>“Val, if I can do anything to help you, of course -I will. What are you going to do?”</p> - -<p>“I can’t think,” said Valeria faintly.</p> - -<p>“When does Cuscaden sail?”</p> - -<p>“Next week.”</p> - -<p>“That’s bad luck,” said Owen impartially. “Look -here, my dear, you must be tired out. Won’t you go -and sleep now, and in the morning we could see what’s -to be done?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, how good you are!”</p> - -<p>He frowned slightly.</p> - -<p>“Surely the day of heroics is over. I haven’t the -slightest desire to exchange pistol-shots with Captain -Cuscaden, I assure you. We are three reasonable human -beings, and we find ourselves in a difficulty from -which only clear thinking and absolute plain speaking -can extricate us. You may believe me when I tell -you that I am perfectly prepared to discuss the case -upon its own merits.”</p> - -<p>Valeria could believe him without difficulty. Even<span class="pagenum" id="Page_99">[99]</span> -in the midst of her distress, she could not altogether -stifle a slight suspicion that Owen was appreciating the -opportunity afforded him of being thoroughly modern -and rational.</p> - -<p>“Have you seen Father?”</p> - -<p>“Not yet.”</p> - -<p>Quentillian’s tone betrayed no great eagerness for -the prospective interview.</p> - -<p>“He is very, very angry with me, and I know he -has every right to be. But indeed, Owen, I was coming -straight to you, only I met him first, and it somehow -came out. George was going to tell him.”</p> - -<p>“Your father has never liked Captain Cuscaden,” -said Quentillian meditatively. “I am afraid he will -make things very difficult.”</p> - -<p>“I deserve it.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t be absurd,” said Quentillian, with severity. -“This is that foolish idea of atonement and repentance—and -all the other cheap salves to the humiliation of -having made a mistake. Don’t you see that it’s all -waste of time and energy, Val? You ought to be -thinking of what you’re going to do next, and how -you can do it with least wear and tear for us all. Life -isn’t a series of sins and punishments or virtues and -rewards, as it is in one’s nursery story-books. There -are actions and their consequences—that’s all.”</p> - -<p>She looked up at him, bewildered, and yet slightly -relieved at perceiving that he still possessed the power -of sententiousness.</p> - -<p>“Only say you forgive me, Owen.”</p> - -<p>“If you wish it, my dear, of course. Please don’t -cry any more.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_100">[100]</span>Valeria, however, crying more than ever, drew the -sapphire and diamond ring from her finger and mutely -held it out to him.</p> - -<p>Owen gazed at it for a moment through his <i>pince-nez</i>.</p> - -<p>Then he put it gently back into her hand again, and -closed her fingers round it with his own.</p> - -<p>“Please, Val.”</p> - -<p>Still holding her hand, he bent forward and very -softly kissed her wet cheek.</p> - -<p>“If we’re not engaged any more, we’ve got to go -back to what we were before—brother and sister, Val. -Good-night—don’t cry any more.”</p> - -<p>The smile with which he left her was in his eyes -as well as on his lips, and held nothing so much as -very gentle amusement, and an affectionate concern.</p> - - -<h3>(vii)</h3> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> amusement was no longer to be seen in the eyes -of Quentillian, and the concern had no affinity with affectionateness, -when he reached the door of the Canon’s -study.</p> - -<p>He felt himself to be eleven years old once more, -and in complete uncertainty as to the manner in which -he might be received, after the discovery of some unwonted -misdemeanour.</p> - -<p>The thunderous voice that bade him come in did -nothing to dispel the unpleasing illusion.</p> - -<p>The Canon was sitting at the writing-table, under -the carved crucifix that hung against the green velvet -plaque. A blotting pad, deeply scored with heavy black<span class="pagenum" id="Page_101">[101]</span> -lines, lay beneath his hand, and a broken lead pencil -testified to the energy with which that hand had sought -an outlet for the feelings that presumably agitated its -owner.</p> - -<p>The Canon swung round in his chair as the door -closed behind Quentillian.</p> - -<p>“Owen, Owen!” His voice broke. “My boy, how -can I face you?”</p> - -<p>The Canon answered his own question by rising -impetuously and leaning heavily upon Quentillian’s -shoulder, one hand across his eyes.</p> - -<p>“My dear, dear fellow!”</p> - -<p>His voice, charged with emotion, broke horribly over -each fresh ejaculation.</p> - -<p>“My son—Owen—you’ve been nothing less to me—and -now—treated like this—one of mine own household—what -can I say, what can I say?”</p> - -<p>Quentillian longed heartily to implore the Canon to -say nothing at all.</p> - -<p>“Won’t you sit down, sir? I thought I’d better -come and talk to you, if I may.”</p> - -<p>“Anything, anything, dear lad. Have you seen my -unhappy child?”</p> - -<p>“Valeria and I have agreed that we are no longer -engaged,” said Owen carefully. “I don’t consider that -I have been unfairly treated. She discovered, rather -before the eleventh hour, that she and Captain Cuscaden -were in love with one another, and it would have -been quite as unjust to me as to herself, if she had not -acted upon the discovery.”</p> - -<p>Canon Morchard gazed anxiously at the victim of -this neatly-analysed situation.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_102">[102]</span>“For Heaven’s sake, Owen, don’t let yourself become -bitter. It is so easy—so fatally easy, when one -is suffering. Take a stronger grip of your faith than -ever before, dear lad—remember that ‘<i>all</i> things work -together for good.’ One learns to dwell upon those -words, and the meaning deepens into something so -unspeakably precious....”</p> - -<p>To Owen’s relief the Canon sank back into his chair -again.</p> - -<p>“I can offer you no atonement,” he said presently, -with a deep weariness in his voice.</p> - -<p>“I am still unutterably bewildered. How I have -failed, how I have failed, with my motherless girl! -And I thought I knew my child—my merry Valeria, -as I have called her from her babyhood—I thought I -knew her through and through! <i>She</i> to be dishonourable, -<i>she</i> to be heartless, <i>she</i> to attach herself to a -godless, brainless, mannerless fellow—and when a man -like yourself had received her troth! Owen, it is as -though mine own right hand had turned against me.”</p> - -<p>The Canon held out a trembling right hand and -gazed upon it.</p> - -<p>“Where is Captain Cuscaden now, sir?” enquired -Quentillian, almost expecting to hear that the object -of his solicitude had been bound and cast into outer -darkness.</p> - -<p>“Where!” Canon Morchard struck the table with -his clenched fist until the blotting-paper and the broken -pencil bounded again. “Where! I have dismissed -him, Owen. Does he think that I shall give my daughter -to one who comes like a thief in the night? There<span class="pagenum" id="Page_103">[103]</span> -is such a thing as a righteous anger, and such an anger -was mine then.”</p> - -<p>It seemed to be his still, Owen reflected, and boded -ill for his own wish to discuss the situation impartially.</p> - -<p>“Valeria is very unhappy, sir.”</p> - -<p>The Canon groaned.</p> - -<p>“I can’t trust myself to see her, to speak to her. -God knows that my place is with my unhappy child, -but my shameful lack of self-control makes me tremble. -I have been angry—I am angry still.”</p> - -<p>He looked piteously at Owen.</p> - -<p>“I have thought to get the better of my devil with -prayer and fasting, but the old Adam is strong—terribly -strong. When I saw my child—my little Valeria—her -eyes wild, her person disordered, dashing upstairs -as might a shamed creature, to hide itself—when -I realized the depths of her dishonour—Owen, it -was in me to have struck her. I could have raised my -hand against my own child!”</p> - -<p>His head sank upon his breast.</p> - -<p>Quentillian waited before making a further, -strangely inadequate, contribution to the conversation.</p> - -<p>“Do you think, sir, perhaps you may be taking this -too seriously?”</p> - -<p>Canon Morchard stared at him. Then he smiled -grimly.</p> - -<p>“Generous—very generous, Owen. But I am to be -deceived by no such feint. I, who have had the care -of souls these thirty years! Do you think that, whatever -front you may present to the world, my eyes—<i>mine</i>—are<span class="pagenum" id="Page_104">[104]</span> -to be blinded? Do you think that <i>I</i> do not -know that the iron has entered into your soul?”</p> - -<p>The Canon’s eyes were so extraordinarily piercing -as they gazed into Quentillian’s, that the object of his -penetration sought in himself almost hopefully for -some of the searing emotions attributed to him.</p> - -<p>He discovered none.</p> - -<p>Wounded in his vanity, annoyed, disappointed even,—but -nothing more.</p> - -<p>Owen, quite aware of futility, inwardly formed -phrases of complete truthfulness, only to reject them.</p> - -<p>“I assure you that I am not in the least unhappy at -having been jilted by your daughter ... it -leaves me quite cold ... I don’t think I ever -really wanted to marry Val very much ... we were -much better friends before we tried to become engaged....”</p> - -<p>Or, with a yet more devastating candour:</p> - -<p>“I’ve been certain for days that I made a complete -fool of myself by ever proposing marriage to Valeria....”</p> - -<p>This surprisingly agile form of mental gymnastics -was tempestuously interrupted by the Canon.</p> - -<p>“For God’s sake, Owen, break down!” he groaned. -“My boy, my boy, you’re safe with me. Forget that -I’m Valeria’s father—think of me only as one who has -known suffering—aye, and sin, too. Make a safety-valve -of me—let yourself go. But I can bear this -sham cynicism of yours no longer. It’s wrong, Owen, -it’s wrong. True fortitude faces what lies before it, -finds its Gethsemane, and rises, purged of bitterness. -Break down—weep, nay, curse if you will, only cast<span class="pagenum" id="Page_105">[105]</span> -open the floodgates. Let loose whatever devils possess -your soul, you, the victim of treachery—let them -loose, I say, and we will conquer them together.”</p> - -<p>For an instant, all that Quentillian could do hardly -sufficed to prevent his letting loose a violent fit of -laughter.</p> - -<p>He drove his teeth into his lower lip. It was his -increasing perception of the Canon’s overwhelming -misery that steadied him.</p> - -<p>“Val has hurt me less than you think, sir,” he said -gently at last. “I have sometimes thought that she -and I had made a mistake.”</p> - -<p>The Canon gazed at him with a pathetic unbelief.</p> - -<p>“My unhappy child does not know what she has -lost.”</p> - -<p>“I hope she is going to be happy in her own way,” -said Quentillian.</p> - -<p>The Canon’s brow instantly became thunderous -again.</p> - -<p>“Not one word, Owen, not one word on those lines,” -he commanded sternly. “I appreciate your generosity -deeply, but there is such a thing as carrying generosity -too far.”</p> - -<p>“I can see small generosity in relinquishing to someone -else what is no longer mine.”</p> - -<p>The Canon swept on, unheeding.</p> - -<p>“My faith in my child has received a rude shock. -Valeria is unfit for wifehood and motherhood. How -can I let her undertake responsibility when she has -proved herself unworthy up to the hilt? No, Owen, -let it rest there. <i>I</i> will deal with Valeria, and may God -help us both!”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_106">[106]</span>Quentillian felt inclined to echo the petition whole-heartedly.</p> - -<p>He could not doubt that the Canon’s misery was utterly -unfeigned. So, also, was his wrath.</p> - -<p>The incongruous sound of the dinner-gong vibrated -violently through the room.</p> - -<p>The Canon did not stir.</p> - -<p>His voice, when next he spoke, was almost a groan.</p> - -<p>“I cannot see Valeria tonight. God forgive me, I -am not master of myself. Your calm shames me, -Owen. But it is not natural, not natural. You will, -and must, suffer for it later on. Tell me, dear fellow—that -I should have to say it!—do you wish to leave us—do -you wish to go?”</p> - -<p>Owen wished for nothing so much as an immediate -adjournment to the dining-room, but he felt that it -would indeed be impossible to say so.</p> - -<p>“You would not wish me to send Valeria from -home, I know. Nor do I know where I could send -her.”</p> - -<p>“Let her marry Cuscaden,” said Quentillian boldly.</p> - -<p>“Never, Owen. Give my child—my weak, untrustworthy -child, to a man who could behave as Cuscaden -has behaved? Believe me, I appreciate the generosity -that prompts you, but you know not what you ask—you -know not what you ask.”</p> - -<p>Quentillian, entirely unaccustomed to any such accusation, -was silently annoyed.</p> - -<p>He was also hungry.</p> - -<p>“I have sometimes thought,” said the Canon with -a trembling voice, “that my tendency has been to idolize -my children. I lost their mother so early! You<span class="pagenum" id="Page_107">[107]</span> -know how it was with me, Owen. Lucilla was my -eldest born, my right hand. I have come to depend -upon Lucilla, paradoxical though it may sound, from -a father towards his child. David, my eldest son -...” the Canon paused a long while, and then -murmured softly: “‘Whilst he was yet a great way -off’—David is in a far country, but he will return to -us yet, and though his Morning Prayer be our Evensong, -who shall say that there is separation between -us? And I have kept my other children by my side, -Owen. Little Flora has never yet tried her wings -away from home. She is more like her mother than -any of them—she and the dear Adrian.”</p> - -<p>A smile like an illumination came into the Canon’s -eyes as he spoke Adrian’s name. “The light of mine -eyes, that dear lad has always been. My Benjamin! -There are no words for what I went through whilst -Adrian was fighting, Owen. One could only remember -in Whose keeping he was, and that all <i>must</i> be -well, in reality. But all one’s faith was needed—it -must be so, with poor human nature. The soul goes -through dark waters, Owen, as you are finding now.”</p> - -<p>The protest which Owen almost automatically registered -within himself at this interpolated reference to -the despair which he could not feel, was necessarily -a silent one.</p> - -<p>“Valeria has been the brightest, the most lighthearted, -of all my children. She is naturally gifted -with high spirits, and she and I have made innocent -fun together, have shared the humourous view of life, -a thousand times. Have I allowed that gaiety of hers -to turn to flippancy—that mirthful spirit to cloak a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_108">[108]</span> -lack of principle? I ask myself again and again wherein -I have erred, for I cannot hold myself blameless, -Owen. I have thought over my motherless children, -I have prayed, and yet it has come to this—it has come -to this!”</p> - -<p>The Canon’s head dropped back into his hands once -more, and Quentillian felt as though this despairing -round of anger, self-blame, self-pity, and genuine -misery, might go on forever.</p> - -<p>He glanced at the clock. The dinner-gong having -failed of its appeal, it appeared as though nothing need -ever interrupt them again.</p> - -<p>“I will give him five minutes more, and then I shall -stand up,” Quentillian decided.</p> - -<p>The Canon lifted a haggard face.</p> - -<p>“Perhaps I had set my heart overmuch upon your -marriage with my child, Owen. It may be so—it may -be so. I may have forgotten that we poor mortals -cannot, after all, see very far—that all plannings and -schemings are very vain, seen by the light of Immortal -Wisdom. If so, I am receiving my punishment -now.”</p> - -<p>The Canon groaned again.</p> - -<p>“I am at a loss how to act. I can decide nothing. -I must see Valeria, but how can I do so until I can -command myself?”</p> - -<p>Even as he asked the question, the veins stood out -upon the Canon’s forehead, his nostrils quivered and -his face became suffused.</p> - -<p>“Three minutes more,” Quentillian reflected.</p> - -<p>“Owen, one thing I must ask. Has she asked your -pardon?”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_109">[109]</span>“Yes, but indeed I don’t think——”</p> - -<p>“No, Owen, no.” The Canon raised his hand in -instant protest. “Each generous plea from you, stabs -me afresh. I ask myself if my unhappy child even -knows what she has lost. I thought I knew Valeria -through and through—that nothing in her nature was -hidden from me, from her father. I have been -strangely mistaken, indeed.”</p> - -<p>(“Another half minute.”)</p> - -<p>“Am I harsh with her, am I harsh to my motherless -girl? God knows that I was angry when I met -her this evening, distraught-looking, crouching before -me like a shamed and terrified creature. I cannot -even now fully understand what has occurred, but her -own admission was that, engaged to you, she believed -herself to love another man—that she had allowed -him to make love to her.”</p> - -<p>Owen stood up resolutely.</p> - -<p>“Aye, Owen, I do not wonder at it, if you seek the -relief of movement. It is more natural so. I, too, in -my day, have paced this room.”</p> - -<p>Quentillian, however, had no desire to pace the room -except for the very few steps that would put him outside -it.</p> - -<p>He debated in vain within himself the most tactful -method of making this clear to Canon Morchard.</p> - -<p>“I suppose I have been blind. This blow has come -upon me with fearful suddenness—I suspected nothing—nothing. -How could I——”</p> - -<p>The door opened.</p> - -<p>Quentillian looked round thankfully at Lucilla. She<span class="pagenum" id="Page_110">[110]</span> -did not go up to her father, but spoke quietly from the -door.</p> - -<p>“Father, don’t you think Owen should come to dinner?”</p> - -<p>A quick frown drew the Canon’s always formidable -brows together.</p> - -<p>“Since when do my children interrupt me in my own -room, at my work, Lucilla?” he enquired.</p> - -<p>Her face did not change, but she looked at Quentillian.</p> - -<p>“Thank you,” he said quickly. “I will come.”</p> - -<p>The Canon rose. His hand went once more to the -resting-place now rapidly becoming habitual to it—Quentillian’s -shoulder.</p> - -<p>“Do not let my foolish child impose her trivial urgencies -upon you.”</p> - -<p>The Canon’s other hand went out towards his -daughter.</p> - -<p>“Did I speak over-sharply, my daughter? Perhaps -Mary was nearer my mood than Martha, just now—Martha, -careful and troubled over many things. Go, -then, children. Lucilla, you will come to me later. -Until then, I do not wish to be disturbed again.”</p> - -<p>With a heavy sigh, the Canon turned again to his -writing-table.</p> - -<p>Owen and Lucilla went out.</p> - -<p>“He is terribly upset. Could he not be persuaded -to come to dinner?”</p> - -<p>“No, I knew he wouldn’t want that. But I shall -take in a tray when I go to him later. Sometimes, if -he’s talking, he eats without thinking about it. I was -counting on that—and besides, he would have disliked<span class="pagenum" id="Page_111">[111]</span> -my suggesting that he should come in to dinner as -usual.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla’s voice and her face alike were entirely -guiltless of irony.</p> - -<p>Quentillian followed her into the dining-room:</p> - -<p>“The others have finished,” Lucilla said. “Would -you rather I stayed, or that I went?”</p> - -<p>“Stay, please.”</p> - -<p>She sat down opposite to him at once.</p> - -<p>“I wish your father were less angry with poor Val, -although perhaps it is not my place to say so. But in -his—his generous sympathy for me, I am afraid he -has rather lost sight of what she must have been suffering.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t think suffering, in my father’s eyes, would -ever condone what he considers wrong-doing.”</p> - -<p>The comment seemed to Owen to be rather an illuminating -one.</p> - -<p>“I suppose not. It may surprise you to hear that I -do not, personally, consider that Canon Morchard is -entitled either to condemn or condone whatever Valeria -may have done.”</p> - -<p>“I quite agree with you.”</p> - -<p>Quentillian was less gratified than astonished at the -assertion.</p> - -<p>“Val herself would hardly agree to that.”</p> - -<p>“No.”</p> - -<p>“Well, but don’t you see, Lucilla, how difficult that’s -going to make things? To my mind, the only natural -proceeding is for Valeria and George Cuscaden to -marry and go to Canada.”</p> - -<p>Quentillian paused almost without meaning to, on a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_112">[112]</span> -pronouncement that would certainly have met with -drastic and emphatic interruption from Canon Morchard.</p> - -<p>Lucilla, however, received it unmoved.</p> - -<p>“Don’t you think so?” said Quentillian, slightly disappointed.</p> - -<p>“Yes.”</p> - -<p>“But will Valeria do it? Won’t her strange ideas -of filial duty interfere? I am absolutely convinced -that one of the principal reasons for her ever becoming -engaged to me, was her wish to please her father.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t think it was altogether that, Owen. But -you did ask her to marry you at a time when she was -just beginning to realize that the sort of life she led -before the war wasn’t going to be enough for her.”</p> - -<p>“Need it have taken a European war to make her -see that?”</p> - -<p>The smile that Lucilla turned upon his petulance was -disarming.</p> - -<p>“Don’t be so cross, Owen.”</p> - -<p>She might have been talking to a little boy.</p> - -<p>“I think,” said Quentillian with dignity, “that perhaps -you forget it was only a few hours ago that I -learnt how completely cheated and—fooled, I have -been.”</p> - -<p>He could not avoid a recollection that the Canon -would not have needed such a reminder.</p> - -<p>“Indeed, I don’t forget at all,” said Lucilla earnestly. -“It must be very vexing for you, but—Owen, do forgive -me for saying that I can’t really feel as if you -minded dreadfully. You’re much too understanding, -really, not to know that poor Val didn’t wilfully cheat<span class="pagenum" id="Page_113">[113]</span> -you, any more than she cheated herself. And I think -you, too, perhaps, in another way, were beginning to -feel that you’d made a mistake in promising to marry -one another.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla, Quentillian realized half ruefully and half -with amusement, had beaten him at his own game. -Her unvarnished appraisement of the situation brought -to it no more and no less than the facts warranted.</p> - -<p>His answering gaze was as straight as her own.</p> - -<p>“You’re right,” he said abruptly.</p> - -<p>She held out her hand with a laden plate in it.</p> - -<p>“Pudding?” she enquired, prosaically.</p> - -<p>“Thanks.”</p> - -<p>He made an excellent dinner.</p> - -<p>“But what will happen to us now, Lucilla?”</p> - -<p>“Well, George Cuscaden will be here again, and -that’ll make Val feel better. And you’ll help, won’t -you?”</p> - -<p>“Certainly.”</p> - -<p>And, on the strange assurance, they separated.</p> - -<p>It was much later that Owen, from his own room, -heard the door of the study immediately below him, -open once more, and then shut.</p> - -<p>Barely audible, but still unmistakable, he heard a -steady stream of sound, rising and falling, easily to be -identified as the Canon’s voice.</p> - -<p>“Good God, what more <i>can</i> he have to say about -it?” reflected Quentillian. He was destined to ask -himself the question again, for the sounds, punctuated -by the briefest of pauses, doubtless consecrated to the -delivery of laconic replies from Lucilla, continued far -into the small hours of the morning.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_114">[114]</span>Finally, after Quentillian had fallen asleep, he was -roused by a gentle, reiterated knocking at the door.</p> - -<p>Only too well aware whose hand was responsible -for those considerately modified taps, he rose and went -to open the door, omitting the usual invitation to enter.</p> - -<p>As he expected, the Canon, unutterably pale and -weary-looking, stood without.</p> - -<p>“Dear fellow, I knew that I should find you awake. -Owen, I could not but come to tell you that all is well -with me now. I have forgiven, even as I myself hope—and -need—to be forgiven. I will see Valeria tomorrow, -and tell her that she has my full and free -pardon. Together we will consider what is the best -thing that we can make of this most unhappy business.”</p> - -<p>“And Cuscaden, sir?”</p> - -<p>Quentillian intended to suggest the inclusion of -Captain Cuscaden in the proposed conference, which -might reasonably be supposed to concern him closely, -but the Canon misunderstood the elliptical reference.</p> - -<p>“Aye, Owen, I have no bitterness left in my heart, -even for him. ‘Unto seventy times seven.’ Those -words have been ringing in my ears until I could -almost bring myself to believe that I heard them uttered -aloud. I need not ask if all is well with you, -dear boy? Your self-command and generosity have -shamed me all along.”</p> - -<p>The absolute sincerity of the utterance caused Quentillian, -with considerably more reason than the Canon, -to feel ashamed in his turn.</p> - -<p>“I am very far from being what you think me, sir,”<span class="pagenum" id="Page_115">[115]</span> -he said, earnestly, and with complete truth. “I am -afraid you are very tired.”</p> - -<p>The Canon, indeed, looked utterly exhausted.</p> - -<p>“If so, it is in my Master’s service,” said Canon -Morchard gently. “And you remember, Owen—‘there -remaineth a rest.’ May it be mine, and yours, too—all -in His own good time! Good-night to you, my -dear.”</p> - -<p>For the first time since Owen’s childish days, the -Canon placed his hand upon his head and murmured -a word of blessing.</p> - -<p>Then, with a smile as wistful as it was tender, he -turned and went away upstairs.</p> - - -<h3>(viii)</h3> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> following day was one of singular discomfort, -and of private interviews that were held to be of the -greatest necessity, in spite of the fact that the participants -always emerged from them in worse plight than -they went in.</p> - -<p>The Canon saw Valeria in his study, and she came -out crying.</p> - -<p>Valeria sought Flora, and both wept.</p> - -<p>Quentillian deliberately demanded an interview from -Captain Cuscaden, but was baffled in his design of a -rational discussion of the three-cornered situation by -Cuscaden’s honest bewilderment at the mere suggestion -of disinterested counsel.</p> - -<p>It seemed, indeed, that Captain Cuscaden would -have understood Owen better, and certainly have -thought more highly of him, had the traditional horsewhip,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_116">[116]</span> -abhorred of all Owen’s most deeply-rooted prejudices, -held a place in their conversation, at least as -threat, if not as actual fact.</p> - -<p>Failing the horsewhip, Cuscaden was inclined to -follow in the wake of the Canon and attribute to -Valeria’s discarded <i>fiancé</i> a spirit of generous heroism -that was even less to Quentillian’s liking.</p> - -<p>“Captain Cuscaden takes primitive views,” Quentillian -observed to Lucilla, whom alone he suspected of -summing up the whole situation very much at its true -value.</p> - -<p>“Yes, that will suit Val very well.”</p> - -<p>“You think she takes primitive views, too?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, don’t you?”</p> - -<p>Owen realized that, although he had never thought -Valeria subtle, he had at least supposed her to be -capable of appreciating his own subtlety. But subtleties -had not, apparently, really weighed with Val at all.</p> - -<p>The sight of her tear-mottled face annoyed Owen’s -æsthetic sense so much, and he felt so sincerely -ashamed of his annoyance, that it constrained him to -absent himself from the house all the afternoon. He -would gladly have left St. Gwenllian altogether and -felt sure that the Canon expected nothing less of him, -but Flora brought him a piteous little message from -Val to beg that he would remain until “something was -settled.”</p> - -<p>In the forlorn hope that this had been achieved, -Quentillian returned.</p> - -<p>An eager grasp met him almost upon the threshold.</p> - -<p>“Owen, dear lad! Where have you been? I have<span class="pagenum" id="Page_117">[117]</span> -been uneasy—most uneasy, at your prolonged absence.”</p> - -<p>“I’m very sorry, sir.”</p> - -<p>“Nay, so long as all is well with you! I should -have had more faith.”</p> - -<p>The Canon smiled gravely, and relief was latent in -the smile. Quentillian suddenly realized that Canon -Morchard had not improbably known the sub-conscious -fear of his guest and <i>protégé</i> having sought some -drastic means of ending an existence in the course of -which he had been played so ill a turn.</p> - -<p>His sense of his own inadequacy increased every -moment.</p> - -<p>“May I know how things stand?” he enquired -abruptly.</p> - -<p>“<i>May</i> you? Who has a better right than yourself, -dear Owen? Come you out with me, and let us have a -few words together.”</p> - -<p>Owen followed his host.</p> - -<p>“It has been a trying day—a sad and trying one. -But I need not tell you <i>that</i>—you, whose grief is so -much greater than mine own, even. Though you, -at least, Owen, have nothing to reproach yourself with, -whereas I am responsible for the weakness in my poor -child which has led to this unhappy state of affairs. -But at least she is fully sensible of error—she knows -what she has done.”</p> - -<p>It would be strange indeed if she did not, Owen -reflected, in the universal <i>bouleversement</i> that had -characterized Valeria’s surroundings ever since her -sudden departure from the conventions.</p> - -<p>“To my surprise, Lucilla, upon whose judgment I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_118">[118]</span> -place a certain reliance, although it may sound somewhat -odd to hear of a father seeking counsel of his -child—Lucilla advocates my sanctioning her sister’s -marriage. My first instinct was of course to cut her -short at the mention of anything so premature—so—so -lacking in all taste or feeling. But—I hardly -know——”</p> - -<p>“There is nothing against Captain Cuscaden, is -there?”</p> - -<p>Quentillian made the observation in the simple hope -of expediting the Canon’s decision, but he immediately -perceived that it led him open once more to the imputation -of high-minded generosity.</p> - -<p>“I mean to say, he can afford to marry?” he -amended hastily.</p> - -<p>“He has satisfied me upon that score,” Canon Morchard -admitted. “I have never desired wealth for my -dear ones, nor have they been brought up to it. Valeria -is not unfitted to become the wife of a poor man. Nay, -had she but acted an honourable and high-minded part -throughout, I should gladly send her forth into the -New World. Valeria has something of the pioneer -spirit, I have always felt.”</p> - -<p>He sighed heavily.</p> - -<p>“In short, Owen, if, as Lucilla tells me, you share -her own view, then I shall not withhold my consent -to this marriage. The haste is strange and unseemly, -but Captain Cuscaden cannot postpone his departure, -in view of the position awaiting him, and my unhappy -child, left here, would be in a difficult and awkward -situation, nor have I any security, alas, that she has -sufficient discretion to face such a situation.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_119">[119]</span>“It might be difficult for her,” Quentillian admitted. -“Lucilla is looking for us, I think, sir.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla was indeed advancing towards them.</p> - -<p>The Canon frowned slightly.</p> - -<p>“Am I wanted, my child?”</p> - -<p>“It was Owen that I wanted, father.”</p> - -<p>“My dear, Owen is engaged with me.”</p> - -<p>“I know,” Lucilla seemed slightly perplexed, but -quite unruffled. “I know, but the post is just going, -and I thought Owen ought to see this before I send -it to the papers.”</p> - -<p>She handed him a sheet of notepaper, upon which he -read a brief and conventionally-worded announcement -to the effect that the marriage arranged between himself -and Valeria Morchard would not take place.</p> - -<p>He passed it to the Canon, who groaned.</p> - -<p>“Must this be?” he enquired, with some superfluity.</p> - -<p>The superfluity seemed to strike himself, for he -added almost at once:</p> - -<p>“‘If ’t’were done, ’t’were well ’t’were done quickly’, -no doubt.”</p> - -<p>“There is the other announcement to be thought of,” -said Lucilla with merciless common-sense. “If Val is -married at the end of this week, we shall have to put -that in the papers.”</p> - -<p>The Canon gave Owen a quick, anxious glance.</p> - -<p>“Come into the house, my daughter,” he said to -Lucilla. “We can speak of such matters there.”</p> - -<p>Owen understood that Canon Morchard was thinking -of him.</p> - -<p>On a sudden impulse he went to seek Valeria.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_120">[120]</span>“Look here, my dear, I’d do anything to help you, -but do you really want me to stay on here any longer? -It’s more than I can stand.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Owen! I thought you’d forgiven me—I -thought you didn’t mind, so very much, after all,” she -cried in dismay.</p> - -<p>“I don’t mind in the least,” Quentillian told her -desperately. “But it’s a false position altogether, and -I want to be out of it.”</p> - -<p>“Of course you do, it was very selfish of me to want -to keep you. Only somehow Father is less—dreadful—when -you’re there, Owen. But he’s forgiven me,” -her tears came falling fast, “and I’m going out with -George when he sails, at the beginning of next week. -We shall be married very, very quietly, on Saturday.”</p> - -<p>“I’m very glad to hear it. Indeed I am, Val. I’m -sure he’s a good fellow, and I hope he’ll make you -very happy.”</p> - -<p>She was crying too much to speak, as he went away -from her.</p> - -<p>And Quentillian, definitely, could tell himself that -he had no regrets in relinquishing Valeria.</p> - -<p>Her warm emotionalism had not been without its -appeal, but he had no liking for tears at a crisis, nor -indeed for a crisis at all. His mind reverted to -Lucilla’s matter-of-fact fashion of dealing with the -crucial instances of life at St. Gwenllian, and theoretically, -he met her attitude with applause. But he also -remembered that he had not found her sympathetic, -upon the preceding evening.</p> - -<p>Impartially, he acknowledged with a rueful smile, -his own exactingness.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_121">[121]</span>He must go, and decided that it should be to London. -As for Stear, he would face it later. The -thought of Stear, and the loneliness there, brought the -realest sense of loss to him that he had yet experienced -over the defection of Valeria.</p> - -<p>He had thought to hear her laughter there, to see -the apricot bloom on her lovely face, her children -growing up there.</p> - -<p>With a long sigh, Owen let the vision go. The -warm, human things of life had come very near to -him, but he had not known how to hold them. Some -subtle, inner sense warned him that Valeria had done -well to betake herself and the rich gifts of her ardent -nature, to the simple and primitive life of the colonies, -and the man who was offering that life to her.</p> - -<p>He went away to make his preparations for leaving -St. Gwenllian.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Valeria’s wedding, not unnaturally, provided no occasion -for festivity.</p> - -<p>The bride herself remarked in private to her sisters:</p> - -<p>“I feel exactly as though I was one of those unfortunate -girls who come to Father for him to marry -them so as to ‘make honest women of them’ at the -eleventh hour. You know the way that sort of wedding -is hurried through, in a hole-and-corner style....”</p> - -<p>“It’s lucky for you you’ve got a good deal of your -trousseau made already,” was Lucilla’s practical reply.</p> - -<p>“Yes, and ‘V. Q.’ embroidered on more than half -of it!” cried Val hysterically.</p> - -<p>“You can’t possibly use it,” Flora declared austerely. -“Unless I can alter it for you in time.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_122">[122]</span>“Of course she can use it,” said Lucilla.</p> - -<p>Valeria left them both. In the overstrained condition -of her nerves, Lucilla’s crudely-worded common-sense -and Flora’s fastidiousness were equally little to -her taste. Her father’s sorrowful gravity struck her -with despair, and Owen Quentillian’s magnanimous -detachment puzzled her sincerely, and made her doubly -remorseful.</p> - -<p>It was only when George Cuscaden was actually -with her that she knew with real certainty that she -had done right at the last moment.</p> - -<p>On the night before her wedding, Canon Morchard -called Valeria, gave her his blessing and forgiveness, -and handed to her some of her dead mother’s jewelry.</p> - -<p>“God bless and help you in the way that you have -chosen, and may He bring all things together for good, -as He alone can do.”</p> - -<p>“Forgive me, Father.”</p> - -<p>“My child, I have nothing to forgive. It was not I -whom you wronged, but yourself,—and one other. -His pardon is yours, fully and freely, as you know -well. And now, my Valeria, you owe it to your husband -to put the past behind you. You will enter into -your new life purified by that very sense of past -error, humbled by repentance.”</p> - -<p>The Canon’s voice was very gentle.</p> - -<p>It was long after midnight when Valeria heard him -go upstairs.</p> - -<p>George Cuscaden and Valeria were married by Mr. -Clover, immediately after Matins next day, and Canon -Morchard, throughout the ceremony, knelt with his -face hidden by his hand.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_123">[123]</span>The sense of irrevocability that comes to most brides -assailed Valeria irresistibly for a moment as she -walked, alone with her husband, the short distance -from the church back to St. Gwenllian.</p> - -<p>She glanced up at him, and in the look that met hers -she found all the reassurance that she was ever to -need.</p> - -<p>“A new life, and a new world, my Val. We’re -going to face things together, now.”</p> - -<p>She was no longer afraid or doubtful, but felt the -strangest rush of pure exhilaration.</p> - -<p>It was her justification for the past.</p> - -<p>“A new life, and a new world,” she repeated. -“We’re going to be very happy, in spite of everything -that’s happened.”</p> - -<p>“We <i>are</i> very happy,” said George Cuscaden firmly, -her hand held fast in his.</p> - -<p>“I think they’ll forgive me, at home, in time. Father -was very kind last night, and Flossie and Lucilla have -been so good.”</p> - -<p>“Val, my darling,” said the young man very seriously, -“there’s one thing I do want to say, and you mustn’t -mind. You’ve got to leave the past behind you, now. -Isn’t there something or other in the Bible about forgetting -thy father’s house and thine own people?”</p> - -<p>“Something like that.”</p> - -<p>“Well, I don’t really mean forgetting them, you -know. But you’ve got your own life now, and it isn’t -going to run on the old lines any more. It seems to -me there’s been such a lot of talking and thinking in -your life up to now, that there’s been no room for<span class="pagenum" id="Page_124">[124]</span> -doing anything. You and I are going to change all -that.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, George,” said Valeria.</p> - -<p>She had, mysteriously, become absolutely happy and -absolutely secure. Nothing mattered any more at all -except the fact that George and she had found one another -in time.</p> - -<p>And she was able to surmise, not without a smile, -that she had that moment heard almost the only -Scriptural quotation from her husband of which he -was ever likely to deliver himself.</p> - -<p>Quotations, collections, barren discussions, abstract -ideals, all lay behind her. In future her preoccupations -would concern the health and welfare of her husband -and perhaps his children, food and clothing and -warmth, pots and pans, and the work of her own -hands.</p> - -<p>And from the depths of her heart, Valeria was -glad.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_125">[125]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">II<br /> - - -<small>ADRIAN</small></h2> -</div> - -<h3>(i)</h3> - -<p>“<span class="smcap">You</span> know, I can’t help thinking you’ve been all -wrong about this business of Val’s,” Adrian said reproachfully -to his remaining sisters.</p> - -<p>Lucilla seemed singularly undisturbed by the distressing -pronouncement, but Flora said anxiously:</p> - -<p>“Why, Adrian?”</p> - -<p>“Well, look how frightfully hard it is on the rest -of us. You know what Father is—he’ll be days and -days, if not months and months, getting over this, -and it’ll put him dead against anything of that sort -for life.”</p> - -<p>“These things don’t happen twice in one family, I -hope,” said Lucilla. “Neither Flora nor I are particularly -likely to break off one engagement and enter -into another and get married and go off to Canada, -all inside a week.”</p> - -<p>“You girls never think of anybody but yourselves.”</p> - -<p>“Are you thinking of doing anything like that, -then, Adrian?”</p> - -<p>Lucilla appeared mildly to be amused, and not at -all impressed by the probability of her own suggestion.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_126">[126]</span>“How can I think of doing anything at all when -I can’t get a decent job and only have a nominal allowance? -I know Father can’t afford more, and we’re -all in the same box—and then Val goes and marries -a chap like Cuscaden, who hasn’t a penny, when she -could have had a fellow with a decent little property -and some money of his own, besides what I suppose -he makes by writing. Why, just think what she -could have done for all of us!”</p> - -<p>Lucilla laughed outright.</p> - -<p>“It wouldn’t have made millionaires of us, if she -had married Owen.”</p> - -<p>“Well, I can’t say I blame her, from one point of -view,” Adrian conceded. “A more absolute prig than -Owen has turned into, I never wish to meet. You -know he won’t promise me the living at Stear?”</p> - -<p>“The living at Stear?”</p> - -<p>Flora looked at her brother in all but speechless -astonishment, and Lucilla observed that a living was -usually offered to a clergyman.</p> - -<p>“And is there any reason why I shouldn’t go into -the Church?” Adrian enquired, in counter-irony. -“Goodness knows there was enough talk about it before -the war, and it would please the governor -frightfully. In fact, really, I’m thinking of him as -much as anything. He was disappointed about old -David going into the army, and he’s frightfully cut -up about Val, and he may as well get a little comfort -out of one of us. And I really don’t dislike the idea -much, especially if it means a settled income in a year -or two’s time.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla got up.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_127">[127]</span>“Talk to Mr. Clover, before you say anything to -Father,” she advised. “Flossie, I’m going to see -about Val’s class.”</p> - -<p>Flora looked at Adrian with grave, unhumourous -eyes.</p> - -<p>“You don’t realize what Father would feel about -your speaking of going into the priesthood in that -sort of way, Adrian. You have no faintest vocation -to the life of a clergyman.”</p> - -<p>“What do you know about it? I’m the only person -who can judge of that.”</p> - -<p>“It lies between you and your conscience, certainly. -But if you suppose that Father, with all his experience, -would be satisfied with any but the highest -motives——”</p> - -<p>She stopped expressively.</p> - -<p>“There may be different opinions as to what the -highest motives <i>are</i>,” said Adrian. “I wish this business -of Val’s hadn’t put it out of the question to ask -Owen anything.”</p> - -<p>“Owen is coming to Stear in another month. I am -quite certain that he doesn’t mean to let this make any -difference, and you can ask him anything you want -to. But really and truly, Adrian, if this suggestion -wasn’t so absolutely wild, I should call it most irreverent.”</p> - -<p>It was evident that Flora had uttered the most profound -condemnation of which she was capable.</p> - -<p>That night she enquired of Lucilla whether it was -Adrian’s infatuation for Miss Duffle that brought to -birth his strangely sudden desire for clerical life.</p> - -<p>“I suppose so.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_128">[128]</span>“But apart from everything else, he’s much too -young to marry. And I don’t suppose she’d look at -him.”</p> - -<p>“Neither do I. So we needn’t worry about it.”</p> - -<p>“I feel as if Adrian was somebody quite new, -whom I’d never known before.”</p> - -<p>“He’s only growing up.”</p> - -<p>“Does Father really know Adrian?”</p> - -<p>Lucilla shook her head.</p> - -<p>Both missed Valeria, and the mournful haste with -which she had been equipped for her wedding and immediate -departure for Canada had left them with a -curious sense of having come through a great -catastrophe.</p> - -<p>The Canon was more profoundly depressed than -they had ever seen him, and rarely spoke. The reduced -number of people present at every meal rendered more -significant the abysmal silences of each gathering.</p> - -<p>Owen Quentillian, who had shown no marked disposition -to take an immediate departure from St. -Gwenllian, had been constrained to do so by the -Canon’s grieved air of perceiving for him no other -alternative.</p> - -<p>The house bore a stricken aspect.</p> - -<p>Only Adrian retained a sort of uneasy jauntiness, -that petered away into silence in the presence of his -father.</p> - -<p>Canon Morchard’s presence, however, was far more -withdrawn than usual from his family circle. Always -energetic, he seemed able to find innumerable claims -upon his time, and after the daily adjustment of these, -the study door was apt to shut upon him decisively.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_129">[129]</span>At dinner-time only were they certain of seeing him, -and the resultant gloom was of a nature that induced -Adrian, far more affected by it than either of his sisters -appeared to be, to invite the innocuous Mr. Clover to -dinner very soon after Valeria’s departure.</p> - -<p>The curate was always ready to promote conversation, -and sincerely supposed that his efforts must be -consolatory to his hosts. His attempts took the form -habitual to him of slightly self-evident remarks upon -whatever caught his eye in his surroundings.</p> - -<p>“Ha! Clover, dear man!” The Canon’s voice was -sepulchral, rather than cordial. “Sit ye down—sit ye -down.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Clover made a few timid remarks to his neighbour, -Flora, and wished that it had been Lucilla. He -was always rather frightened of the silent Flora, and -showed his alarmed consciousness of her musical talent -by inquiring:</p> - -<p>“And how is the piano?”</p> - -<p>“What have we here, Lucilla?” said the Canon -gravely, although the dish of cutlets was of an unmistakable -nature.</p> - -<p>He often made use of the phrase, and on this occasion -it bore an inflexion of disapproval that was evidently -not inspired by the cutlets themselves, but by -some inner, more profound discontent.</p> - -<p>“Cutlets in a silver dish,” said Mr. Clover.</p> - -<p>“Do you know that the Admastons are getting up -a theatrical show?” Adrian inquired. “Good idea, -isn’t it?”</p> - -<p>“I didn’t know any of them could act,” said Flora.</p> - -<p>“Oh, they’ve got friends and people. I tell you who’s<span class="pagenum" id="Page_130">[130]</span> -awfully good—Olga Duffle. She’s going to stay on -for the performance. As a matter of fact, they’ve -asked me to help get the thing up.”</p> - -<p>Adrian’s elaborately casual tone did not prevent anyone -except Lucilla from glancing surreptitiously at the -Canon, to see how the announcement was received.</p> - -<p>The Canon was frowning heavily.</p> - -<p>“No one has more sympathy than myself with any -diversions for young people, but the modern craze for -amusement is carried too far. What is it that your -friends are proposing to do, Adrian?”</p> - -<p>“Just get up a musical show—a sort of Pierrot entertainment. -It’ll be mostly singing and dancing, I -expect.”</p> - -<p>“I presume they have a charitable object in view.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose so,” returned Adrian, in a tone that conveyed -with sufficient accuracy to the majority of his -hearers that he had no reason for supposing anything -of the sort.</p> - -<p>“The youth of today is an amazement to me,” -said the Canon impressively. “After coming through -Armageddon, the young men and young women of -the present generation seem given over to a spirit of -triviality—I can call it nothing else—that amazes me. -There is no humour, today, there is ‘ragging’ or ‘rotting.’ -There is no dancing—there is ‘fox-trotting,’ -and ‘jazzing.’ There is no dressing, with beauty and -dignity, for young womanhood—there is blatant indecency -and an aping of a class that I cannot even name -in this room. There is no art, no drama, no literature—there -are <i>revues</i>, and a new class of novel of which -I cannot even trust myself to speak.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_131">[131]</span>The Canon drew a long breath and Adrian murmured -sub-audibly:</p> - -<p>“And fifthly, and lastly——”</p> - -<p>Mr. Clover gazed at the bowl in the middle of the -table and said:</p> - -<p>“Very—very—nice maidenhair,” in a rapid undertone, -and Canon Morchard resumed:</p> - -<p>“I yield to no one, as you young folk here should -readily admit, in my appreciation of the lighter side of -life. I believe, indeed, that I have poked some shrewd -enough fun in my day, at those who would have us -believe that this world is a gloomy place. Rather -would I say, in the old words we all know: ‘A merry -heart goes all the way, but a sad one tires in a mile’—ah! -You children can very well vouch for the amount -of innocent amusement and recreation that has gone -on amongst us. Our Sunday walks, our collecting -crazes, our family quips in which young and old have -taken full share—with deference due, be it understood, -with deference due—our evening readings-aloud—I -think all these, if they have been an entertainment, have -also provided a certain instruction. And that is as it -should be, let me tell you, young people—as it should -be.”</p> - -<p>“My father read aloud the whole of the Waverly -novels to us, when we were children,” Lucilla explained -to the curate.</p> - -<p>“Nowadays, I am given to understand that children -read an illustrated supplement entitled <i>Comic Cuts</i>,” -said the Canon bitterly.</p> - -<p>“Pretty Wedgwood plate,” came in an aside from -Mr. Clover.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_132">[132]</span>“There is a reaction even against Tennyson, that -king of song,” thundered the Canon.</p> - -<p>“Most of all against Tennyson, according to Owen -Quentillian,” said Adrian rather maliciously.</p> - -<p>“Owen is tainted by the folly of the day, undoubtedly—but -I cannot but believe that a young man of -intellectual calibre such as his will learn to distinguish -the true from the false in time. Owen is ‘the child of -many prayers,’” said the Canon with a sudden softening -of his voice.</p> - -<p>A moment later he sighed heavily.</p> - -<p>The direction of his thoughts was only too evidently -concerned with the recent disastrous turn taken by -Quentillian’s <i>affaire de cœur</i>.</p> - -<p>“What is the programme of your friends’ entertainment?” -the curate timorously inquired of Adrian.</p> - -<p>“Well, they’ve not really worked out the details yet, -but I’ve been asked to go over there this afternoon and -help them settle. Of course, Miss Duffle will sing, and -she’s promised to do a step-dance, and she and I -thought of getting up a play of some kind.”</p> - -<p>“You are not in a position to bind yourself to anything -of that sort, Adrian,” said the Canon hastily. -“I would have you realize that this supineness cannot -go on. You appear to forget that you have to find -some work for yourself.”</p> - -<p>It was so seldom that Canon Morchard vented his -feelings upon his younger son that an appalled silence -followed his words, rendering them the more noticeable.</p> - -<p>Then Mr. Clover said:</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_133">[133]</span>“Half-past eight,” in time to the chiming of the -clock on the mantelpiece, and there was another silence.</p> - -<p>Adrian looked sulky, and Flora nervous. The curate -gazed across the table at Lucilla and inquired:</p> - -<p>“What news from India?”</p> - -<p>It was the head of the house who replied.</p> - -<p>“David is strangely lax as a correspondent, Clover, -strangely lax. Flora there is favoured with a letter -more often than most of us—or should I rather say, -less seldom? And yet it costs so little to send a few -lines regularly to the loving ones at home! You young -folk little think what you are laying up for yourselves -in the years to come by neglecting tokens that may -appear trivial at the time. The unspoken kind word, -the unwritten affectionate letter—how they come back -to haunt us later on!”</p> - -<p>It almost appeared that these non-existent symbols -were haunting St. Gwenllian at once, so heavily did -the shadow of David’s remissness hang over the dinner -table.</p> - -<p>The Canon alternated between fits of profound and -cataclysmic silence, during which he ate nothing and -his eyes became grave and fixed in their unhappiness, -and outbursts of vehement discoursiveness, that not -infrequently took the form of rhetorical remonstrances -addressed to an audience only too willing to agree with -him.</p> - -<p>The consciousness of his grief pervaded the atmosphere. -No one could be unaware of it. His children, -indeed, knew of old the successive stages of -anger, morose irritability, and heart-broken remorse, -to which mental suffering reduced their father.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_134">[134]</span>Mr. Clover’s ineptitudes fell upon tense pauses, and -remained unanswered.</p> - -<p>Gradually the little man’s kind, anxious face showed -a faint reflection of the misery that was so plainly to -be read upon the Canon’s.</p> - -<p>Flora’s face looked set in its gravity, Adrian was -frankly sulky and resentful, and Lucilla’s impassivity -was tinged with regretfulness.</p> - -<p>Outside sounds struck almost with violence upon the -silence within, and Mr. Clover murmured distressfully:</p> - -<p>“A motor going along the road, towards the town.”</p> - -<p>“The craze for rapid transport is ruining our English -countryside,” said the Canon. “Frankly, I cannot -away with it. What profit or pleasure can there be in -whirling past unseen scenery, leaving clouds of dust -and an evil odour behind?”</p> - -<p>No one attempted to defend the satisfaction to be -derived from the pastime so epitomized, and the Canon -after a moment pushed back his chair.</p> - -<p>“Don’t move—do not move on any account. Clover, -you will pardon me, I know. I have a great deal of -writing to get through. I shall require no coffee, Lucilla.”</p> - -<p>He went out of the room, unsmiling, and with a -slow, dejected step, his grey head a little bowed forward.</p> - -<p>“How long is this going to last?” inquired Adrian, -after a moment.</p> - -<p>No one attempted to misunderstand his meaning.</p> - -<p>“The worst of it is that he’ll be still more unhappy -a little later on, when he realizes that his depression -has reacted on all of us,” said Flora.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_135">[135]</span>“In the meantime, Adrian, I strongly advise you to -find a job and begin to work at it,” Lucilla added.</p> - -<p>“Your father is very, very much depressed,” said -Mr. Clover.</p> - -<p>Adrian appeared to ponder these encouraging statements, -and then he observed:</p> - -<p>“Well, I don’t seem to be doing any good by staying -here, so I think the best thing I can do is to accept -the Admastons’ invitation and go over there and stay -until after this show. It’ll be much handier for rehearsals, -after all.”</p> - -<p>It may be supposed that this reason, however adequate -in fact, was not put forward, unsupported, by -Lucilla, upon whom Adrian as a matter of course devolved -the task of announcing his immediate intentions -to the Canon.</p> - -<p>“Let it be understood that he makes no further engagement -of the kind,” said the Canon curtly. “I -cannot interfere with his promise to these people, but -this state of affairs must end. I will speak to him -before he goes. Adrian is only a boy still, for all his -war experience.”</p> - -<p>There was the indulgent note in his voice that always -crept there sooner or later when speaking of his -youngest son.</p> - -<p>Adrian went to the Admastons, and St. Gwenllian -became used to the silence. Gradually the Canon resumed -his habits of reading aloud after dinner, and -of exchanging small items of general and parish news -with his family during meals.</p> - -<p>He seldom mentioned Valeria, but they knew that he -had written to her.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_136">[136]</span>He spoke of her again when an invitation came from -the Admastons to witness their entertainment—an invitation -which Adrian, it was evident to his sisters, cheerfully -took it for granted that his father would refuse.</p> - -<p>“It is very soon—very soon, indeed—to meet our -neighbours after this unhappy affair of Valeria’s, that -I fear has been only too much talked about. But it -may be right to accept—it may be right. I cannot wish -to disappoint the dear Adrian, either, though I am out -of tune with gaieties at present. I will think over it, -Lucilla, my dear, and let you know what answer to -return.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla, according to her wont, uttered no opinion, -until Flora said to her:</p> - -<p>“Wouldn’t it be better if we didn’t go to these -theatricals? Won’t Father dislike them very much?”</p> - -<p>“Very much indeed, I should imagine.”</p> - -<p>“And do you suppose Adrian <i>wants</i> us to be there?”</p> - -<p>“Probably not.”</p> - -<p>They looked at one another, Lucilla with a certain -rueful humourousness, Flora with none at all.</p> - -<p>“But, Lucilla, can’t you stop him?”</p> - -<p>“I shouldn’t think so.”</p> - -<p>Miss Morchard was always philosophical, rather -than enterprising.</p> - -<p>The Canon’s decision was communicated to his -daughters a few days later.</p> - -<p>“I have pondered this matter, my daughters, trivial -though it be in itself. And it seems to me that we -should do well to accept Mrs. Admaston’s invitation. -Lucilla, you are my secretary.... And one thing more, -my daughters.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_137">[137]</span>The Canon’s glance rested upon Flora, upon whose -face a shade of dismay had fallen.</p> - -<p>“One thing more. ‘<i>God loveth a cheerful giver.</i>’ -Even though it costs us something, let us go with a -good grace. We owe it to Valeria, to our dear erring -one, to show that she is whole-heartedly forgiven. Yes, -I can say it now, children. I have written my full and -free forgiveness to your sister. The cloud has lifted.”</p> - -<p>If so, it appeared to have done so only with a view -to descending upon other members of the Morchard -<i>ménage</i>.</p> - -<p>Neither Lucilla nor Flora prepared for the Admastons’ -party with any feelings save those of profound -apprehension, and Adrian, meeting them in the hall, -drew Lucilla aside in order to ask indignantly:</p> - -<p>“Couldn’t you have stopped Father from coming tonight? -I don’t want to be a beast, but really, it’s quite -out of his line, and he won’t enjoy himself. In fact, -he’ll probably be sick.”</p> - -<p>The aspirant to the ministry was garbed as a Pierrot, -with a curiously-shaped black patch upon his cheek, -revealed as a miniature couple of dancers intertwined.</p> - -<p>“Olga made it—isn’t it ripping?” said Adrian of -this masterpiece. “I can’t wait—I ought to be behind -the scenes at this minute. I came to look for some -salts or something—Olga’s most awfully nervous. -She’s simply shaking. What’s the proper thing to do -for her, Lucilla? She’s really most awfully upset.”</p> - -<p>“What about?”</p> - -<p>“Stage fright, I tell you. Really good actors and -actresses always get it. I wish I could get hold of -some champagne for her.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_138">[138]</span>“Try standing over her with the water-jug,” Lucilla -suggested crisply, and thereby deprived herself of her -brother’s presence.</p> - -<p>The Canon was always apt, at any gathering, to require -a daughter upon either side, although he knew -almost everyone in the county, and met old friends -with a great and urbane pleasure. On this occasion, -his eye roved in vain for Flora.</p> - -<p>She had murmured to Lucilla: “I don’t think I can -bear it. Even Maud Admaston says they’re all going -to be very <i>silly</i>, and I know Father will loathe it. I’ll -change places later if you want me to.”</p> - -<p>She had then disappeared to the very back of the -large billiard-room at one end of which a stage and -curtains had been erected.</p> - -<p>Their hostess, with what Lucilla inwardly qualified -as misguided kindness, conducted the Canon to a seat -near the top of the room.</p> - -<p>Lucilla resignedly took her place beside him.</p> - -<p>“Capital, capital!” said the Canon genially. “But -where is my little Flora?”</p> - -<p>“I think she found someone who wanted to talk to -her.”</p> - -<p>“Flora is still timid—very timid. I fear that Flora -has let slip her chance of joining our little family -group. I should have enjoyed having a daughter on -either side of me, to exchange impressions.”</p> - -<p>The first item on the heterogeneous programme, -however, was provocative of no very eloquent exchange -of impressions between Canon Morchard and anyone -else.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_139">[139]</span>He listened with a faint air of surprise to an opening -chorus from a row of Pierrots and Pierrettes, interspersed -with various noises from a whistle, a comb, -a pair of castanets, and a small and solid poker banged -loudly and intermittently against a tin tray.</p> - -<p>At the close of it he only said:</p> - -<p>“I hardly recognized our dear lad, at first. That -was he, was it not, at the end of the row, next to the -little lady with black hair?”</p> - -<p>“Yes. The girl was Olga Duffle. I believe she sings -a great deal.”</p> - -<p>The literal truth of her own description was borne -in upon Lucilla as the evening went on. Miss Duffle -did sing a great deal.</p> - -<p>She sang a solo about the Moon, and another one -about a Coal-black Baby Rose, and a third one, very -short and modern and rather indeterminate, asking -where was now the Flow’r, that had died within an -Hour, and ending on the still more poignant enquiry, -addressed to <i>le Bon Dieu</i> Above, Where was one who -said “I love”?</p> - -<p>The Canon, to this item, only asked in a puzzled -way if the end was not rather abrupt?</p> - -<p>“What in my day, we should have termed an unresolved -discord,” he observed with some slight severity.</p> - -<p>The sudden introduction of a quantity of toy balloons -amongst the audience did not amuse him in the -least, although he smiled, coldly and politely, as the -guests, with little screams, buffeted them lightly from -one to another.</p> - -<p>Only the people on the stage, all very young, seemed -thoroughly to realize the function of the toy balloons.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_140">[140]</span>They banged them hither and thither, shrieking with -laughter when the inevitable destruction ensued, and -making each miniature explosion an excuse for calling -out the catchword of the evening—imported from a -<i>revue</i> comedian whose methods, more or less successfully -imitated by most of the young men on the stage, -appeared to consist in the making of grotesque facial -contortions:—“May—I—ask—you—politely—to—<i>absquatulate</i>?”</p> - -<p>At each repetition of the phrase, the actors and actresses -were overcome with mirth.</p> - -<p>The members of the audience were more divided in -their opinions. Their laughter was not immoderate, -and that of Canon Morchard was non-existent.</p> - -<p>Lucilla, gazing anxiously at his severe profile, was -yet able to feel it some slight relief that at least Owen -Quentillian was not present. One such expression of -melancholy beside her was more than enough.</p> - -<p>“I hope I am not what is vulgarly called ‘superior’,” -said the Canon, “but I confess that all this noise appears -to me to be little short of senseless. Surely our -faculties were given us for some better purpose than -pointless, discordant merriment? No one is more -ready than myself to concede——”</p> - -<p>The upheaval of an enormous drum on to the stage -debarred Lucilla from hearing what it was that no one -was more ready than her father to concede, and she -was left, amidst ever-increasing din, to judge from his -exceedingly uncompromising expression, how much -more of the performance would elapse without causing -him to become what was vulgarly called superior.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_141">[141]</span></p> - - -<h3>(ii)</h3> - -<p><span class="smcap">Lucilla</span> Morchard was not naturally of a sanguine -disposition, and it must have been an optimist indeed -who would have ventured to augur that the effect of -the evening’s entertainment might be of benefit to the -Canon’s spirits.</p> - -<p>From placidity he passed to tolerance, and from -tolerance to endurance. In the course of the short -play that concluded the performance, Lucilla perceived -with resigned dismay that endurance was turning -rapidly to serious vexation.</p> - -<p>“Extravagant, vulgar, decadent nonsense,” was the -Canon’s verdict, and Lucilla’s critical faculty endorsed -the trenchant adjectives that he had selected, although -she was devoid of her parent’s apparently acute sense -of disgust.</p> - -<p>“Olga Duffle is a good actress,” she said.</p> - -<p>“One dislikes the <i>levity</i> of it all so profoundly,” -said the Canon. “I believe I am the last man in the -world to hold back from any cheerful, innocent amusement -at fit and proper times and seasons, but I cannot -but regret that Adrian, naturally gifted as he is, should -turn his talents to no better account than mere buffoonery.”</p> - -<p>The part relegated to Adrian in the little play was indeed -of no exalted order, and the most subtle display -of humour conceded to him was concerned with the -sudden removal of a chair behind him and his consequent -fall on to the floor.</p> - -<p>The audience laughed, with mild amusement.</p> - -<p>Lucilla dared not look at her father.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_142">[142]</span>A spirited speech from Olga Duffle, who had shown -no signs whatever of the stage fright that had caused -her fellow-actor so much solicitude, brought down the -curtain. Lucilla’s applause was rendered vigorous by -an impulse of extreme thankfulness.</p> - -<p>She was also grateful to the Canon for the measured -clapping of the palm of one hand against the back of -the other, with which he rewarded a performance that -he had certainly found to be neither instructive nor -amusing.</p> - -<p>Adrian sought no parental congratulations, when -the performers, still in theatrical costume, came down -amongst the audience, but Olga Duffle made her way -towards the Canon.</p> - -<p>She looked, as usual, more attractive than any of the -prettier girls present, and spoke with her habitual childlike, -almost imperceptible, suggestion of lisping.</p> - -<p>“Didn’t you think us all very silly? I’m afraid we -were, but so few people care for anything else, nowadays.”</p> - -<p>Her glance and gesture eloquently numbered the -Canon in the few, though she did not extend the implication -quite so far as to include Lucilla.</p> - -<p>“You are a good actress, Miss Duffle. Have you -had training?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no, nothing to speak of,” said Olga modestly. -“They did offer to give me a year at the big Dramatic -Training place, free, after I’d acted in a charity matinée -a few years ago in London. They said I could -easily play juvenile lead in any theatre in London at -the end of a year, but of course that was all nonsense. -Anyway my people naturally wouldn’t hear of it.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_143">[143]</span>“Indeed. Certainly it is a very moot point how far -the possession of a definite talent justifies embracing a -life such as that of a professional actress must needs -be.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, isn’t it?” said Olga.</p> - -<p>Her big dark eyes were fixed on the Canon’s face, -her lips parted with the expression of absorbed interest -that lent her charm as a listener.</p> - -<p>Lucilla was not surprised to see that the Canon’s -face relaxed as he looked down at the small up-gazing -figure.</p> - -<p>She left them, in response to an imperious glance -directed upon her from the other end of the room.</p> - -<p>“I particularly want the old man to get to know -Olga,” said Adrian with agitation. “It’d do him all -the good in the world to have some of his ideas about -the modern girl put straight, and if anyone can do it, -she can. Wasn’t it priceless of her to make straight -for him like that?”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps she likes to talk to a distinguished man.”</p> - -<p>“My dear old thing, don’t be absurd. Why, Olga -has half London at her feet.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla felt unable to make any display of enthusiasm -at the announcement, although she saw no reason -to doubt that a substratum of fact underlay Adrian’s -hyperbole.</p> - -<p>“I suppose Father thought the whole show utter -tripe?”</p> - -<p>“He didn’t say so,” Lucilla observed drily.</p> - -<p>“Well, for goodness sake get him away as soon as -Olga’s had her talk with him. The Admastons are -determined to turn the whole thing into a glorious rag,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_144">[144]</span> -and it’ll go on till all hours. Father would be wretched, -and besides I should have him on my mind the whole -time. I daresay I shan’t have many more opportunities -of enjoying myself, so I may as well make the -most of this,” said Adrian in a voice charged with -meaning, that Lucilla understood to be an allusion to -his recent ecclesiastical ambitions.</p> - -<p>When she found herself beside her father again, he -was in conversation with a short, fat, dark man whom -he made known to his daughter with a somewhat abstracted -air.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Duffle, Lucilla.”</p> - -<p>She was rather amused at the ease with which Olga’s -parentage could be traced, although in her, a <i>retroussé</i> -nose replaced the wide and upturned pug of her father, -and her dark, intelligent gaze was an unmistakably -improved edition of his shrewd black eyes. From -both faces shone the same ardent, restless, and essentially -animal, vitality.</p> - -<p>Mr. Duffle, however, had none of Olga’s claims to -social charms and talents. Lucilla knew him to be a -successful building contractor, who had amassed a -fortune during the war, and decided that he looked the -part.</p> - -<p>“I’ll come along one morning then, Canon, and have -a little chat with you,” Mr. Duffle was declaring with -a breezy assurance that could hardly have been derived -from the Canon’s expression.</p> - -<p>“You’re kept pretty hard at it, I daresay?”</p> - -<p>“The man who wants me is the man I want,” quoted -the Canon, with his grave smile.</p> - -<p>“Capital. I’ll blow along then, and give you a call.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_145">[145]</span> -My big car is in London, but we’ve got a little Daimler -down here that does very well for country lanes. My -daughter, of course, runs her own little two-seater. -These young people, nowadays, there’s no end to what -they expect. Not that I grudge Olga anything in -reason, you understand. She’s our only one, and -naturally her mother and I think the world of her.”</p> - -<p>A very simple pride beamed in his face as he spoke -of Olga, and Lucilla congratulated him upon her acting.</p> - -<p>“She’s pretty good, isn’t she? I believe she could -take her place amongst professionals any day, so she -tells me. But of course we shouldn’t hear of anything -like that for her. In fact, her mother and I -look very high for our little girl, very high indeed, -I may say, after all that Nature’s done for her, and -the advantages we’ve given her as well.”</p> - -<p>He laughed heartily, and then leaning confidentially -towards Lucilla he said in a semi-whisper:</p> - -<p>“Whoever gets our little Olga, young lady, will be -a very lucky fellow. There’ll be a little bit of—” he -tapped his forehead knowingly “and a little bit of—” -the tap was repeated, against his coat pocket this time. -Lucilla required no very acute powers of intuition to -refer these demonstrations to her brother’s intention.</p> - -<p>She wondered whether the Canon had made a similar -deduction.</p> - -<p>He was silent during their long drive home, but it -was the silence of thoughtfulness rather than that of -depression. The Canon’s intimates could generally -interpret without difficulty the nature of his silences.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_146">[146]</span>On the morning following he called Lucilla into the -study.</p> - -<p>“I had no word with Adrian last night,” he said -wistfully. “I saw you talking to him, my dear. Did -he tell you what day he is coming home again?”</p> - -<p>“No, Father.”</p> - -<p>“I confess that I am perturbed. Are these new -friends of his gentlefolk, are they church people, are -they even Christians?” said the Canon, walking up -and down. “If only the boy would be more unreserved -with me! One is so terribly anxious.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t think he wants to be reserved. He really -has no serious suggestion to offer, as to the future.”</p> - -<p>“My poor lad! He is not sufficiently in earnest. I -have blinded myself to it long enough. His early piety -and simplicity were so beautiful that perhaps I dwelt -upon them as tokens of future growth more than I -should have done. But there was a levity of tone -about these intimates of his that displeased me greatly. -It must cease, Lucilla—this intercourse must cease.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla dreaded few things more than such resolutions, -from which she knew that her father, at whatever -cost to himself or to anybody else, never swerved.</p> - -<p>“The Admastons are neighbours,” she pointed out.</p> - -<p>“All the more reason for Adrian to be content to -meet them in the ordinary course of events, without -treating their house as an hotel. But there is a -further attraction, Lucilla, I am convinced of it.”</p> - -<p>The Canon dropped his voice to impart his piece of -penetration.</p> - -<p>“That little Miss Duffle is undoubtedly attractive,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_147">[147]</span> -but can the boy have the incredible folly to be paying -his addresses to her?”</p> - -<p>It did not seem to Lucilla that any such formal term -could possibly be applied to Adrian’s highly modern -methods of displaying his admiration for Olga, and -she informed her father so with decision.</p> - -<p>“He must at all events be aware that he is in no -position to render any young lady conspicuous by his -attentions,” said the Canon. “I am displeased with -Adrian, Lucilla.”</p> - -<p>Canon Morchard was not alone in his displeasure. -Two days after the theatricals, Olga Duffle’s father appeared -at St. Gwenllian, and was shown into the study.</p> - -<p>The Canon greeted him, his habitual rather stately -courtesy in strong contrast to his visitor’s bluff curtness -of manner.</p> - -<p>“Sit you down, my dear sir.”</p> - -<p>The Canon took his own place on the revolving -chair before the writing-table, and the tips of his -fingers were lightly joined together as he bent his gaze, -benignant, and yet serious, upon the little building contractor.</p> - -<p>“You’ve got a nice little old place here. Needs a -lot of seeing to, though, I daresay. I see you haven’t -the electric light.”</p> - -<p>The Canon glanced round him as though he had -hardly noticed, as indeed he had not, the absence -of this modern advantage.</p> - -<p>“It wouldn’t cost you more than a couple of hundred -to put it in,” said Mr. Duffle negligently.</p> - -<p>The Canon was not in the least interested in the -problematical expense to be thus incurred, but he replied<span class="pagenum" id="Page_148">[148]</span> -gently that perhaps one of these days his successor -might wish to improve St. Gwenllian, and be -in a position to do so.</p> - -<p>“Ah,” said Mr. Duffle. “That brings me to my -point, in a roundabout sort of way. Your young man, -Canon, has no particular inheritance to look forward -to, if I understand rightly?”</p> - -<p>“My young man?”</p> - -<p>“Your boy Adrian. Not even your eldest son, is -he?”</p> - -<p>“Adrian is the youngest of my five children,” said -the Canon with peculiar distinctness. “I have two -sons and three daughters. May I enquire the reason -of this interest in my family?”</p> - -<p>“No offense, I hope, Canon. I thought you’d have -guessed the reason fast enough—my girl Olga. Now -mind you, I know very well that boys will be boys, and -girls girls, for the matter of that. I’m not even saying -that the little monkey hasn’t led him on a bit—she -leads ’em all on, come to that! But Master Adrian -has been talking of an engagement, it seems, and that -won’t do at all, you know. So I thought you and me, -Canon——”</p> - -<p>“Stop!” The Canon’s face was rigid. “Am I to -understand that your daughter has reason to complain -that my son presses undesired attentions upon her, or -causes their names to be coupled together in a manner -displeasing to her?”</p> - -<p>The builder’s stare was one of honest bewilderment.</p> - -<p>“Coupled together!” he repeated derisively. “Why, -the lad follows her about like a little dog. I should -think old Matthew Admaston is as easy going as they<span class="pagenum" id="Page_149">[149]</span> -make ’em, but even he thought it a bit thick to have -your young moon-calf, if you’ll excuse the expression, -on his doorstep morning, noon and night, while my -girl was in the house, till they had to ask him to stay, -to save the front-door bell coming off in his hand.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Duffle’s humourous extravagance of imagery -awoke no response in Canon Morchard.</p> - -<p>“My son’s impertinent folly shall be put a stop to -immediately,” he said, through closely compressed lips.</p> - -<p>“Bless me! there’s nothing that needs a rumpus -made about it, you understand. Only when it comes -to prating about being engaged, and promising to -marry him in goodness knows how many years, and -goodness knows what on—why, then it’s time us older -folk stepped in, I think, and I’m sure you’ll agree -with me.”</p> - -<p>“Do I understand that my son—without reference -to me, I may add—has asked Miss Duffle to do him -the honour of becoming his wife?”</p> - -<p>Mr. Duffle stared at the Canon blankly.</p> - -<p>“Ill though he seems to have behaved, you will hardly -expect me to accept, on his behalf, an entire rejection -of his suit, without reference to the young lady herself.”</p> - -<p>A resounding blow from Mr. Duffle’s open palm -onto his knee startled the Canon and made him jump -in his chair.</p> - -<p>“Good God!” roared the builder, causing Canon -Morchard to wince a second time, “is this talk out of -a novel? How in the name of all that’s reasonable -can the boy marry without a profession or an income? -I’ll do him the justice to say that I’ve never thought<span class="pagenum" id="Page_150">[150]</span> -him a fortune hunter. (He’s not got the guts for that, -if you’ll excuse me being so plain-spoken.) He’s besotted -about the girl, and not the first one either, though -I do say it myself. But my Olga is our only child, and -will get every penny I have to leave, and the fact of -the matter is that she’ll be a rich woman one of these -days, in a manner of speaking. Therefore, Canon, -you’ll understand me when I say that Olga can look -high—very high, she can look.”</p> - -<p>The Canon’s countenance did, indeed, show the most -complete comprehension of the case so stated. His -face, in its stern pallor, became more cameo-like than -ever.</p> - -<p>“Sir, do you accuse my son of trifling, of the unutterable -meanness of endeavouring to engage a young -lady’s affections without any reasonable prospect of -asking her in marriage like an honourable man?”</p> - -<p>“Bless me, Canon, I don’t accuse the young fellow -of anything, except of being a bit of an ass,” said the -builder. “I daresay it’s been six of one and half a -dozen of the other. He’s a nice-looking boy, and all -this play-acting has thrown them together, like; but -that’s over now, and Olga comes back to London with -us next week. But I thought I’d throw you a hint,” -said Mr. Duffle delicately, “so that there’s no nonsense -about following us to town, or anything of that sort. -Her mother’s going to speak to Olga about it, too. -Bless me, it’s not the first time we’ve had to nip a -little affair of this sort in the bud. The fellows are -round our little girl like flies round a honey-pot. We -give her a loose rein, too, in a manner of speaking, but -as the wife pointed out to me last night, it only keeps<span class="pagenum" id="Page_151">[151]</span> -off better chances if a girl is always seen about with -lads who don’t mean business.”</p> - -<p>The Canon groaned deeply, and Mr. Duffle, fearing -himself misunderstood, hastily interposed:</p> - -<p>“Don’t run away with the idea that I’ve anything -against the boy, now, Canon. I’m sure if he was only -a year or two older, in a good job, and with a little -something to look to later on, I’d be only too glad of -the connection. But as things are, I’m sure as a family -man yourself you see my point.”</p> - -<p>He looked almost pleadingly at the Canon as he -spoke.</p> - -<p>“You did perfectly right to come to me, Mr. Duffle; -you did perfectly right. Unspeakably painful though -this conversation has been to me, I fully recognize the -necessity for it.”</p> - -<p>If Mr. Duffle still looked perplexed, he also looked -relieved.</p> - -<p>“That’s right, Canon. I felt you and me would -understand one another. After all, we’ve been young -ourselves, haven’t we, and I daresay we’ve chased a -pretty pair of ankles or said more than we meant on a -moonlight night, both of us, once upon a time.”</p> - -<p>So far did Canon Morchard appear to be from endorsing -this view of a joint past that his visitor added -an extenuation.</p> - -<p>“Of course, before you turned parson, naturally, I -mean. I know you take your job seriously, if you’ll -excuse me passing a personal remark, and that’s not -more than’s needed nowadays. There’s no idea of -young Adrian going in for the clerical line, I suppose?”</p> - -<p>“What I have heard today would be enough to convince<span class="pagenum" id="Page_152">[152]</span> -me that it is out of the question,” said the Canon -bitterly. “But my son has evinced no such desire.”</p> - -<p>“H’m. There was some nonsense talked amongst -the young people about a fat living at Stear being -ready for him if he chose to step into it. I daresay -there was nothing in it but a leg-pull, as they say. In -any case, my girl wouldn’t look at a country parson. -No offence to you, Canon, but it’s best to have these -things out in plain English.”</p> - -<p>“Enough,” said the Canon with decision. “You may -rest assured that my son will cease this insensate persecution -of——”</p> - -<p>“Excuse me interrupting, but why make a mountain -out of a molehill? There’s been no persecution or any -of that talk out of books, in the case. Why, my Olga -can’t help making eyes at a good-looking lad, and letting -him squeeze her hand every now and then.”</p> - -<p>The Canon gave utterance, irrepressibly, to yet another -groan.</p> - -<p>Mr. Duffle looked at him with compassion.</p> - -<p>“Why make a mountain out of a molehill, as I said -before?” he repeated. “There’s been no harm done, -except maybe a little gossiping among the Admaston -lot, and if you tip the wink to your lad, and mother -and I trot Olga back to London again, we needn’t hear -any more of it. We’re old-fashioned people, and -brought up the child old-fashioned, and she’s not one -of these modern young women who can’t live at home. -I give her the best of everything, and a pretty long -rope, but she knows that as long as she’s living under -my roof and spending my money she’s got to obey me -and her mother when we <i>do</i> give an order.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_153">[153]</span>The builder’s face, momentarily dogged, relaxed -again and he laughed jovially.</p> - -<p>“Though I’m not saying the little puss can’t get most -things out of us by coaxing! But we’re set on a good -marriage for her, that I tell you straight.”</p> - -<p>“There is only one foundation for the sacrament of -marriage,” said the Canon sombrely, “and that is mutual -love, trust and esteem.”</p> - -<p>“Quite, quite; the wife always takes that line herself. -‘When the heart is given, let the hand follow,’ -she always says, and Olga knows well enough that -she’ll have a free choice, within reason. But love in -a cottage isn’t her style, and things being as they are, -there’s no reason, as I said before, why she shouldn’t -look high. She’s a sensible girl, too, and if there is -a bit of the flirt about her, she doesn’t lose her head. -I will say that for her.”</p> - -<p>“I wish that I could say the same of my son,” bitterly -rejoined the Canon.</p> - -<p>“Well, well, don’t be too hard on the lad. Human -nature is human nature all the world over, is what I -always say. All the parsons in Christendom can’t alter -that, if you’ll excuse the saying. It’s natural enough -your son should lose his head over a pretty girl like -my Olga,” said Miss Duffle’s parent indulgently. “All -I mean is, that it must stop there, and no nonsense -about being engaged, or anything of that kind.”</p> - -<p>“Do these unhappy young people consider themselves -bound to one another, as far as you know?”</p> - -<p>“Bless me, Canon, they’re not unhappy. At least, -my Olga certainly isn’t, and if your lad throws off a -few heroics, he’ll soon get over it. Why, I remember<span class="pagenum" id="Page_154">[154]</span> -threatening to blow out my brains—as I chose to call -them—when I was no older than he is, and all for the -sake of a lady ten years older than myself, and married -and the mother of three, into the bargain!”</p> - -<p>Mr. Duffle was moved to hearty laughter at this -reminiscence, although it failed signally to produce the -same exhilarating effect upon Canon Morchard.</p> - -<p>Perhaps in consequence of this, his mirth died away -spasmodically, with a rather apologetic effect.</p> - -<p>“Well, well, Canon, take a tip from me, if I may -suggest such a thing, and don’t take this business too -seriously. He’ll be head over ears in love with somebody -else before you can look round, and it’ll all be -to do over again.”</p> - -<p>Before this luminous vista of future amatory escapades, -the builder appeared to feel that the interview -had better be brought to its conclusion, and he rose.</p> - -<p>An evident desire to console and reassure his host -possessed him.</p> - -<p>“Get the young fellow a job of work, if I may -advise. It’s wonderful how it steadies them down. -He’ll have no time to run after the petticoats when he’s -tied by the leg to an office, or roughing it in one of the -Colonies.”</p> - -<p>“The choice of a career lies in my son’s own hands,” -said the Canon stiffly. “But you may rest assured, -Mr. Duffle, that he will be allowed no further occasion -for misusing his time and abusing other people’s hospitality -as he appears to have been doing. I am obliged -to you, painful though this conversation has been to -us both, for treating me with so much frankness in -the matter.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_155">[155]</span>“Don’t mention it,” said Mr. Duffle.</p> - -<p>The Canon bowed slightly and escorted his visitor -to the door.</p> - -<p>The Daimler car was in waiting, but the builder -paused with one foot on the step.</p> - -<p>“I’ll tell you one thing, Canon,” he remarked confidentially.</p> - -<p>The Canon, with extreme reluctance in his demeanour, -signified attention.</p> - -<p>“If you <i>should</i> think of having that little improvement -made to the place that I suggested—you know, -the electric light put in—I can tell you the very people -to go to—Blapton & Co. They’ve done a lot of work -for our firm, and they’ll do it as reasonable as you can -hope for. Don’t hesitate to mention my name.”</p> - -<p>He nodded, and got into the car.</p> - -<p>The Canon stood upon the front doorstep, his face -pale and furrowed, his lips compressed.</p> - -<p>“Stop!” shouted Mr. Duffle, suddenly thrusting his -head from the window of the slowly moving car.</p> - -<p>The Daimler stopped.</p> - -<p>Mr. Duffle descended from it nimbly and once more -approached the Canon.</p> - -<p>He looked, for the first time, heated and confused.</p> - -<p>“It slipped my memory that I wanted to give you -this trifle. Perhaps you’ll see to some of those poor -fellows who are out of work through no fault of their -own, having the handling of it for the wives and kiddies. -I’ve been lucky myself, and I never like to leave -a place without what I may call some sort of thanksgiving. -Not a word, please. Ta-ta.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_156">[156]</span>The Daimler made another <i>sortie</i>, and the Canon -was left, still standing motionless on the doorstep, with -the builder’s cheque for twenty-five pounds in his hand.</p> - - -<h3>(iii)</h3> - -<div class="blockquot"> -<p>“<span class="smcap">Dear Lucilla</span>,</p> - -<p>“I think you’d better not expect me till you see me, -if that’ll be all right. I may be going up to London -for a day or two when the party breaks up here tomorrow, -as I really must see about a job of some kind. -I’m sure Father will approve of this, so mind you tell -him it’s the reason. I hope he wasn’t frightfully sick -at the way we all played the fool the night of the show, -but really it was his own fault for coming, and if he -didn’t like it, he must just do the other thing.</p> - -<p>“Cheerio.</p> - -<p class="right"><span class="indentright">“Yours,</span><br /> -“<span class="smcap">Adrian</span>.”</p> -</div> - -<div class="blockquot"> -<p>“<span class="smcap">My Dear Adrian</span>,</p> - -<p>“It would be better if you could come back here -before deciding to go to London. Father is writing -to you, and you will probably see from his letter that -he particularly wants you at home. I hope you are -not in trouble, but Father is certainly upset about something, -and you will only make matters worse by going -off in a hurry. Besides, I think he would quite likely -follow you.</p> - -<p class="right"><span class="indentright">“Your affectionate sister,</span><br /> -“<span class="smcap">Lucilla Morchard</span>.”</p> - -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_157">[157]</span></p> -<div class="blockquot"> -<p>“<span class="smcap">Dear Lucilla</span>,</p> - -<p>“If you hear of me doing something <i>desperate</i>, you -may tell Father that he has only himself to thank! I -now know what he and old Duffle have been up to, -between them, and I may tell you that I do not intend -to put up with this sort of thing any longer. Father -doesn’t seem to realize that I am a <i>man</i>, and in grim -earnest over <i>some</i> things, and he and old Duffle have -now utterly scotched my chances of happiness for life, -although I daresay without realizing what they were -doing. Olga is the only girl I shall ever love, and if -I have lost her I do not care what I do or what becomes -of me, and you may tell Father so. If this is what -<i>religion</i> leads to, you can also tell him that I am utterly -off it for life. That is what they have done, by their -interference with my affairs, because I am almost sure -Olga would at least have become engaged to me, if she -had been let alone, and not bullied by her father and -mother, and threatened with <i>poverty</i> if she married -me. As you know, it needn’t have been anything of -the sort, if my plans had worked out all right, and we -could have had Stear, but I am <i>completely</i> off the -Church, in any shape or form, so that is what Father -has done, whether he knows it or not!!!</p> - -<p>“You will, I suppose, be upset at this letter being -so bitter in tone, but I may say that my faith in human -nature is utterly shattered for good and all, and this -has been done by my own father!! I am coming home -on Monday and <i>not before</i>, so it’s no use father dictating -to me.</p> - -<p class="right"><span class="indentright">“Yours,</span><br /> -“<span class="smcap">Adrian</span>.”</p> -</div> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_158">[158]</span></p> - - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>“<span class="smcap">My Dearest Adrian</span>,</p> - -<p>“I don’t understand why Lucilla tells me that you -are returning home on Monday, when you know it is -my wish, distinctly expressed in my letter to you two -days ago, that you should be here on Saturday, so that -we may spend the Sunday together. Unless you have -a very valid reason for disregarding my wishes, I must -insist, for your own sake, upon your complying with -them. I do so want you to be <i>considerate</i>, quite apart -from the question of <i>dutifulness</i>—for instance, it is -quite a little thing, but you don’t say what time you -are arriving here, and yet you surely know that this -makes a difference with regard to questions of meals, -etc., in a small household such as ours. It is only want -of thought, dear lad, but do try and correct this fault. -I have so often had to reprove myself for the like -small negligences that it makes me anxious to see the -same tendency in you. This is not a lecture, my dear -boy, but only a <i>reminder</i>, from one who has had to be -both mother and father to you.</p> - -<p>“I have other, and very much more serious, matters -to talk over with you when we meet, but all shall be -done in the spirit of love and confidence, I do trust, -and if I am obliged to inflict pain upon you, you must -remember that it is multiplied ten-fold upon my own -head.</p> - -<p>“I shall expect a line, sent either to myself or to -Lucilla, announcing the hour of your arrival on <i>Saturday</i>. -God by you, dearest of lads, until we meet.</p> - -<p class="right"><span class="indentright">“Your devoted</span><br /> -“<span class="smcap">Father</span>.”</p> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_159">[159]</span></p> - -<div class="blockquot"> -<p>“<span class="smcap">Dear Lucilla</span>,</p> - -<p>“On second thoughts, I shall come home on Saturday, -in time for dinner. Most likely I shall go straight -off to London on Monday morning, but you needn’t -say anything to Father about this. If you can, persuade -him to have up the port on Sunday night.</p> - -<p class="right"><span class="indentright">“Yours,</span><br /> -“<span class="smcap">Adrian</span>.”</p> -</div> - -<p>“Dear lad! He is all anxiety to do right, at bottom,” -said the Canon tenderly to Lucilla, when a censored -version of this communication had been passed on to -him. “You see how readily he submits to returning on -Saturday, in order to please me.”</p> - -<p>If Lucilla thought this act of submission inspired -by fear, rather than by a desire to please, she did not -say so.</p> - -<p>The Canon had said nothing to her of his interview -with Mr. Duffle, and made only one remark which -might be held to refer to his visitor:</p> - -<p>“We are all of us apt to set a false value on appearances, -I suspect. Aye, my daughters, in spite of his -‘forty years in the wilderness,’ it is so with your father. -Trivial vulgarities, or mere superficial coarseness, have -blinded one time and again, till some sudden, beautiful -impulse or flash of generous delicacy comes to rebuke -one. Well, well—each mistake can be used as a rung -of the ladder. Always remember that.”</p> - -<p>That trivial vulgarities and superficial coarseness -were characteristics of Mr. Duffle was undeniable, but -Lucilla deduced that these had been redeemed in the -manner suggested, since the builder’s prolonged visit<span class="pagenum" id="Page_160">[160]</span> -to her father had left him, though grave, singularly -calm. He had, indeed, summoned Adrian to St. -Gwenllian, but his manner showed none of the peculiar -restrained suffering that was always to be discerned -when the Canon felt one of his children to be in serious -fault.</p> - -<p>“It is more than time that Adrian found his vocation,” -said the Canon. “I have been to blame in allowing -him to drift, but it has been an unutterable joy to -have him with us, after these terrible war years. However, -there is no further excuse for delay. He and I -must have a long talk.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla could surmise only too well the effect of a -long talk upon Adrian, if his frame of mind might be -judged correctly from his impassioned letter to her.</p> - -<p>As usual, however, she said nothing.</p> - -<p>The Canon’s mood of mellow forbearance continued -to wax as the day went on, and he met his favourite -son with a benign affectionateness that contrasted -strangely with Adrian’s dramatically-restrained demeanour.</p> - -<p>Flora, as a rule utterly incurious, asked Lucilla what -was the matter.</p> - -<p>“I don’t quite know. Something to do with Olga -Duffle, I imagine. Probably Adrian has proposed to -her, or something foolish of the kind, and the Duffles -want it stopped.”</p> - -<p>“Has he said anything more about his idea of taking -Orders?”</p> - -<p>“I hope not,” said Lucilla rather grimly.</p> - -<p>She preferred not to imagine the Canon’s probable -reception of an ambition thus inspired.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_161">[161]</span>The long talk projected by Canon Morchard was -impracticable on a Sunday, always his busiest day, -until evening.</p> - -<p>As the Canon rose from the late, and scrupulously -cold, evening meal, he said:</p> - -<p>“Daughters, you will not sit up beyond your usual -hour. Adrian, my dear—come.”</p> - -<p>The door of the study shut, and Lucilla and Flora -remained in the drawing-room.</p> - -<p>Lucilla occupied herself with note-books and works -of reference, and Flora, in the exquisite copper-plate -handwriting that the Canon had insisted upon for all -his children, in close imitation of his own, wrote out -an abstract of her father’s sermon, as she had done -almost every Sunday evening ever since she could remember.</p> - -<p>The silence was unbroken till nearly an hour later, -when Lucilla observed:</p> - -<p>“Do you know, Flossie, that Father’s book is very -nearly finished? There are only two more chapters -to revise.”</p> - -<p>“‘Leonidas of Alexandria,’” said Flora thoughtfully.</p> - -<p>The subject of the Canon’s exhaustive researches -and patient compilations was known to the household.</p> - -<p>“He’ll publish it, of course?”</p> - -<p>“He hopes to. But Owen told me that there isn’t a -very great demand for that kind of work, nowadays.”</p> - -<p>Flora looked inquiringly at her sister.</p> - -<p>“I hope Father isn’t going to be disappointed,” she -said, half interrogatively.</p> - -<p>“I’m very much afraid that he is.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_162">[162]</span>On this encouraging supposition of Miss Morchard’s, -the conversation ended.</p> - -<p>In accordance with their father’s desire, both sisters -had gone upstairs before the conference in the study -came to an end.</p> - -<p>There came a knock at Lucilla’s door.</p> - -<p>She opened it.</p> - -<p>“Come in, Adrian.”</p> - -<p>“It’s all up,” said Adrian, in the eloquent idiom of -his generation, and made a melodramatic gesture of -desperation.</p> - -<p>Lucilla closed the door and sat down, seeming -undisturbed by so cataclysmic an announcement of -finality.</p> - -<p>“I’m off on my own, after this. Father has utterly -mucked up my entire life, as I think I told you in my -letter, and he can’t see what he has done!”</p> - -<p>Lucilla wondered whether Adrian had spent two and -a half hours in endeavouring to open his parent’s eyes -to his own work of destruction.</p> - -<p>“Would you mind telling me exactly what has happened?”</p> - -<p>Adrian embarked upon a tone of gloomy narrative.</p> - -<p>“Well, I don’t know whether you had any idea that -I am—was—well, frightfully hard hit by that girl -Olga. Not just thinking her pretty and clever, and all -that sort of thing, you know, though of course she -was—<i>is</i>, I mean. But simply knowing that she was -the one and only person I should ever care for. Of -course, I know now that I was mistaken in her, to a -certain extent, and I can tell you, Lucilla, that it’s very -hard on a man to be as thoroughly disillusioned as I’ve<span class="pagenum" id="Page_163">[163]</span> -been. It’s enough to shatter one’s faith in women for -life.”</p> - -<p>“But what did Father do?” said Lucilla, as her -brother seemed inclined to lose himself in the contemplation -of his own future mysogyny.</p> - -<p>“What did he <i>do</i>?” echoed Adrian bitterly. “He -and old Duffle had the—the audacity to meet together -and discuss my private affairs, and take upon themselves -to decide that anything between me and Olga -ought to be put an end to. I must say, I thought that -kind of thing had gone out with the Middle Ages, -when people walled up their daughters alive, and all -that kind of tosh. And how Olga, of all people, put -up with it I can’t imagine; but they seemed to have -pitched some yarn about my not being able to afford to -marry, and frightened her with the idea of my being -after her money, I suppose.”</p> - -<p>“But Adrian, had you asked her to marry you?”</p> - -<p>“No, of course not. But I did think we might have -been engaged. Then I wouldn’t have had to put up -with seeing a lot of other fellows after her,” said -Adrian naïvely.</p> - -<p>“And did you explain that to Father?” Lucilla inquired, -not without a certain dismay in picturing the -Canon’s reception of these strange ideals.</p> - -<p>“More or less; but you know what he is. He always -does most of the talking himself. I can quite understand -why we were so frightened of him as kids, you -know. He seems to work himself up about things, and -then he always has such a frightfully high-faluting -point of view. We might really have been talking at -cross-purposes, half the time.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_164">[164]</span>“I can quite believe it.”</p> - -<p>“Of course, I’m not exactly afraid of him now, but -it does make it a bit difficult to say what’s in one’s -mind.”</p> - -<p>“That’s just the pity of it, Adrian. He always says -that he does so wish you were more unreserved with -him. He does very much want you to say what’s in -your mind.”</p> - -<p>“But he wouldn’t like it if I did—in fact, he probably -wouldn’t understand it.”</p> - -<p>Few things could be more incontrovertible.</p> - -<p>“The fact is that father has quite a wrong idea of -me. He seems to expect me to have all the notions -that <i>he</i> had, when he was a young high-brow at Oxford, -about ninety years ago. As I told him, things -have gone ahead a bit since then.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla, for her consolation, reflected that few people -are capable of distinguishing accurately between -what they actually say, and what they subsequently -wish themselves to have said, when reporting a conversation. -It was highly probable that Adrian had been -a good deal less eloquent than he represented himself -to have been.</p> - -<p>“You didn’t say anything, did you, about your idea -of taking Orders?”</p> - -<p>“No,” said Adrian rather curtly. “I did begin something -about it, just to show that I hadn’t been the -unpractical ass he seemed to think I was, but he went -off at the deep end almost directly. I said something -about going into the Church, you see, and he didn’t -wait for me to finish, but started away about our all -being ‘in the Church’ from the day of our baptism,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_165">[165]</span> -and so on—splitting hairs, I call it. As if everyone -didn’t know what is generally meant by going into the -Church.”</p> - -<p>“Well, in this case, I really hope he didn’t know. -Flossie and I always told you that Father would be -very much shocked at your way of looking at the -priesthood.”</p> - -<p>“Anyhow, it’s all off now,” said Adrian gloomily. -“There wouldn’t be the slightest object in it, and besides -I’m thoroughly off religion at the moment, as I -think I told you. No, I shall go to London.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla looked further inquiry.</p> - -<p>“No, I’m not going after Olga; you can be quite -easy about that. In fact, I may say I don’t ever want -to set eyes on her again, after the way she’s let me -down. No, I’m going to try journalism, or something -like that. Anyhow, I mean to be a free lance for a -bit.”</p> - -<p>The first note of real resolution that Lucilla had -heard there, crept into Adrian’s young voice.</p> - -<p>“Father really can’t go on running the show for me -like this. It’s me that’s got to decide what to do with -my life, and I’m going to get a bit of experience on -my own. I know I had six months in France, but -that isn’t going to be the whole of my life. In fact, -Lucilla, I’ve decided, though I’m sorry in a way, to -say such a thing, that Father has got to be taught a -lesson, and it’s me that’s going to do the teaching.”</p> - -<p>Iron firmness, denoted by a closely compressed -mouth and a rather defiant eye fixed glassily upon Lucilla’s, -characterized Adrian’s announcement.</p> - -<p>“Listen,” said Lucilla.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_166">[166]</span>They heard a heavy footfall, eloquent of weariness, -outside the door. It was followed by the sound of an -imperative tap.</p> - -<p>Adrian’s face relaxed and a more normal expression -succeeded to the compelling one that had petrified his -gaze.</p> - -<p>“Adrian, my son, are you there?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, father.”</p> - -<p>“Dear lad, how thoughtless you are! Your sister -is tired, and it is already very late. Finish your talk -tomorrow, my dear ones.”</p> - -<p>There was a pause.</p> - -<p>Then Adrian said:</p> - -<p>“Well, I suppose Time <i>is</i> on the wing, as usual. -Good-night, Lucilla.”</p> - -<p>He went out.</p> - -<p>Lucilla heard the Canon bid him good-night, and his -voice held profound sadness, rather than the vexation -that she had feared.</p> - -<p>She moved swiftly to the door.</p> - -<p>“Father, I have found that reference in Origen.”</p> - -<p>The Canon’s face, drawn and tired, lightened on -the instant.</p> - -<p>“My indefatigable searcher after truth! Lucilla indeed -casts light into dark places—you were well named, -my daughter. That is good news indeed—good news -indeed.”</p> - -<p>“Should you like me to come down again, or are -you too tired?”</p> - -<p>“Nay, Lucilla, you heard me bid Adrian to his room. -Would you have me transgress my own regulations?<span class="pagenum" id="Page_167">[167]</span> -That would be inconsistent indeed. We will investigate -our Origen tomorrow.”</p> - -<p>“You are so near the end of it now, Father.”</p> - -<p>“Aye, the work has progressed wonderfully these -last few months. And I have been wonderfully blessed -in your help, my child—my right hand! It has been a -labour of love indeed.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla hoped that he would go to his room still -cheered by the thought of the book. But the Canon -lingered, to enquire sadly:</p> - -<p>“You have talked with Adrian?”</p> - -<p>“A little.”</p> - -<p>“Dear fellow, one must make all allowance for his -disappointment of his first fancy, but there is a want -of stability—what I can only call a levity of spirit—that -distresses one beyond words. He was all submission -and deference, but there was not the spontaneous -calling of deep unto deep that one somehow looked for.... -And yet Adrian is the one of you all from whom -I had hoped for the greatest unreserve, the most ideal -companionship....”</p> - -<p>Lucilla knew it, had always known it, only too well.</p> - -<p>Not one of his other children had been treated with -the indulgence that the Canon had always displayed -towards his youngest-born.</p> - -<p>The Canon’s next words chimed in oddly with her -thoughts.</p> - -<p>“Perhaps I have condoned too much in Adrian. It -is not a strong character—but the strongest are not -always the most lovable. He talks now of going to -London.”</p> - -<p>“So he told me.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_168">[168]</span>“One can only trust,” said the Canon with a heavy -sigh. “I must bid you good-night, dear daughter. It -is not right that you should be kept up in this fashion.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla was left to seek what repose she might.</p> - -<p>The next day at St. Gwenllian was one of constraint.</p> - -<p>Adrian was silent in his father’s presence, and full -of adamantine resolution in his absence. At meal -times, the subjects to be avoided—which now included -the Admastons, their theatricals, and the Duffle family, -as well as Valeria’s marriage—seemed unduly numerous. -In the evening, the Canon made a great and evident -effort, that struck Lucilla as infinitely pathetic, to -readjust matters.</p> - -<p>His show of laboured brightness could deceive no -one, but Lucilla and Mr. Clover seconded his attempts -at general conversation with determination, and Flora -was not more silent than was her wont. Adrian, manifestly -sulky at first, awoke presently to a change in the -atmosphere, and thereupon erred rather upon the side -of garrulity than on that of restraint.</p> - -<p>His face darkened, however, when the Canon after -dinner suddenly said with pseudo-heartiness:</p> - -<p>“I am about to call one of our old-time family councils, -young people. What say you, Adrian, to a little -friendly discussion of your future plans? Time was, -perhaps, when these things were settled rather in a -long, heart-to-heart talk between father and son; but -times change, and we must move with them—we must -move with them.”</p> - -<p>It was impossible to doubt that the Canon was, or -supposed himself to be, moving with the times rather -in the hope of pleasing Adrian, than from any personal<span class="pagenum" id="Page_169">[169]</span> -liking for the direction in which they appeared -to be taking him.</p> - -<p>“Perhaps some of these wiseacres may make a helpful -suggestion as to the future. Clover, you have been -guide, philosopher and friend to us all this many a -year. And Lucilla—Lucilla is gifted with a very level -head, as I sometimes tell her—a very level head. As -for my little Flora, whose head is sometimes in the -clouds, at least those who say least see most, eh Flora? -Let us to the with-drawing-room, children.”</p> - -<p>Seated in the lamp light, with Lucilla and Flora both -occupied with needlework—the Canon had long ago -decreed that no discussion need entail idle hands—Canon -Morchard looked wistfully at Adrian, leaning -against the marble mantelpiece with an air of embarrassment.</p> - -<p>“What are your wishes, dear lad—your hopes, your -plans?”</p> - -<p>To this singularly comprehensive enquiry, Adrian -seemed to find some difficulty in making an immediate -reply.</p> - -<p>“Your father is very anxious—we’re all anxious,” -said Mr. Clover pleadingly.</p> - -<p>“Why should you be?” Adrian demanded fretfully, -turning sharply towards the curate. “I’m quite old -enough to settle for myself what I’m going to do.”</p> - -<p>“But you haven’t settled it, Adrian,” said Lucilla -mildly.</p> - -<p>“That is why we all want to help you, if possible,” -the Canon observed. “Perhaps you may remember -some words that I am very fond of, and that have<span class="pagenum" id="Page_170">[170]</span> -found their way now and again into our pleasant confabulations -on life and letters in general:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="verse">There comes a tide in the affairs of men</div> -<div class="verse">That, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune.</div> -</div></div> - -<p>“There is, indeed, a higher Leading that I trust, and -indeed know, you would none of you disregard, but -opportunity may very often serve us as an indication—an -indication. It seems to me, dear Adrian, that some -such ‘tide’ has come in your affairs now, and it would -be pleasant indeed to feel that, taken at the flood, it -would lead on to fortune, in the best and highest sense -of the word.”</p> - -<p>There was a pause, and then Mr. Clover said:</p> - -<p>“Or at least independence.”</p> - -<p>“That’s what I want,” said Adrian ungraciously. -“Only never having been brought up to anything special, -it’s a bit hard to know what to go in for.”</p> - -<p>“You said something about journalism,” Lucilla -reminded him, aware that the word, which would certainly -be distasteful to the Canon, must be uttered -sooner or later.</p> - -<p>Adrian looked at his sister, and not at his father, -as he replied:</p> - -<p>“I think that’s really what I shall do.”</p> - -<p>“But who is going to employ you, Adrian?” Flora -enquired with simplicity.</p> - -<p>The boy frowned.</p> - -<p>“You don’t understand these things. I shall just -get up one or two things, and show them to the right -people, and if they’re any good at all I shall get taken -on somewhere.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_171">[171]</span>“The Press is a great force for good as, alas, for -evil, my son, but I confess that such a course would be -a disappointment to me. Have you no other ambition?” -asked the Canon wistfully.</p> - -<p>“I can’t think of anything else, Father.”</p> - -<p>“I thought—” breathed Flora to Lucilla.</p> - -<p>Lucilla shook her head, in repudiation of Adrian’s -erstwhile schemes of clerical life, and she heard from -Flora a sigh that probably denoted relief.</p> - -<p>“Then, my dearest fellow, so be it. You know that -we wish nothing but your highest good, and your -happiness here and hereafter. I will increase your -present allowance as far as I can do so without robbing -others, and that should enable you to maintain yourself -in London until you are earning enough to dispense -with it. Have you any definite starting point in your -mind?”</p> - -<p>“Not yet, but I can write to a fellow I know. I say, -Father—this is very good of you.”</p> - -<p>There was both surprise and genuine gratitude in -Adrian’s voice.</p> - -<p>The Canon, entirely regardless of anyone else as he -always was when deeply in earnest, rose and placed -his hand on the young man’s shoulder.</p> - -<p>“I have no wish but your truest and highest good, -dear lad, as I said before. If I have been weak enough -to indulge in plans and fancies of my own, they shall -not come between us now. I believe I may say that -I have learnt at last that whatever <i>is</i>, is best. Let us -go on, believing all things, hoping all things.... If -there has been weakness in the past, dear Adrian, I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_172">[172]</span> -<i>know</i> that you will justify my confidence in the future, -God helping you.”</p> - -<p>The Canon’s voice had grown husky over the last -few words. He bent his head and gently and solemnly -kissed Adrian’s forehead.</p> - -<p>Then he went out of the room.</p> - - -<h3>(iv)</h3> - -<p><span class="smcap">For</span> many months after Adrian’s departure, the monotonous -round of life at St. Gwenllian remained -undisturbed.</p> - -<p>News came from Canada of the birth of a son to -Valeria, and the Canon’s last resentment vanished, although -he still spoke of “our poor Valeria.”</p> - -<p>He derived unmistakable satisfaction from Owen -Quentillian’s presence at Stear, and the young man -received frequent invitations to the Vicarage, after a -first visit during which the host suffered infinitely more -than the guest, in the fear of reviving past associations.</p> - -<p>Adrian wrote occasionally, giving no very encouraging -accounts of his progress in journalism, and continued -to receive the increased allowance that his father -sent him with scrupulous regularity. He did not come -home again, even in the summer.</p> - -<p>Then one day the Canon, at his writing-table, laid -down his pen and said to Lucilla:</p> - -<p>“<i>Nunc dimittis</i>.... My book is done, Lucilla; -I can add no more to it. It has been a long task, and -at times a heavy one, for the flesh is weak—for all that -the spirit is willing, the flesh is weak. But it is over -now.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_173">[173]</span>His rapt, smiling gaze held Lucilla’s for a long -while, as she smiled back her congratulation.</p> - -<p>“And now, my dear one, to give our work to the -world!” He rubbed his hands together exultantly. -“For it is yours, Lucilla, almost as much as mine.”</p> - -<p>She shook her head, still smiling. The Canon’s -generosity, any more than his occasional injustice, did -not blind his daughter to the bald facts of a case as -she saw it.</p> - -<p>A shadow was across her genuine participation in -his joy, now.</p> - -<p>“What shall you do with it, Father?”</p> - -<p>“There is no more to be done,” repeated the Canon. -“All is copied, all is corrected. Your typescript is -admirable, Lucilla, and I trust that my few emendations -have not defaced it.”</p> - -<p>“Then is it going to the publishers?”</p> - -<p>“My practical Lucilla! Is your mind already in -search of an adequate supply of brown paper and sealing -wax? These things are not done so hastily as -impetuous youth would wish, however. There will be -a preliminary correspondence, my dear, even when I -have definitely decided which of the publishing houses -to approach. A work such as this one, which has taken -years of labour, is not sent lightly forth to take its -chance, as might be a work of fiction.”</p> - -<p>The Canon laid his hand lovingly upon the immense -pile of typescript before him. It represented, as he -had said, the labour of years.</p> - -<p>“Owen is in touch with several publishers, I believe.”</p> - -<p>“Possibly so, Lucilla.” The Canon’s tone was not<span class="pagenum" id="Page_174">[174]</span> -altogether pleased. “But such a work—on such a subject—requires -no casual introduction.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla wondered, not without foreboding, what it -did require. Owen Quentillian, who shared her own -inability to take optimistic views on principle, had -spoken discouragingly of the modern market for such -works as the Canon’s on “Leonidas of Alexandria.”</p> - -<p>The Canon himself appeared to entertain no misgivings, -until a few weeks later, when he handed a -letter silently to Lucilla.</p> - -<p>It was a courteously worded assurance from the -most eminent of theological publishing firms that the -probable sales of such a work as “Leonidas of Alexandria” -would not, in their opinion, justify the expenses -of publication.</p> - -<p>The Canon seemed more bewildered than dismayed.</p> - -<p>“I shall approach the Oxbridge Press,” he declared. -“I had decided against them, but this very unexpected -attitude leaves me no alternative.”</p> - -<p>The reply of the Oxbridge Press, although longer -delayed, was almost identical in substance with that -of its predecessors.</p> - -<p>“I do not understand it,” the Canon repeated, and -wrote to another publishing house.</p> - -<p>He still spoke as though the ultimate appearance of -the book were a certainty; even when confronted with -a third refusal, but he allowed Lucilla to consult Owen -Quentillian.</p> - -<p>As the result of a letter to Quentillian’s own publishers, -an offer came from them to produce “Leonidas -of Alexandria” if the author would advance a substantial -sum towards the cost of bringing out the book.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_175">[175]</span>“It’s more than I dared to hope for,” Owen told -Lucilla candidly, in private. “Only I’m afraid he’ll -still be disappointed, if the book appears and makes no -stir.”</p> - -<p>“He has thought of it for so many years,” said -Lucilla.</p> - -<p>“And always as a <i>magnum opus</i>—something that -the world would recognize?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I think so. But even so, I’m not certain -whether he’ll accept these terms.”</p> - -<p>“He won’t get better ones,” said Owen with conviction.</p> - -<p>They awaited the Canon’s reply. It came, calm and -very decided.</p> - -<p>“It cannot be. It is not within my power to accept -the terms suggested. Thank you, Owen, my dear—and -you Lucilla—but my work must await better days—better -days.”</p> - -<p>For the first time, Owen was struck by the singular -sweetness of the Canon’s smile, as he stood with his -hand resting on the great bulk of papers that stood -to him for the loving preoccupation of many years. -No faintest touch of bitterness accompanied his deep -disappointment.</p> - -<p>“I have had the great pleasure of the work, and -it has brought me into close association with many -writers, both living and dead. We have derived -great benefit from our toil, Lucilla, and if the fruits -of reward are to be denied us yet awhile, so be it. -You remember the old story of the dying man who -bade his sons dig for a treasure beneath the apple-tree. -They did so, and the natural yield of the fertile<span class="pagenum" id="Page_176">[176]</span> -earth was their reward—their own industry proved to -be their treasure. If it is to be so with my book, I am -content.”</p> - -<p>Quentillian’s stern sense of the futility of false hopes -kept him silent, but Lucilla said:</p> - -<p>“Is it any use to try another publisher?”</p> - -<p>The Canon shook his grey head.</p> - -<p>“This is neither our first attempt nor our second. -No doubt times have changed, and there is no longer -the same interest taken in these researches. The wheel -will come round in due course, young people, and I -make no doubt that Leonidas will yet be given to the -world, in God’s good time whether in my day or not. -I am very well content.”</p> - -<p>He put the heavy package into a drawer, of which -he turned the key.</p> - -<p>“You remember, Lucilla, the words inscribed upon -my front page—‘<i>Ad majorem Dei gloriam</i>’? Surely -we can trust the fulfilment of those words to Him, -and as surely He can justify them in obscurity as in -the notoriety of a day. We will say no more about -this, children.”</p> - -<p>He turned towards Quentillian, and smiled again.</p> - -<p>“Nay, dear fellow, there is nothing to look so blank -about. I will not deny a natural disappointment, but it -is no more than that—no more than that. These -things pass....”</p> - -<p>Even to Lucilla, in private, the Canon scarcely said -more. The one revelation that he did make, hardly -surprised her.</p> - -<p>“All else apart, I could not have paid the money to -that publishing firm. The dear Adrian must be my<span class="pagenum" id="Page_177">[177]</span> -first consideration at present, and with the increased -amount that he is receiving, the drain upon my purse -is too heavy to admit of a personal gratification. Some -day the dear fellow will pay it all back, I make no -doubt, though even were it not so—but it <i>will</i> be so. -And now, Lucilla, we will drop the subject. What I -have told you is between ourselves, and we need not -refer to it again.”</p> - -<p>A very little while later, the Canon began to make -minute and elaborate notes for a Commentary on the -Epistle to the Philippians.</p> - -<p>Lucilla, according to her wont, acted as his secretary -without comment.</p> - -<p>It was more difficult, however, to pursue this course -when the Canon, with a look of distress and perplexity, -handed to her several closely-written sheets of paper, -and observed:</p> - -<p>“As you know, I hold very strongly to the sacredness -of personal correspondence. It was, indeed, at -least partly on that account that I have said nothing -to you of a letter from Adrian that has caused me some -anxiety. He seems to me to be getting amongst a set -of people whom I can only call undesirable. They -may be leading him into foolish extravagance—I fear -it must be so. It seems to me my clear duty to write -to the boy very frankly, but God knows how carefully -I have weighed every word, for fear of saying too -much. I believe I am justified in letting you read it. -A sister’s influence can do much, more especially when -she has been obliged to enact the part of mother, and it -may even be that Adrian will listen to you more readily -than to me.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_178">[178]</span>The Canon sighed heavily.</p> - -<p>Although his sudden, sharp outbursts of anger had, -at one time or another, included each and every one of -his children, his tolerance was always longest where -Adrian was concerned. So, too, was his profound distress -when the shortcomings of his youngest-born -were made only too manifest.</p> - -<p>Lucilla read the letter with considerable inward disquiet.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> -<p>“<span class="smcap">My Dearest Adrian</span>,</p> - -<p>“First and foremost, I enclose a cheque, with which -you must <i>at once</i> discharge outstanding liabilities. You -must not, however, take this as an easy method of getting -out of difficulties into which you have placed -yourself. I shall stop this money out of your allowance, -in justice both to yourself and to me, in quarterly -instalments. And now, my son, you must bear -with me while I write of several things that seem to -me to be much amiss in your present way of life. Your -letters are so far from explicit (how I wish it were -otherwise!) that one can only guess at much which -is left unsaid, but your request for money, however -veiled, is an admission in itself. You write of ‘others,’ -but can you not see that it is absolute <i>dishonesty</i> to -give presents, stand host at various small outings, and -the like, when this implies the spending of money -that I give you for one purpose, on quite another? -No one knows better than myself the pleasure to be derived -from such little attentions to those whose kindness -calls for recognition, or to whom we feel drawn -by sympathy, and before whom we perhaps like to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_179">[179]</span> -pose in the light of a benefactor. Such gratifications -are harmless, and may even be beneficial, in themselves, -but they are at present amongst the things -which you <i>must</i> learn to deny yourself. How I wish -I could <i>say</i> this, instead of writing it! Could you not -come to us for a few days, and we would thrash all -these matters out together as one can only do in a long, -tête-à-tête evening talk over the fire, or perhaps a ten-mile -tramp far out into the country. Let me know -what hope there is of your getting down here, and -when.</p> - -<p>“In regard to the question of returning hospitality, it -does seem to me a most moot point how far such obligations -should bind us. Certainly they should not do -so <i>if entailing interference with work or prayer</i>. You -say nothing on these points, so do consider this question -next time you write. It is so disappointing to receive -short notes, written in haste, telling one nothing -of yourself, and with questions in home letters left unanswered. -<i>Do</i> write more fully of yourself—I am so -much disturbed about you, and cannot understand why -you should say that you have ‘nothing to write about.’ -<i>All</i> is of the deepest interest to those who love you so, -and you tell us so little! You give no account of your -Sundays, spiritual experiences, private readings and the -like, but if this does not come spontaneously, it is of -no use to try and force it.</p> - -<p>“I should like to hear something, however, of your -friends. With whom do you work, spend your Sundays, -evening leisure hours, etc.? All these details -would be of the greatest interest, and, although one has -no wish to press on that particular aspect of the case,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_180">[180]</span> -they are points upon which your father has every right -to information.</p> - -<p>“Why did you not tell me of your little sketch in -the <i>Athene</i>? Owen Quentillian brought it to my -notice, supposing me, naturally, to be aware of its -authorship. It seemed to me to be well and brightly -written, though perhaps a little trivial in conception, -but you have a slip in the first paragraph, line 4, where -you make ‘etomology’ do duty for ‘<i>en</i>tomology.’ If -this is a printer’s error, and you did not correct the -proofs yourself, draw your editor’s attention to it <i>at -once</i>. The final quotation from de Musset, is, I <i>think</i>, -incorrect, but I am not sure of this, and cannot verify -at present. He is not a writer about whom I care. Do -you read much of him?”</p> -</div> - -<p>At this point Lucilla laid down the letter and said -emphatically:</p> - -<p>“No, he doesn’t. Read de Musset, I mean. Probably -he got the verse he quotes out of a book of quotations.”</p> - -<p>The Canon looked surprised.</p> - -<p>“I am aware that modern methods are slip-shod, but -Adrian’s knowledge of French is much above the -average. Our evening readings-aloud have seen to -that.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla picked up the sheets of paper again, wondering -if there was very much more of the letter to come—a -wonder not infrequently felt by those with whom -Canon Morchard was in correspondence.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>“Do eschew the use of slang <i>absolutely</i>, at least in -writing! I quite consider that ‘stunt’ comes under this -heading, in your article. It is an Americanism, and so<span class="pagenum" id="Page_181">[181]</span> -ugly! These criticisms, if such they be, are only the -outcome, need I tell you, of my really intense desire -that you should do full justice to yourself, and to the -talent that I feel sure is in you. And let me repeat -again, my dearest lad, that this applies <i>doubly</i> to the -more serious fault-finding that I have been obliged, as -your father, to put into this letter. You must write to -me fully and freely if it seems to you that anything -which I have said is unjust, but I believe that your -own conscience, and the candour that I know is yours, -will endorse all that I have written. In that case, you -will know well where to seek for the <i>unfailing</i> strength -necessary to a fresh beginning and a full confession of -error.</p> - -<p>“I cannot tell you with what anxiety I shall await -your answer, and do make it a really open-hearted one, -as I well know that you <i>can</i>. There shall be no cloud -upon our meeting when we do meet, once things have -been made clear between us by letter, but I do feel that -for your own sake, far more than for mine, this -strange reticence on your part must not continue.</p> - -<p>“Look upon me as your best earthly friend, dear lad, -as well as your father, for no one can be more eager -to sympathize with you on every point than I am—and -have always been. It has always seemed to me -that the relationship of father and son could—and -should—be an utterly <i>ideal</i> one.</p> - -<p>“My love to you, as always, and do write <i>at once</i>. -I must not end this without reminding you that business-like -habits, which I am so anxious that you should -acquire, make it <i>obligatory</i> to acknowledge a cheque by -return of post, even were there not other reasons for<span class="pagenum" id="Page_182">[182]</span> -writing without delay. Anything that you wish treated -as confidential will of course be sacred—but that you -know already.</p> - -<p>“In all lovingness, dear Adrian, I remain your most -devoted father,</p> - -<p class="right">“F. L. M.”</p> -</div> - -<p>“Can I say more?” the Canon enquired sadly and -anxiously, as Lucilla laid down the letter. To which -Lucilla, with restraint, replied by a bald negative.</p> - -<p>“I have weighed every word,” her father repeated, -with, as she knew, only too much truth.</p> - -<p>“Perhaps Adrian may feel that you are taking him -too seriously altogether. He sometimes seems——”</p> - -<p>“Whom, and what, should I take seriously if not my -son, and his earthly and eternal welfare?” the Canon -interrupted her rather sternly. “You take a great deal -upon yourself, Lucilla, in speaking so. No doubt you -say to yourself: ‘I am young, I am of the period, it -is for me to act as interpreter between the parent, who -is of another generation, and the youth, who belongs -to mine.’ But if I read your thought correctly, my -child—and I have no doubt that I do—it is an arrogant -one, and altogether unworthy of you.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla did not explain that no such determination -had crossed her mind as the self-sufficient one ascribed -to her. She was aware, in common with all the -Canon’s children, that he was prone to attribute to -them occasionally motives and attitudes of mind -strangely and almost incredibly alien to anything to -which they could ever reasonably lay claim. Far more<span class="pagenum" id="Page_183">[183]</span> -often, did he credit them with aspirations and intentions -of a quite undeserved sublimity.</p> - -<p>Her inward fear, that Adrian would probably leave -the major part of his father’s letter unread, she did -not put into words.</p> - -<p>“Owen tells me that he is shortly going to London, -and I shall make a point of asking him to see our dear -fellow and bring me a full report,” said the Canon.</p> - -<p>He proffered his request shortly afterwards to -Quentillian, by whom it was received with no enthusiasm -whatever.</p> - -<p>“Will Adrian like it?” he enquired, although fully -conscious that Adrian would not.</p> - -<p>“Aye, that he will,” said the Canon with emphasis. -“It is just because we feel you to be so thoroughly -one of ourselves, dear Owen, that I am asking you to -act the elder brother’s part that would be David’s, were -he at home.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla could sympathize in the entire absence of -elation with which Quentillian took his departure, -under the new honour thus thrust upon him.</p> - -<p>There was a certain rueful amusement under his -discomfiture when he left St. Gwenllian.</p> - -<p>On his return, Lucilla discovered instantly that any -lurking amusement had been stifled under a perfectly -real anxiety.</p> - -<p>“What is it?” she almost involuntarily asked, as she -mechanically made her preparations at the tea-table for -the Canon’s entrance.</p> - -<p>“I’m afraid I have news that will distress you all, -about Adrian.”</p> - -<p>“Is he ill?” said Flora.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_184">[184]</span>“No. I’m sorry if I frightened you. He has taken -up some work that I’m afraid the Canon will disapprove -of—on the staff of Hale’s paper.”</p> - -<p>“What is that?” Flora asked, with grave, innocent -eyes.</p> - -<p>But Lucilla said at once: “That’s the new review -that has been so very much criticized for its attitude -towards the Church, isn’t it?”</p> - -<p>He nodded.</p> - -<p>“Oh!” Flora caught her breath, and her delicate -face expressed the violent and instinctive recoil of her -spirit.</p> - -<p>Owen looked at Lucilla.</p> - -<p>Her indignation took a line that was not altogether -what he had expected.</p> - -<p>“Well, surely Adrian need not have found a way -of asserting his independence that must run counter to -everything Father has ever taught!”</p> - -<p>“He isn’t exactly doing it out of the spirit of opposition. -Hale has taken a fancy to him, and it’s the -first chance Adrian has had of regular, paid work. -From a worldly point of view, he’d be a fool not to -have accepted it.”</p> - -<p>“A worldly point of view!” echoed Flora. “One -doesn’t expect that in Father’s son, somehow.”</p> - -<p>Theoretically, Quentillian felt, one didn’t.</p> - -<p>“Surely Adrian isn’t capable of controversial writing?” -Flora added, with a severity that saw apparently -nothing humourous in the suggestion.</p> - -<p>“Nothing of that sort will be required of him. He -will only write light articles, like that thing you saw in -the <i>Athene</i>. The point is that he is working for a man<span class="pagenum" id="Page_185">[185]</span> -like Hale, whose reputation—which is fairly considerable -in its own way—rests entirely upon his very anticlerical -attitude.”</p> - -<p>“But how can Adrian reconcile that with his duty as -a Church member?” said Flora tersely.</p> - -<p>“I didn’t ask him,” was Quentillian’s equally terse -reply.</p> - -<p>They all three remained silent.</p> - -<p>“Is Adrian going to write to Father, or has he -written already?” Flora asked at last.</p> - -<p>“He hasn’t written.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla’s short-sighted gaze, with the rather intent -look characteristic of a difficulty in focussing, rested -for a moment upon Quentillian’s face. Then she asked -quietly:</p> - -<p>“Did he ask you to tell Father for him?”</p> - -<p>“He did.”</p> - -<p>“How like Adrian,” said Lucilla.</p> - -<p>She made the statement very matter-of-factly, but -Quentillian knew it to be none the less a condemnation.</p> - -<p>“There was—is—no chance of making Adrian give -it up?” Flora asked.</p> - -<p>“None, I should think, at present. Hale is a man -of great personality, and Adrian is a good deal flattered, -naturally enough, at being taken up by him. Of -course he knows as well as you or I that it’s the thing -of all others to distress the Canon most. He’s genuinely -upset about it, in a way, but he struck me as being -rather childishly bent on showing that he can strike -out a line of his own.”</p> - -<p>“Poor, poor Father! He has had so much to bear -lately. Must he be told?” said Flora.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_186">[186]</span>“Of course he must. But I don’t think Owen is the -person to do the telling. Adrian should do it himself.”</p> - -<p>“So I told him,” Quentillian observed rather grimly. -“The utmost I could get out of him was a very short -note, that I am to give to the Canon when he knows -the facts.”</p> - -<p>No comment followed the announcement of so slender -an achievement, and they were sitting in silence -when Canon Morchard came in.</p> - -<p>He greeted Owen Quentillian affectionately, as he -always did, but said quickly:</p> - -<p>“I am afraid that you bear no very glad tidings, -dear fellow. No matter. We will have our talk later. -Let us forget grave subjects, and partake of ‘the cup -that cheers,’ which I can see that Lucilla there has -ready for us. What think you of this political crisis?”</p> - -<p>In the ensuing conversation the Canon, if not merry, -was at least gravely cheerful.</p> - -<p>Afterwards he took Owen into the garden, his arm -laid across the young man’s shoulders in the fashion -that he so often adopted.</p> - -<p>They remained out for a long while.</p> - -<p>Lucilla did not see her father again until evening, -when it was evident that a weight of unhappiness had -descended upon him.</p> - -<p>He read Prayers as usual, and the servants left the -room.</p> - -<p>“One moment, my daughters. It is right that you -should know the very grievous news I have learnt today. -Adrian has definitely adopted a career which -must cut him off from those of us who are living -members of the Church. He has cast in his lot with<span class="pagenum" id="Page_187">[187]</span> -an enemy of the Church—a man who makes his living, -and has acquired a disgraceful notoriety, by attacking -the Church. Your brother has been seduced into a -friendship with this man—he is working for him, -writing for his paper.”</p> - -<p>The Canon’s voice broke.</p> - -<p>“I am going up to seek him tomorrow, and plead -with him, but I have little hope. He does not answer -the letters that I write with such yearning anxiety and -love—I have lost my influence over him. If it is, as -I fear, then—‘if thy right hand offend thee, cut it off.’ -My dear children, I ask you to join with me here and -now in intercession for our erring one.”</p> - -<p>He broke down, and the tears ran down his face.</p> - -<p>It was as though Adrian’s defection cost him a double -pang: that to his own fatherhood, and that to the -ministry of the Church which he felt to be such a -living reality.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_188">[188]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">III<br /> - - -<small>DAVID AND FLORA</small></h2> -</div> - -<h3>(i)</h3> - -<p>“<span class="smcap">It</span> cannot be, my dear,” the Canon repeated. So -inexorable was his voice, in all its kindness, that his -daughter Flora felt that it could not, indeed be.</p> - -<p>But it was Lucilla who had launched the “it” in -question, and it was to Lucilla that the parental negative -had been already addressed no less than three times.</p> - -<p>“If I am thus patient with this strange persistence -of yours, Lucilla,” said the Canon, his voice deepening -after a fashion which indicated not at all obscurely -that he might not continue to be patient very much -longer, “if I am thus patient, it is because I do you -the justice to believe that it is sisterly affection for -our poor Valeria and her little one, and not a mere -restless desire for change, that has induced you to -put forward this astonishing proposal. But consider -the folly and selfishness of this scheme, my child. You -propose to spend money—which we can ill afford, any -of us—and sacrifice time and strength in a wild rush -overseas, an insensate dash through an unknown country, -in search of your sister’s new home. No doubt -you say to yourself ‘I am the winged Messenger of the -Gods. I fly to take help and comfort to our erring one.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_189">[189]</span> -I will assist this new little life that is coming into the -world.’ You picture to yourself a triumphal progress—a -rapturous welcome—the acclamations of a New -World. But you deceive yourself, Lucilla. You deceive -yourself grossly.”</p> - -<p>Flora felt herself colouring as she bent over her -needlework. A display of violent emotion as that into -which Canon Morchard was now working himself by -force of his own eloquence, was always distasteful to -her, and she felt a vicarious shame for Lucilla, convicted -of such presumptuous flights of fancy.</p> - -<p>Flora was astonished at the calm of her sister’s reply, -when it came.</p> - -<p>“But I don’t, Father. I hadn’t any idea of doing -anything but travelling to Canada in the ordinary way, -and being with Val when her new baby arrives. You -know, it is dreadfully soon after her first one, and she -really isn’t——”</p> - -<p>“Have a care, Lucilla! Who are you to question -the time and seasons appointed by the All-seeing Wisdom -for the bestowal of the infinite blessing of children?”</p> - -<p>If Lucilla represented an infinite blessing to Canon -Morchard, the fact was not over evident at the moment. -His brow was thunderous as he gazed at her.</p> - -<p>“It is Valeria’s own choice that has sent her into a -far country. She might have been at our very gates, -had she but willed it so.”</p> - -<p>“Well,” said Lucilla reasonably. “I don’t think if -Val had been so near us as all that, she would have -written and begged one of us to come to her. It’s -just because she’s out there, such a long way off, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_190">[190]</span> -with no one to help her, that she’s frightened. Why, -she may not even be able to get a servant.”</p> - -<p>“Poor child!” The Canon’s voice softened. “The -way of transgressors is hard. But two wrongs never -yet made a right, Lucilla. I recognize the generous -impulse that moves you—if I spoke sharply just now, -it was only from my intense wish to see you do justice -to your own <i>really</i> noble character, my child. Believe -me, your duty lies here, in the state to which it has -pleased God to call you.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla’s brows contracted slightly, after her short-sighted -fashion, but it was not at all with an effect -of vexation, but rather of some slight perplexity.</p> - -<p>At last she said:</p> - -<p>“Could Flora go?”</p> - -<p>Flora, startled, looked at her father. For a moment -it occurred to her that perhaps he would be willing -to spare her. Her heart leapt at the thought of seeing -Val, and Val’s babies. A vista of new experiences, of -hitherto undreamed-of independence, startled even -whilst it pleasantly excited her.</p> - -<p>Then her father said: “My dear, of what are you -thinking? Your zealous desire to befriend one sister -makes you strangely inconsiderate of the other. Flora -is neither accustomed to responsibility, nor is she very -robust in health. Certainly, were it a clear question -of duty, one could put all that aside—but the call would -have to be unmistakable, the leading beyond all question. -I can see no such indications here.”</p> - -<p>Flora, quietly bent over her needlework once more, -was ashamed of the realization that she was disappointed.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_191">[191]</span>Inwardly, she offered instant expiation for the rebellious -moment, consciously addressing herself to the -personal Divinity by whom, she had always been taught, -every hair of her head was numbered.</p> - -<p>The reflection came, in immediate consolation, that -she was not without her spiritual glory, by this very -act of resignation.</p> - -<p>“They also serve who only stand and wait,” she -thought.</p> - -<p>The Canon had often quoted this to Flora, and indeed -to any of his children who showed a desire for -alien activities.</p> - -<p>Flora might be said to have stood and waited for -some time now. It occurred to her that if Lucilla -went to Canada, responsibilities at home, other than -passive ones, would become her own portion. The -thought did not displease her. Flora, too, though far -less consciously than Valeria, had sometimes glimpsed -the sterility of her days.</p> - -<p>“Lucilla, you know where to seek counsel, I believe,” -said Canon Morchard gravely. “I make all due allowance -for your natural, loving impulse towards our poor -Valeria—all due allowance. If your heart bleeds for -her, how much more does not mine? But there are -times when we must do violence to our natural feelings -and I believe that some such necessity is upon you -now. Deny yourself, my daughter, and He will bless -the sacrifice both to you and to our dear one far -away.”</p> - -<p>“But who will look after her when her baby is -born?” said Lucilla reflectively.</p> - -<p>“Lucilla, where is your trust?”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_192">[192]</span>“Mostly in myself, I think,” said Lucilla gently. -“I really shouldn’t feel it right not to go to Val, Father. -I hope you will forgive me.” She spoke so gently, -with so simple a note of sincere regret in her quiet -voice, that the Canon, to Flora’s perceptions, appeared -to overlook the slightly blasphemous implication in the -first words of her sentence.</p> - -<p>“No man is more averse than myself from tampering -with another’s conscience,” he said, with gravity -and displeasure. “You are no longer a child, Lucilla, -but have a care lest self-will should blind you. I have -long since warned you of the danger of self-complacency. -I lay no commands upon you, but I do most -earnestly beg, my child, that you will submit your own -judgment to a higher Tribunal than any earthly one, -before coming to any decision. Commune with your -own heart, Lucilla, and be sure that self-seeking is -not lurking under the guise of loving-kindness.”</p> - -<p>The Canon went out of the room and Flora and -Lucilla were left together.</p> - -<p>It was evident that Lucilla saw no urgent necessity -for complying with her father’s advice and communing -with her own heart. She sat down at her writing-table, -wrote for a few moments, and read over what she had -written. Then she handed the half-sheet of notepaper -to Flora.</p> - -<p>It bore the announcement that a lady wishing shortly -to travel to Canada, would give her services on the -journey in return for part passage.</p> - -<p>“But you mean to go, then?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes.”</p> - -<p>“I thought Father advised you to think it over?”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_193">[193]</span>“I did think it over. Didn’t you hear me say just -now that I should think it wrong <i>not</i> to go to Val?”</p> - -<p>“You are setting your own judgment up above -Father’s,” Flora pointed out coldly.</p> - -<p>“I suppose so,” Lucilla assented, seeming rather -surprised, as though such an aspect of the case had not -hitherto presented itself to her.</p> - -<p>Flora softened.</p> - -<p>“I can’t help being glad you’re going to be with poor -Val when she wants you. And oh, Lucilla! You’ll -see little Georgie!”</p> - -<p>“I know. I wish you could, too.”</p> - -<p>“So do I.” She suddenly caught her breath. “Not -that I should do what you’re doing, for a moment. -I don’t see how you <i>can</i>, in direct opposition to Father’s -advice.”</p> - -<p>“I’m sorry you see it like that,” said Lucilla gently. -“Now, Flora, as I may have to take my passage when I -can get it, without much notice, I’d like to arrange one -or two things with you. Would you like me to give -Ethel a month’s notice? She’s a bad housemaid, but if -you’d rather she stayed on till——”</p> - -<p>“Lucilla, you talk as though it were all settled!”</p> - -<p>“My dear, it <i>is</i> all settled. I told you that my mind -was made up.”</p> - -<p>“You know that Father will miss you most terribly? -And, though he never speaks about it, he still grieves -dreadfully over Adrian.”</p> - -<p>“I know. That hasn’t really got anything to do with -it, though, has it? If you keep on Ethel, you will have -to make certain that she——”</p> - -<p>“I can’t talk about Ethel now, Lucilla. I’ll do the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_194">[194]</span> -best I can, if you really do go. Don’t think I’m unkind, -please. I do understand that it must be a great -temptation, after poor Val’s letter saying how much -she wants you. I daresay if she’d written like that to -me,” said Flora with an effort, “that I might have felt -it dreadfully difficult to refuse to go to her.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla paused on her way to the door, and looked at -her sister with friendly, reflective interest.</p> - -<p>“But you would have refused?”</p> - -<p>“Isn’t it always safest,” said Flora diffidently, and -yet with the implacable certainty of rightness, too, -“isn’t it always safest, when there’s a choice—or what -looks like a choice—to do whatever one likes least?”</p> - -<p>“Lucilla!” called the Canon’s voice.</p> - -<p>She opened the door.</p> - -<p>“No, I shouldn’t call that a very good rule, myself. -You’ll let me know about Ethel as soon as you can, -won’t you? Her month’s trial will be up next Wednesday.”</p> - -<p>“<i>Lucilla!</i>”</p> - -<p>“I’m coming, Father.”</p> - -<p>She went.</p> - -<p>Flora let her work drop into her lap and folded her -hands, allowing her thoughts to wander.</p> - -<p>Could it be right to feel that the wrong-doing of -another might prove to be one’s own opportunity, come -at last? She felt herself to have striven for so long -with the endeavour to prove faithful in that which was -least, all the time stifling resentment that no greater, -more heroic task should be set her. She had always -felt herself to be “little Flora” to her father, a child, to -be petted and sheltered, and in the minute introspection<span class="pagenum" id="Page_195">[195]</span> -of a nightly examination of conscience, she had -frequently to reproach herself bitterly for an ungrateful -longing to emerge sometimes from the shielded -into the shielding. If Lucilla went away, their father -would be alone, deserted except for Flora. David was -in India. He wrote very seldom, and then never of -coming home. Even his letters to Flora herself, always -his favourite sister, were neither confidential nor -frequent. Val was married, in Canada, and was claiming -Lucilla’s presence almost as a right. Adrian, in -London, was the subject of daily intercession at St. -Gwenllian but it was known to all his children that -the Canon would not again receive Adrian at home -until he should have severed all connection with the -atheist, Hale.</p> - -<p>How they had failed their father, all of them! -Flora resolved passionately that she herself would -never fail him. Prayer was the form of self-expression -most natural to her, and she made ardent inward -supplication that if Lucilla were permitted to follow -her own way, good might come of it, and she herself -prove worthy of her sacred filial charge. No such -exaltation of spirit could be indulged in when Lucilla’s -decision had been openly accepted, and her preparations -begun.</p> - -<p>She preserved all her usual even cheerfulness, and -her conversation was rather more severely practical -than before.</p> - -<p>“Don’t let the key of the storeroom out of your own -possession, Flossie, please. I’m sure both the maids -are trustworthy, but it’s no use breaking rules.”</p> - -<p>And:</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_196">[196]</span>“Remember <i>not</i> to order anything eggy when Mr. -Clover comes to a meal. He can’t eat eggs.”</p> - -<p>“I mean to do my very best for everyone while -you’re away. But of course it won’t be the same for -Father.”</p> - -<p>“I expect it will, if you’re careful,” said Lucilla -kindly. “Don’t let her put flavourings into everything, -though—he can’t bear them.”</p> - -<p>She seemed not at all preoccupied with less material -considerations.</p> - -<p>Even at the last, she bade them good-bye without -any of that aspect of remorse which Flora privately -considered that she ought to have worn.</p> - -<p>The Canon was very kind and forbearing, and said -at the last moment:</p> - -<p>“I hope and believe that you children understand -what is meant by large-mindedness, and that I myself -am the last man in the world to deny to each individual -the right of an independent judgment. You are acting -according to your lights, Lucilla, and I am willing—nay, -eager—to believe in the sincerity of your -motives. God bless you, my dearest one, and prosper -your mission.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla’s farewell was affectionate, but not at all -emotional, Flora was always undemonstrative by instinct, -and it was only the Canon whose eyes were -moist, and whose voice shook.</p> - -<p>Nevertheless, he turned to his remaining child after -a moment and spoke very firmly.</p> - -<p>“You may wonder, little Flora, that I have no reproach -for Lucilla. She is leaving home against my<span class="pagenum" id="Page_197">[197]</span> -advice, against my wishes. I believe that she deceives -herself. But Lucilla means well—she means well. As -we go through life, we learn to be very tolerant, very -patient, to understand better what is meant by forgiveness -‘unto seventy times seven’.”</p> - -<p>He smiled at her.</p> - -<p>“You and I must have some pleasant tête-à-tête -evenings, Flora, now that we are left to bear one another -company. I should like to rub up some of my -old Italian lore. Shall we undertake some such task -as Dante’s <i>Paradiso</i> for our leisure time?”</p> - -<p>Flora assented, gratified.</p> - -<p>Their days fell into a routine that suited her well, -and although in her daily and nightly prayers Flora -mentioned the names of both Adrian and Lucilla as -candidates for Divine Mercy, she was not really conscious -of any very earnest personal wish for the return -of either to St. Gwenllian.</p> - - -<h3>(ii)</h3> - -<p>“<span class="smcap">On</span> the 18th November, suddenly, at Bombay, -David, beloved elder son of Canon Morchard of St. -Gwenllian Vicarage....”</p> - -<p>Owen Quentillian was away from Stear when he -read the announcement, with a strong sense of shock.</p> - -<p>Why should David Morchard die?</p> - -<p>He wrote to the Canon, and also, after a little hesitation, -to Flora Morchard.</p> - -<p>As he half expected, Flora’s reply told him more -than the Canon’s numerous pages.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_198">[198]</span></p> - -<div class="blockquot"> -<p>“<span class="smcap">My Dear Owen</span>:</p> - -<p>“Thank you for your letter. We knew that you would -be sorry, and would understand what this must be to -my father, and all of us. He is so brave and good, and -everyone is kindness itself. We do not know anything -at all except the bare fact, which was cabled from -the Regimental headquarters, and it will probably be -another three weeks before letters can reach us. If -you like, I will write again when they do. We shall -want to see you very much when you get back to Stear. -Father speaks of you so often, as though it would be -a comfort to him to see you again.</p> - -<p class="right"><span class="indentright">“Yours sincerely,</span><br /> -“<span class="smcap">Flora Morchard</span>.”</p> -</div> - -<p>The Canon’s minute legible handwriting covered several -pages, and he, like Flora, but at far greater length, -emphasized the kindness shown to him.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>“My people here have shown feeling such as I -dare hardly dwell upon, lest I overset altogether such -composure as I may have won. Some of them, of -course, remember our dear, dear fellow well, young -though he was when he left us. But even those who -never knew him speak such words as well-nigh break -one’s heart with gratitude and pity and tenderness. I -tell myself that whatever is, must be best, and yet, -Owen, the longing, that I can only trust may not be -repining, to have had but one day—one hour—together, -before this blow fell! It was so long since we had -spoken together! And sometimes I reproached him for -his long silences, for the absence of the details that one -longed for, in his letters home. How could I, ah, how<span class="pagenum" id="Page_199">[199]</span> -could I, I now ask myself sadly, who will receive -no more letters from him again. How one learns to -be gentle, as the years go on, but the day comes when -each unloving word, each selfish thought, comes back -to break one’s heart! And yet, Owen, who could have -thought that <i>I</i> should be left, who have seen nigh on -three-score years, and that strong, gallant lad taken in -the very strength of his manhood. Truly, God’s ways -are not our ways.</p> - -<p>“It does not bear writing of. We must have many -long talks together, when you are with us again. What -a contrast to that first visit of yours, Owen, when our -numbers were yet unbroken, save indeed that first, -great gap that only Lucilla and the dear lad who is -gone, could realize. At least, their mother has one -with her!</p> - -<p>“When you first came to us after the war, it was to -give us direct news of our beloved boy. I seem to remember -some merry gatherings then, with Lucilla and -Flora ‘making musik,’ and Valeria all fun and brightness—I -can write of her freely, dear Owen, can I not—the -old wound is healed now?—and Adrian still the -veriest boy, the light and sunshine of the house.</p> - -<p>“You will find change and stillness and emptiness -about the old place, now. All are scattered, only Flora -left in the empty nest. I can find no words to tell you -what she has been, Owen. Friend, companion, daughter, -comforter! Of all my children, Flora and Lucilla -are the two who have never failed me, never failed -their own higher selves. And Lucilla, as you know, -is away from us at present. Poor child! What a -punishment for her self-will in leaving us.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_200">[200]</span>“Flora and poor Clover have spared me in every -possible way these days, and whilst I have them, I can -indeed never think myself wholly desolate. Letters will -not reach us yet awhile from India, and one longs, and -yet dreads, to receive them. There may be one from -our poor lad himself—yet why do I call him ‘poor,’ -when he is so far more blest than we who are left? We -can only conjecture that cholera or fever struck him -down, he said nothing of sickness in his last letter, and -whatever it was must have come upon him with fearful -suddenness. One can only hope and pray that the Infinite -Mercy allowed him time to meet the dread King -of Terrors as one knows that he would have wished -to do, but all, all is in other hands than ours.</p> - -<p>“I have said nothing of your letter, dear Owen, my -heart is too full. Let me answer it in person. Both -Flora and I look for your return with eagerness and -hope to persuade you to come to us at least for a day -or two. You knew our loved one, and it is not so long -since you and he met. How I envy you that meeting -now! We have heard of it all in detail, I know, but -you will have patience, and go over it all once more -with us. The only thing that gives one courage to -face the present (saving always that far-reaching Comfort -which one <i>knows</i> to be there, but which poor humanity -cannot always <i>feel</i>) is a mournful, tender lingering -over the past. Nor must you fear that I always -weep, dear Owen—there is often absolute rest and joy -in dwelling on the past happiness that one knows to -be only a shadow and faint forecasting of the Joy that -is to come.</p> - -<p>“Bless you, dear fellow, and though I have said so<span class="pagenum" id="Page_201">[201]</span> -little of thanks for all the sympathy and understanding -in your dear letter, do not think of me as anything -but profoundly touched and grateful.</p> - -<p class="right"><span class="indentright">“Sorrowfully and ever affectionately yours,</span><br /> - -“<span class="smcap">Fenwick Morchard</span>.”</p> -</div> - -<p>Quentillian folded the letter and put it away.</p> - -<p>He mentally visualized the silent and grief-stricken -house, and his heart contracted strangely.</p> - -<p>Valeria had gone, and would come back no more. -Her heart was given to her new life, to her new country. -Lucilla was with her. Adrian—the Adrian of -the Canon’s tender love and pride—had never been. -David, who had not wanted to come home, who had -left “long intervals” between his scanty letters—David -was dead.</p> - -<p>There was only Flora left at St. Gwenllian.</p> - -<p>He thought that he could see her, remote and austere, -either devoid of capability for human emotion, or regarding -emotional display as rebellion against Heaven. -He had never known which. Flora would move about -the cold, silent house, and write the letters, and give -the orders, and remember the sane, everyday things -that must be done. She would be helped by the eager, -anxious curate. Mr. Clover would remember things, -too, but he would not, like Flora, accomplish them in -silence. He would suggest, and remind, and humbly -and timidly deprecate his own efforts.</p> - -<p>Quentillian could see the Canon, too.</p> - -<p>The Canon would spare himself nothing, but he -would break down, with gusts of overwhelming sorrow -and bitter remorse for his own want of resignation.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_202">[202]</span> -He would write, and write, and write, in the -lonely study, often blinded with tears, yet deriving -his realest comfort from the outward expression of his -grief.</p> - -<p>Quentillian could accept that, now, could realize it -as the interpretation of a sincerity at least as complete -as his own.</p> - -<p>Within the fortnight, he went to St. Gwenllian. It -was all very much as he had pictured it to himself. -Only Flora was a little, a very little, less remote than -he had expected to find her.</p> - -<p>He thought that she dreaded the arrival of the letters -from India, and feared their effect upon her -father.</p> - -<p>When the mail did arrive, the letters were brief, and -said that David Morchard had died in hospital of -dysentery after three days’ illness. The colonel of the -regiment wrote in praise of a career interrupted abruptly, -and a parcel of effects was promised.</p> - -<p>There was no more.</p> - -<p>“Such letters have become so sadly common in the -last few years,” said the Canon wistfully. “How can -one hope that in each individual case the writer will -realize the yearning with which one looks for one -personal touch—one word to show that all was well.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps they will write from the hospital—the -chaplain or the matron,—when they send the things,” -Quentillian suggested.</p> - -<p>He, too, was faintly disappointed and puzzled at the -reticence of the letters.</p> - -<p>Flora’s face, set in its sad composure, told him -nothing of her feelings.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_203">[203]</span>But the day following brought him enlightenment -from Flora herself.</p> - -<p>They were sent out for a walk together.</p> - -<p>“Take her for a walk, dear Owen,” said the Canon -solicitously. “Flora is pale, and cold. She has shut -herself up too much of late. Go, my child, I shall -do very well, and can find only too much to occupy -me. Enjoy the fresh air.”</p> - -<p>Flora made no protestations of inability to enjoy -herself, nor any assumption of indispensability at -home. It was the Canon, again, who suggested an -errand to a distant cottage, and she acquiesced without -comment.</p> - -<p>It was a cold, grey day, with swiftly moving masses -of cloud and a chill in the wind. Flora and Owen -walked quickly, and at first neither spoke. Then Flora -said:</p> - -<p>“How much, exactly, were you a friend of -David’s?”</p> - -<p>His own surprise made Quentillian realize afresh -how very seldom it was that Flora initiated any topic -of a personal nature.</p> - -<p>“We were not intimate,” he replied.</p> - -<p>“It was more the time that you spent with us here, -when you were a little boy, than anything else, that -established a relationship between you?”</p> - -<p>“I suppose it was.”</p> - -<p>“I think you are very much interested in people, and -Lucilla says that you are very observant,” said Flora, -smiling a little. “Would you mind telling me, quite -dispassionately, if David was popular with other men—the -officers in his regiment, for instance?”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_204">[204]</span>He did not understand at what her question aimed, -but replied with unhesitating candour.</p> - -<p>“I should say he was very popular. He was a good -sportsman, and everyone liked him, although as far -as I know he wasn’t a man of intimate friendships. -That type isn’t.”</p> - -<p>“No. You see, Owen, there have been no letters -from people who were in India with him, although you -say he was popular. Only just those few lines from -the Colonel. And I was afraid before—and I’m afraid -now—” She stopped.</p> - -<p>“Of what?”</p> - -<p>“That it wasn’t dysentery, or anything like that. -That they’re keeping the truth from us out of pity, -or to save some scandal. I—I can’t get it out of my -mind, Owen.”</p> - -<p>He heard her with something that was not altogether -surprise. Subconsciously, he felt that his own -uneasiness had been only dormant.</p> - -<p>“Have you anything beyond intuition, to go upon?”</p> - -<p>“No.”</p> - -<p>“Why have you told me?”</p> - -<p>He felt certain that she had not spoken merely in -order to be reassured, nor in order to find relief. -Speaking was no relief to Flora, so far as Owen could -see.</p> - -<p>“I want you to try and find out definitely.”</p> - -<p>“Yes. And supposing I do, supposing that what you -fear is true—” he hesitated.</p> - -<p>“That David took his own life?” said Flora, shuddering. -“Then, don’t you see, Owen, I shall have<span class="pagenum" id="Page_205">[205]</span> -to tell Father—or else to make it absolutely certain -that no one will ever tell him.”</p> - -<p>“You can’t,” said Owen gently.</p> - -<p>“But I must,” she told him, with the same intensity. -“He’s had a great deal to bear already, and this would -be worse than anything. Suicide is a mortal sin. -Bodily separation, one can resign oneself to—he <i>is</i> -resigning himself, poor Father, to separation from -nearly all those whom he loves,—but suicide would -mean eternal separation. It would be worse than -anything—the loss of David’s soul.”</p> - -<p>“I see.”</p> - -<p>Quentillian did indeed see.</p> - -<p>“Val, and Adrian, and David—they’ve all gone -away from him,” said Flora. “Only he knows there -is another life, so much more real and enduring than -this one, to which he looks. It means everything to -him. If David did do—that—then the hope of meeting -him again, in eternity, is gone.”</p> - -<p>Quentillian felt the force of her low-spoken, -anguished statement.</p> - -<p>“You are taking it for granted that a suspicion—which -after all, rests on very little indeed—is true.”</p> - -<p>“You see, if I am to safeguard my father from this -thing, I can’t very well afford to wait and do nothing, -just because there’s quite a big chance that it isn’t true -at all. The chance that it <i>is</i> true, may be infinitesimal—the -hundredth chance, if you like—but it’s that -which I’ve got to think about, not the other. Optimism -doesn’t carry one far enough, in preparing a line -of defence.”</p> - -<p>“I agree with you.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_206">[206]</span>“I don’t think that either you or I are optimists, -Owen,” said Flora, faintly smiling.</p> - -<p>“No.”</p> - -<p>“That’s why I want you to help me. Can you make -enquiries at any of the headquarter places in London -where they might know something?”</p> - -<p>“I can try.”</p> - -<p>“Thank you very much,” said Flora, as though his -unenthusiastic assent had closed the subject.</p> - -<p>They went along the muddy road in silence.</p> - -<p>It was from no sense that it was necessary to break -it, that Quentillian spoke again at last.</p> - -<p>“Will Lucilla come back to England at once?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t think so. She promised to stay till the -spring. You know Val has another little boy? I wish -we could see them, but Father will never really be happy -about Val, I’m afraid. He forgave her, long ago, but -he doesn’t forget things, ever, I don’t think.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t consider that the Canon had anything to -forgive,” said Quentillian in tones of finality.</p> - -<p>“But <i>he</i> does.”</p> - -<p>If Quentillian had expected a certain meed of recognition -for the magnanimity of his point of view, he -was not destined to be gratified. Flora spoke rather -as one giving utterance to an obvious platitude.</p> - -<p>“Is Val happy?”</p> - -<p>“Very. She has exactly what she always really -wanted. Sometimes they have a servant, but most of -the time she does everything herself, and has occasional -help. She is so happy with the two little boys, too, all -her letters are about them, and about the house, and -all they’re doing to improve it. She’s got the life that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_207">[207]</span> -she was really meant for, and after all, isn’t that what -makes happiness?”</p> - -<p>“I suppose it is. She was meant for the primitive -things, you think?”</p> - -<p>“Lucilla always said so. There is the cottage, Owen. -Will you wait outside, or come in?”</p> - -<p>“I should like to come in with you.”</p> - -<p>Life was inartistic, Quentillian reflected whimsically, -while Flora delivered her father’s message to a middle-aged -woman in an apron.</p> - -<p>To accord with all literary conventions, there should -have been a sick child in the cottage, and Flora’s tender -soothing of its fretfulness should have proved a revelation -of the unfulfilled maternal instinct within her.</p> - -<p>But there was no sick child to provide a <i>clou</i> for -Quentillian’s observations in psychology, and he was -by no means assured of Flora’s powers of soothing. -Rather would she urge the silence of resignation.</p> - -<p>He was convinced that never in her life had Flora -Morchard been the centre of a pretty picture. That -her personality seldom dominated any scene was not, -he felt, from any conscious effacement, but from an -innate and instinctive withdrawal of her forces to some -unseen objective, to her infinitely worth while. He -reflected with dismay on his own undertaking to make -enquiries concerning the death of David Morchard. -But he did not think that Flora, whatever the result of -the enquiries, would be dismayed. Dismay implied -mental disarray, a quality of taken-abackness. Flora, -as she would herself have told him, was strong in a -strength not her own.</p> - -<p>They walked back together almost in silence.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_208">[208]</span>“Your little expedition did Flora good,” the Canon -told Quentillian that evening. “I am grateful to you, -dear fellow, very grateful. Let us see something of -you still, from Stear. It means a great deal to us -both. There must not be ‘good-bye’ between us, save -for the beautiful old meaning of the word, ‘God by -you.’ God by you always, dear Owen.”</p> - -<p>Quentillian went to London, made no discoveries at -all, and wrote to Flora.</p> - -<p>She replied, thanking him, in the briefest of notes. -A week later he received another letter from her.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> -<p>“<span class="smcap">My Dear Owen</span>:</p> - -<p>“The Indian mail came in yesterday, and brought -me a letter from David, written a week before he died. -He asked me to break it to my father that a Major -Carey, in his regiment, was on his way home to take -divorce proceedings against his wife, citing David as -co-respondent. David asked me in the letter to do -anything I could for Mrs. Carey, as she is by herself, -with no relations in England. The case was to be undefended, -and David had decided to leave the Army -and come to England as soon as possible to marry -Mrs. Carey. I gather that he was very unhappy, especially -at having to leave the regiment. I still do not -know whether he found a dreadful solution to the -whole question, in taking his own life.</p> - -<p>“Mrs. Carey has written to Father, a strange note, -which he showed me. She says nothing of the divorce -proceedings, but only writes as a great friend of -David’s, imploring to be allowed to see us. Naturally, -Father is only too anxious to see her, and as she says<span class="pagenum" id="Page_209">[209]</span> -that she is on her way to Scotland at once, we are coming -to London on the 10th so as to meet her.</p> - -<p>“I have told Father nothing whatever of David’s -letter to me. I cannot imagine that Mrs. Carey will -want to make the facts known to him, but I shall be -able to judge better when I have seen her, which I -have decided to do, by myself, before the appointment -with Father.</p> - -<p>“I can arrange this a great deal better with your help -than without it, therefore will you come and see us on -the evening we arrive—Thursday the 10th, at about six -o’clock, Carrowby’s Hotel?</p> - -<p>“Please destroy this letter.</p> - -<p class="right"><span class="indentright">“Yours sincerely,</span><br /> - -“<span class="smcap">Flora Morchard</span>.”</p> -</div> - -<p>Quentillian, as he read Flora’s unvarnished statements, -felt a sensation as of being appalled.</p> - -<p>He could not believe that Flora, fanatically single-minded -as her determination to shield her father from -the knowledge of the truth might be, had any conception -of the difficulties that probably lay before her, and -he asked himself also whether she had in any degree -realized what the consequences must be to the Canon, -far more than to herself, of a deception that should -break down half way.</p> - -<p>His absolute conviction of Flora’s inflexibility, and -his own strong sense of the impertinence, in both the -proper and the colloquial sense of the word, of offering -unasked advice, were not enough to restrain him from -the mental composition of several eloquent and elaborate -expositions of opinion. But they sufficed to restrain<span class="pagenum" id="Page_210">[210]</span> -him from transferring the eloquence to a sheet -of notepaper.</p> - -<p>He went to Carrowby’s Hotel, to keep the appointment -summarily made by Flora.</p> - -<p>“You dear man!”</p> - -<p>The Canon’s exclamation of pleasure rang through -the dingy hotel sitting-room in which Quentillian -found them. He always showed the same pleasure in -seeing Owen, and Owen’s old sense of inadequacy had -insensibly given place to a rather remorseful gratitude.</p> - -<p>“Is this the doing of Flora? She told me that she -should notify you of our coming, but it is good to -meet with a friend’s face so early. Our stay is to be a -very brief one. I have to return home for the Sunday. -I cannot leave all in Clover’s hands. Besides, I trust -there will be no need. You know the errand on which -we are come?”</p> - -<p>“I told him in my letter,” said Flora.</p> - -<p>“This lady, this Mrs. Carey, had seen much of our -dear fellow in India and her letter is full of feeling—full -of feeling. She heard nothing of our tragedy until -she landed in England. It seems that she had been -in ill-health for some time, she writes of complete -prostration, and is on her way to Scotland now. So -you will understand our hasty journey hither. Has it -not indeed been with us, ‘Ask and ye shall receive’? -Flora, here, knows what my yearning has been for one -word with those who knew him, who had been with -him recently. And behold! it has been given unto me, -‘full measure, heaped up, pressed down and running -over’.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_211">[211]</span>The Canon leant back. He looked very tired and -old.</p> - -<p>“Do you see her tomorrow morning, sir?”</p> - -<p>“We go to her, Owen. She is good enough to receive -us on Saturday morning, and I understand that -she leaves that evening. Tomorrow I have a conference -in the afternoon, but the morning is our own.”</p> - -<p>He gazed wistfully at Owen.</p> - -<p>“I had thought of a memorial window to the beloved -David, and this is an opportunity which may -not come again. I have the name of a place to which -I half thought of going, if it be not too trying for -little Flora.”</p> - -<p>“Let me accompany you,” said Quentillian.</p> - -<p>It was evidently what the Canon wished.</p> - -<p>“Will you, dear lad? I own that I should be glad -of your arm, aye, and your presence. Flora is overwrought -and overtired.”</p> - -<p>She did indeed look very ill, not at all to Quentillian’s -surprise.</p> - -<p>“She has been taking too much thought for me, dear -child,” said the Canon, Quentillian could not help -thinking with more truth than he realized. “I wish -Flora to take some rest. Let the expedition tomorrow -be yours and mine, Owen. Tell me, my daughter, -what time am I free?”</p> - -<p>“Tomorrow morning, till twelve o’clock. Your conference -is at two.”</p> - -<p>“Flora is my deputy secretary,” said the Canon smiling. -“I trust it all to her, and her memory is unfailing. -She is indeed my right hand.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_212">[212]</span>“Will you come at ten o’clock tomorrow, Owen, and -start from here?” said Flora abruptly.</p> - -<p>He assented, determined to obtain an opportunity -of speaking to her alone. If he was to assist Flora in -a scheme of concealment against which he inwardly revolted -strongly, he must at least know of what that -scheme consisted. His indignation waxed in proportion -to his anxiety, until Flora said to him with deliberation:</p> - -<p>“Ought we to keep you any longer, Owen? I’ll ring -for the lift.” The suggestion took them both out of -the room, and she closed the door after her.</p> - -<p>“What is it you’re doing?” said Quentillian, his -urgency too great for a choice of words.</p> - -<p>She leant against the passage wall, white and -rather breathless, but spoke low and very distinctly, -as though to impress her facts upon him.</p> - -<p>“Listen—I want you to be quite clear about it. The -appointment with Mrs. Carey is for tomorrow—Friday -morning. I’m going to her house. I’m certain -from her letter, that she’s not a woman to be trusted. -I don’t know why she wants to see us, but I think it’s -to tell us things—things about David. I shall know -when I’ve seen her.”</p> - -<p>“But your father thinks the appointment is for Saturday?”</p> - -<p>“I told him it was. I wrote the letter to arrange it.”</p> - -<p>“And how are you to prevent his going there on -Saturday?”</p> - -<p>“She leaves for Scotland on Friday night.”</p> - -<p>“You know that for certain?”</p> - -<p>“Of course I do, Owen. One doesn’t leave these<span class="pagenum" id="Page_213">[213]</span> -things to chance. But I shall telephone on Saturday -and find out if she’s really left.”</p> - -<p>“I still don’t understand altogether. How can you -explain to the Canon that this lady isn’t there, when -he goes by appointment to see her?”</p> - -<p>“I shall have made a mistake. I’m keeping his engagements -written down for him. And I shall have -written down this engagement for Saturday, instead of -for Friday. He will go exactly one day too late.”</p> - -<p>“Flora, you can’t do it.”</p> - -<p>She lifted tired eyes to his face, overwrought to the -point of fanaticism.</p> - -<p>“Don’t waste time. Only tell me if I can count on -you. All I want you to do is to keep Father out, with -you, tomorrow morning. I shall be at Mrs. Carey’s at -half-past ten and I promise to be back here before one -o’clock.”</p> - -<p>“Suppose this lady is not what you think her, and -you find that she will be—discreet—is your father to -be disappointed of his hopes of seeing her?”</p> - -<p>“I may be able to arrange something. Perhaps she’d -put off going to Scotland, and see him on Saturday -after all. It would be all right then, wouldn’t it? Or -I might even be able to tell her the whole thing,” said -Flora wistfully. “It isn’t very likely, though.”</p> - -<p>He did not think that it was.</p> - -<p>“You see, you didn’t see her original letter, and I -did. It was the letter of a very hysterical person. She -might say almost anything, I imagine and—well, -there’s a good deal that mustn’t be said, isn’t there?”</p> - -<p>It was incontrovertible, but Quentillian said roughly:</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_214">[214]</span>“I detest maneuvering, it’s utterly unworthy of you. -All this juggling with dates and letters——”</p> - -<p>“It’s no use doing things by halves,” said Flora -stubbornly. “Yes or no, Owen, are you going to back -me up if necessary?”</p> - -<p>“If I say no, will it deter you from going through -with this insane performance?”</p> - -<p>“Of course it won’t.” She actually smiled. “What -would be the sense of making up one’s mind if it’s to -be unmade again just because one’s friends don’t agree -with one?”</p> - -<p>“Very well.” He shrugged his shoulders as one in -desperation.</p> - -<p>She evidently accepted it as the assent, however ungracious, -that he meant it to be.</p> - -<p>“Thank you very much,” said Flora with brief -finality.</p> - - -<h3>(iii)</h3> - -<p><span class="smcap">Flora</span> followed Mrs. Carey’s maid upstairs, feeling -as though the beating of her heart were causing each -breath she drew to crowd thickly upon the next one.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Carey’s house—she supposed it was Mrs. -Carey’s house—was a very tiny one indeed, and looked -tinier by reason of the number of pictures, draperies, -and flowers that covered every available corner of the -steep staircase and the small landing.</p> - -<p>The drawing-room was small, too, and so dark that -the maid turned on the rose-shaded electric lights as she -ushered Flora into the empty room.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_215">[215]</span>“Mrs. Carey isn’t down yet. I’ll tell her you’re here, -m’m.”</p> - -<p>“Mrs. Carey is expecting me. Please say that it is -Miss Morchard.”</p> - -<p>The maid went away.</p> - -<p>“Unpunctual,” reflected Flora. “She said half-past -ten.”</p> - -<p>She gazed round the room, which confirmed the impression -of Mrs. Carey’s personality that Flora had already -received from her pale mauve notepaper, her -methods of expressing herself in writing, and that -which she knew of her relations with David Morchard.</p> - -<p>Nearly everything in the room was rose-colour, except -the walls, which were grey, and laden with -sketches, brackets, and a shelf on which stood innumerable -framed and unframed photographs, nearly all -of them of men.</p> - -<p>A minute writing-table, set corner ways, overflowed -with papers, and more photographs, including one that -Flora recognized instantly, although it had never been -sent to St. Gwenllian.</p> - -<p>The chair in front of the table supported a number -of illustrated papers.</p> - -<p>“Untidy,” was Flora’s next verdict.</p> - -<p>She had resolutely closed the avenues of her mind -to emotion and speculation alike. The habits of observation, -which she mentioned in private spiritual consultation -with her father as her own tendency towards -a lack of charity, she knew subconsciously to possess -a steadying effect.</p> - -<p>A quantity of cigarette ash in a small receptacle, presumably -placed there on the previous evening, and a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_216">[216]</span> -general atmosphere of unopened windows, did not -serve to modify Flora’s already unenthusiastic judgments.</p> - -<p>Neither did Mrs. Carey’s delay in making her appearance.</p> - -<p>When she at last came in, it was difficult to see what -could possibly have delayed her, since she had apparently -only stepped out of bed into a wadded silk -kimono, a lace boudoir cap, and fur-bordered bedroom -slippers.</p> - -<p>She looked younger than Flora had expected her to -be, and her little pallid face was pretty enough, with -violet semi-circles under big, light blue eyes and a -general air of fragility. Although nearly as tall as -Flora herself, she was slight enough to produce an -effect of daintiness, the adjective that Flora immediately -felt certain would appeal to her most.</p> - -<p>A short, thick plait of fair hair fell over her shoulders, -and a certain babyish plaintiveness of utterance -made Flora think of Olga Duffle.</p> - -<p>“I’m sure you’re David’s sister,” said Mrs. Carey, to -which proof of intuition her visitor offered no reply, -thinking the fact sufficiently self-evident.</p> - -<p>“Oh, do sit down. You must forgive me coming -in like this, but I’m not strong, and I arrived worn out -after an awful voyage—and then to get this news! -Do you smoke?”</p> - -<p>“No, thank you.”</p> - -<p>“Do you mind if I do? I smoke too much, but my -nerves are in an awful state. A doctor friend of mine—the -dearest thing—made me promise faithfully never -to inhale, but I’m afraid I do. It was the ship’s doctor,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_217">[217]</span> -on the way home, as a matter of fact. There were one -or two nice men on board, but the women were dreadful. -Miss Morchard, I should think other women generally -confide in you, don’t they, and like you most -awfully. Now, I’m <i>not</i> enormously popular with other -women. I don’t mean that I haven’t got women-friends, -devoted ones, who’d do anything in the world -for me—but most of my very best pals have been men. -It’s funny, isn’t it? Your brother was one of my -<i>dearest</i> friends.”</p> - -<p>The blue eyes looked warily at Flora.</p> - -<p>“That’s why I felt I had to see you, and oh! you are -so like him! It’s hardly like talking to a stranger at -all!”</p> - -<p>It certainly was not, Flora reflected.</p> - -<p>“I feel I’m so dreadfully in the dark—I know nothing. -Only the awful, awful fact. When I got the -cable—it was cabled to me, by a dear friend at Government -House—when I read it, I simply didn’t believe -it. I said, ‘It can’t be true.’ But it was.”</p> - -<p>Flora did not feel it incumbent upon her to reply.</p> - -<p>“When your father got my letter, I daresay he was -astonished, but I’m frightfully impulsive, Miss -Morchard, and I felt I <i>must</i> know more or I should -go mad. That’s why I begged you to let me see you. -I’m a thoroughly unconventional woman, as you may -perhaps have guessed, and I always act on impulse.”</p> - -<p>Flora looked at the frightened, furtive little face, -and wondered what purpose and what concealment lay -behind the flood of words.</p> - -<p>“I’m going to be perfectly frank with you, because<span class="pagenum" id="Page_218">[218]</span> -I feel I can trust you. May I call you Flora? My -name is Maisie—a silly little name, isn’t it, but my -friends all say it suits me. I don’t know why. Tell -me, did David write to you about me? He said he was -going to, but it was such a—such a short time before——”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Carey’s tongue moistened her lips as though -they were dry.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know whether you’ve ever lived abroad, but -if you haven’t, you don’t know what the East is like -for people who have to live there. There’s a frightful -amount of slander and gossip going on, and people put -a wicked construction on all sorts of innocent things. -It’s awful. It used to make me simply miserable. You -see, live and let live has always been my motto. I like -to go my own way, and have my own friends, and not -do any harm to anybody, but simply be happy in my -own little way. After all, it’s what God meant for all -of us, isn’t it? But in India one can’t do that. My -dear, you wouldn’t believe what it’s like. I went out -when I was awfully young—I was married at twenty—and -I know for a fact that the most beastly things -have been said about me. You see, I feel I can tell you -this quite frankly, Flora, because of your being David’s -favourite sister. I know you’ll understand, and that I -can trust you.”</p> - -<p>Again that anxious, furtive glance was shot at her -from under Mrs. Carey’s long lashes.</p> - -<p>“I’ve had heaps of men friends, of course—especially -in the Regiment. I’m going to be <i>perfectly</i> honest -with you, and own up that one or two of them got -rather silly, and fancied themselves in love with me.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_219">[219]</span> -That wasn’t my fault, was it? I just wanted to be -friends, you know. A nice woman can do such a lot -for young men. I couldn’t help it—possibly—if they -went and fancied themselves in love with me. Now -could I? But would you believe it, people—it was -mostly women, I must say, and some of them -actually called themselves my friends—went and invented -the most disgusting lies about me. Out of jealousy, -you know. I was a good ten years younger than -any of them, as it happened, and you’d have thought -the Colonel’s wife, or anyone like that, might have -wanted to mother me a little bit. (I lost my own -mother when I was only fourteen, and had a rotten -time at home.) But instead of that, my dear, <i>instead</i> -of that, they simply spread these filthy stories about -me and all my best friends. However, I don’t want to -go into all that. It was soon after I first went out, and -of course nobody who really knew me believed for an -instant that there was anything in it. They heard -something about it at Government House, you know, -and the Governor was simply furious, I believe. My -friend in the Secretariat told me about it. The Governor -said that Mrs. Carey was the only real lady in -the place, as well as being the prettiest woman in India. -Of course, that may have been nonsense, because I happen -to know that he did like me most awfully—personally, -I mean—but I know I was most awfully -touched at his taking up the cudgels for me like that. -It showed what the people who really <i>mattered</i> thought -of me, didn’t it, and after all, the Governor of a place -does represent the King, doesn’t he?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Flora.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_220">[220]</span>It was the first appeal to which she had felt able to -give any assent.</p> - -<p>“You said that so like David!” cried Mrs. Carey -clasping her hands together. “We were the greatest -friends, and he used to come to me about everything. -I used to tell him to marry....”</p> - -<p>Another pause, and another look.</p> - -<p>“I always want my young-men friends to marry. -That just shows, doesn’t it, what nonsense it is for -anyone to talk as though there were anything wrong -about it? I don’t know whether your brother ever -hinted anything to you, in his letters, about any horrid -gossip. Between ourselves, he used to get angry, I -know, at the things that were sometimes said, and of -course he knew that I wasn’t—well, very happy. -You’re not married, I know, so perhaps you won’t understand -what it means to a woman, especially a very -sensitive one, which I am, to have a husband who is -jealous. I’m not blaming Fred, exactly, I suppose he -can’t help it, and he was madly in love with me when -we married. Of course, I was much too young and -ignorant of life to marry, but I had an awfully unhappy -home, and if it hadn’t been Fred, it would have -been somebody else—men were always pestering me, -somehow. Besides, people made mischief between us. -How people can be wicked enough to come between -husband and wife, I can’t think! I’ve been through -hell once or twice in my life, I can tell you!”</p> - -<p>Looking at the fear and the craftiness and the -sensuality written on Maisie Carey’s small, ravaged -face, Flora could believe it without difficulty.</p> - -<p>“I don’t really know why I’m telling you all this,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_221">[221]</span> -exactly. It’s not like me. I’m terribly reserved, really. -But you’ve got such an awfully nice face, somehow, -and you’re David’s sister. I can’t tell you how fond -I was of David—we were just tremendous chums. It -upset me awfully, that he should die in that sudden -way.”</p> - -<p>She began to cry in a convulsive, spasmodic way.</p> - -<p>Flora still remained silent.</p> - -<p>“I wish you’d tell me if he ever wrote anything to -you about me,” sobbed Mrs. Carey.</p> - -<p>In the midst of the tears which seemed to be really -beyond her own control, Flora caught a glimpse as of -a terrible anxiety. She suddenly knew that in the answer -to that last, sobbed-out question lay, for Mrs. -Carey, the crux of their interview.</p> - -<p>“He did write,” said Flora. “But what he wrote is -safe with me. It will never go any further.”</p> - -<p>The figure in the gay silk kimono seemed to cower -further back into the armchair, but there was no self-betraying -exclamation.</p> - -<p>“I suppose he told you about Fred and me?”</p> - -<p>“And about himself too,” said Flora.</p> - -<p>“Men are all alike! Why did he want to tell you?”</p> - -<p>“So that I could tell my father and sister. David -was afraid of Father.”</p> - -<p>“Your father knows?” This time the note of alarm -was undisguised.</p> - -<p>“No. The letter was only found and posted after -the ones that told us of David’s death. And I have -told my father nothing.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Carey broke into vehement, hysterical speech.</p> - -<p>“There’s nothing to tell! You people at home make<span class="pagenum" id="Page_222">[222]</span> -such mountains out of molehills. I swear to you that -there was nothing between us, that I never——”</p> - -<p>Flora interrupted her.</p> - -<p>“He told me everything,” she repeated. “He told -me that the case would be undefended, and that he -was coming home to marry you. So you see I know.”</p> - -<p>“You! What can you, who’ve never married, never -seen anything of life, know of things? You see evil -where none exists—you’re like all these good and holy -people ... intolerant....” Tears poured -unchecked down her face, making streaks across the -white powder. “You don’t even <i>begin</i> to know what -I’ve gone through. My husband is a beast—a <i>beast</i>. -You don’t know what that means.”</p> - -<p>She flung herself backwards, almost prone, and wept -hysterically.</p> - -<p>“What are you going to do?” said Flora.</p> - -<p>“Kill myself!”</p> - -<p>The rhetorical answer came almost automatically.</p> - -<p>Flora waited for a moment and then said very -gently:</p> - -<p>“As you say, I don’t know anything about these -things, but perhaps you would tell me what you want. -We might think of some way of making things better. -And you can see for yourself that your secret—and -David’s—is safe with me. I’ve deceived my father, -sooner than let him guess. I don’t think he need -ever know, now.”</p> - -<p>“Why don’t you want him to know?” said Mrs. -Carey with sudden curiosity that seemed to check her -crying.</p> - -<p>“It would make him very unhappy. He was proud<span class="pagenum" id="Page_223">[223]</span> -of David and he thinks that David had a career before -him. Perhaps you’ve read in books,” said Flora, -speaking as though to a child, “about people thinking -death is better than dishonour. Well, my father is -like that.”</p> - -<p>“He’s a parson, isn’t he?”</p> - -<p>“Yes.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Carey shrugged her shoulders.</p> - -<p>“Where is your husband now?” Flora enquired. She -felt that she could ask this woman questions without -fear or rebuff, but she thought that it would be for her -to disentangle the truth from the false in Mrs. Carey’s -replies.</p> - -<p>“Fred’s in Scotland. He’s staying with his mother. -She’s a beastly old woman and I hate her. If she’d -been a decent sort, you’d think she’d have used her -influence to put things right between us, now wouldn’t -you? But she’s never let Fred alone ever since we -married. Always telling him tales about me, and saying -I’m extravagant, and a flirt, and wanting to know -why I’ve never had a baby. It’s not my fault if I’ve -got rotten health, now is it? I’ve always been delicate. -I’m sure I only wish I had got a child. It might -have made Fred nicer to me, and I should have had -something to care for.”</p> - -<p>She began to cry again.</p> - -<p>“I’m sure I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. -Perhaps you think I’m mad.”</p> - -<p>“I’m dreadfully sorry for you,” said Flora truthfully.</p> - -<p>“You’re a dear.” Mrs. Carey dropped the hostility -out of her voice abruptly. “No one knows what I’ve<span class="pagenum" id="Page_224">[224]</span> -gone through. And now about David—it’s simply -awful!”</p> - -<p>“Did you really mean to marry David, after your -divorce?”</p> - -<p>“I’d better tell you the whole story, I suppose,” said -Mrs. Carey. She dried her eyes and her voice insensibly -hardened from self-pity into tones of satisfaction.</p> - -<p>“I suppose I’ve always been attractive to men. I -can’t help it, after all. And I daresay I’ve played the -fool, in my time—in fact I don’t deny it. But David -and I were simply tremendous friends, to begin with. -He was frightfully sorry for me, too. Everybody knew -that Fred was simply hateful to me, and made a scene -if I so much as went out riding with another man. He -quite liked your brother, though, at first, I will say -that for him. We used to have him to dinner pretty -often, and one of the subalterns to make a fourth, and -play Bridge. Well, I never guessed that your brother -did more than just like me as a great friend, as heaps -of men did—how could I? I used to advise him to -marry, often and often. Some nice girl at home, who’d -come out and look after him. Those boys all drink -more than is good for them, out there, if they’ve no -wife to look after them. And David used to talk nonsense -about having no use for girls, and having met -his ideal too late, but of course I never took it seriously. -Heaps of men say things like that to one, now don’t -they? We used to go out riding together a good deal, -and of course I danced with him. (That’s another of -the ways in which Fred is so frightfully selfish. He -can’t dance himself ever since he was wounded in the -war, so he hates me to.) Then people began to say the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_225">[225]</span> -usual horrid things. The women out there are all cats, -and besides, a good many of them wanted David for -themselves. I didn’t take any notice. I think it’s so -much more dignified not to, don’t you? As I said to -the Colonel’s wife, when she had the impertinence to -speak to me about it, I never <i>have</i> taken any notice of -gossip, and I’m not going to begin now. I simply go -my own way, and let people say what they choose. It -doesn’t matter to me if they’ve got horrible minds. It’s -themselves that are hurt by it, I always think, not me. -But I think women are much braver and more unconventional -than men, don’t you? David minded ever so -much more than I did, when he found people were -talking about us. Well, things were going from bad -to worse between Fred and me, and one night he was so -perfectly hateful to me that I got frightened. He was—not -drunk, but not altogether sober. And I ran -into the compound and down the road to David’s bungalow. -He shared it with another man, but the other -man was away shooting. You see, I was so frightened -and upset that I didn’t know what I was doing, and -I just felt I must go to someone who’d take care of -me.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Carey swallowed, as though something in her -throat were hurting her, and lit another cigarette with -a hand that trembled.</p> - -<p>“It was a frightfully imprudent thing to do, I suppose, -but I’ve never pretended to be a particularly -prudent woman. I daresay I should have been much -happier if I’d been less impulsive, all my life, but after -all, one can’t change one’s nature, can one? Besides, -I was nearly out of my mind. Fred came to find me<span class="pagenum" id="Page_226">[226]</span> -next morning. I was far too miserable and terrified -to go back to him that night. We had scene after scene, -after that, and he threatened me with divorce proceedings.”</p> - -<p>She glanced at her motionless auditor.</p> - -<p>“I may have been a careless fool, and I’ll go as far -as to say that I’ve flirted with other men, but it was -wicked of Fred to think of such a thing as divorce—to -ruin my reputation, and spoil David’s career.”</p> - -<p>“Why was the case to be undefended?” said Flora -steadily.</p> - -<p>“Why—why, don’t you see, when it all came to a -crisis, I told David how utterly wretched my whole -life was, and how I couldn’t bear it and should kill -myself, and we had to talk things over, and see what -could be done with Fred, who was like a madman. -And then it all came out—I mean David said I was -the only woman he could ever care for, and if I was -free, wouldn’t I marry him, and let him try to make -up to me for everything.”</p> - -<p>“Why was the case to be undefended?”</p> - -<p>“It would make less of a scandal if it was all done -quietly. I—I didn’t feel I could face the other.”</p> - -<p>In the truth of that last assertion, Flora could believe -absolutely.</p> - -<p>“I think I know the rest,” she said. “David was -going to send in his papers, and come home to England -as soon as possible after you and Major Carey, -and you’d promised to marry him when the decree had -been made absolute.”</p> - -<p>“How do you know those legal terms?” said Mrs.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_227">[227]</span> -Carey, pouting like a child that is trying to show -displeasure.</p> - -<p>Flora did not pursue the irrelevance. She was following -a chain of thought in her own mind.</p> - -<p>“David <i>was</i> in love with this woman. Otherwise -he wouldn’t have written and asked me to do anything -I could for her. As for leaving the case undefended—well, -they probably hadn’t got a defence to put up. -He meant to marry her—probably wanted to marry her. -Besides he’d have felt that he owed it to her. And -though he was afraid of Father, and very unhappy -about sending in his papers, and though he may have -had glimpses of what she really is—David wasn’t the -sort to let her down. <i>He didn’t kill himself.</i>”</p> - -<p>The certainty came to Flora with a rush of relief -so profound that she could almost have thanked little -Mrs. Carey for unwittingly bringing her to it.</p> - -<p>It was characteristic of her that, instead, she glanced -at her watch and said:</p> - -<p>“I can only stay another twenty minutes, and we -shall probably not meet again. Are you going to Scotland -tonight?”</p> - -<p>“Indeed I am. Fred is there now, at his mother’s, -telling her all sorts of horrible things about me, I -suppose. They’ve both written to me.”</p> - -<p>“What is your husband going to do?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know.” She began to cry again. “His -mother, for once in her life, wants to patch things up -between us. She’s one of your religious people, and -she thinks divorce is awful.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know whether a divorce is still possible, now -that David——”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_228">[228]</span>Mrs. Carey broke into a sort of howl that, in its -reminiscence of a beaten animal, made Flora feel -sick.</p> - -<p>“That’s just it—Fred <i>is</i> a beast! He thinks there -were other people—other men—as well.”</p> - -<p>“Oh,” said Flora, and shuddered violently.</p> - -<p>“You’ve been rather a dear, so I don’t mind telling -you that your brother is out of it now, whatever happened. -Oh, I don’t know what’ll happen. I never -cared for anybody like I did for David—never. I was -ready to go through anything for him, and we could -have started fresh somewhere, and no one would have -thought anything of it. People aren’t so narrow-minded -as they used to be. He’s the only man I’ve -ever loved!”</p> - -<p>Flora felt no inclination to point out to the unhappy -woman the inconsistency of her various statements.</p> - -<p>She even found it easy enough to believe that Maisie -Carey for the moment thought herself to be speaking -the truth when she said that David was the only man -she had ever loved.</p> - -<p>“I’m sorry for you,” she said gently. “And I’m -grateful to you, because you’ve taken a great weight -off my mind. My brother asked me to do anything I -could for you. Is there anything?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know what <i>you</i> could do, I’m sure. It isn’t -even as though you were married. Not that you -haven’t been sweet to me, listening like this. You do -believe in me, don’t you? Even if you hear beastly -stories about me, ever, you’ll know they aren’t true, -won’t you?”</p> - -<p>She put out a hand that still trembled, to Flora, but<span class="pagenum" id="Page_229">[229]</span> -she went on speaking rapidly, as though not daring to -wait for an assent that might not come.</p> - -<p>“You’re awfully like David, in some ways, you know. -It’s been a comfort to see you. Don’t tell your father -about my troubles. Just say I was a friend of David’s, -you know. I’m glad he didn’t come with you. I hate -parsons, if you’ll excuse me for saying so, and I’m so -frightfully nervous and upset that I might have said -anything. I wish you could have seen Fred—he always -says I haven’t got any decent women-friends. Perhaps -you could have made him give me another chance.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t you think he will?”</p> - -<p>“How do I know? He’s written me a horrid letter, -and pages and pages of cant from my mother-in-law. -I believe if I promised to live at their hateful place, -right away in Scotland, and keep within my allowance, -and never have any fun at all, Fred would chuck the -army and manage the estate for his mother. Can you -see me in thick boots and a billycock hat, trudging up -and down those hills to go and carry tracts to some -wretched old woman in a cottage?”</p> - -<p>She laughed melodramatically.</p> - -<p>“No,” said Flora, “I can’t see you doing that. But -I shouldn’t think you’d have to. Couldn’t you come -here, for part of the year?”</p> - -<p>“I suppose I could. I don’t know. Fred got this -house to please me, when we were first married. He’d -have done anything for me, then. I little knew what a -life he was going to lead me later on!”</p> - -<p>Flora rose.</p> - -<p>“I’ve got to go. I will burn the letter that David -wrote me, about you. Only one person knows what<span class="pagenum" id="Page_230">[230]</span> -was in it, besides myself, and he will never repeat it.”</p> - -<p>“Was that your father?”</p> - -<p>“No, oh, no. My father <i>mustn’t</i> know, ever.”</p> - -<p>Flora paused for a moment, then judged that it -would be useless to make any appeal to Mrs. Carey’s -discretion. For her own sake, she might keep silence -as to her relationship with David Morchard, and a -fresh emotional disturbance would eventually displace -the episode—to her, it could be no more—from her -mind.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Carey looked at her curiously.</p> - -<p>“Of course, I remember you told me that your father -didn’t know. Then are you engaged?”</p> - -<p>“No,” said Flora, colouring slightly.</p> - -<p>“All men are beasts—you’re quite right to have -nothing to do with them. I’ve had such a rotten time, -what with Fred’s jealousy, and other men never letting -me alone, that I sometimes wish I’d stayed an old -maid, like you,” said Mrs. Carey.</p> - -<p>Flora recognized the impulse that sought to inflict -a scratch, where Mrs. Carey’s self-revelation had left -her vanity disturbed with the instinctive fear that she -had not been taken at her own valuation.</p> - -<p>She said good-bye to her.</p> - -<p>“I’ll let you know what happens,” Mrs. Carey promised. -“I feel you really <i>do</i> care, you know. I shall -think of you when I’m taking that horrid journey tonight -all the way to Scotland. Perhaps I really will -settle down there, if Fred is willing to make it up, and -if he lets me have a decent allowance, and part of the -year over here.”</p> - -<p>She no longer looked desperate, and she bent over<span class="pagenum" id="Page_231">[231]</span> -the banisters and waved to Flora with the little handkerchief -that was still drenched by the tears she had -been shedding.</p> - -<p>Flora did not suppose that she should ever hear -from her. Impressions made upon Mrs. Carey seemed -to be transient affairs.</p> - -<p>She was conscious of nothing so much as of extreme -physical fatigue, and the intense relief of her new certainty -that David had not, after all, sought the last -desperate remedy. She could be certain of that, now.</p> - -<p>“Perhaps Owen won’t understand why I’m so positive -of that now,” she reflected. “But after all, I knew -David. She counted on him, and he’d promised to -marry her. David would never have failed her deliberately—it -wasn’t in him. And he was taken away -from committing a frightful sin. Besides, who knows -how much he repented, poor boy?”</p> - -<p>Within a few yards of the hotel, Flora met Quentillian.</p> - -<p>He turned and accompanied her to the door.</p> - -<p>“David didn’t take his own life, Owen. It was what -they said—he must have been taken ill suddenly.”</p> - -<p>“You know for certain?”</p> - -<p>“For certain.”</p> - -<p>He told her that he understood her relief, but his -next words were:</p> - -<p>“And do you still think you were right, about going -alone to this woman?”</p> - -<p>“Whether I was right or not, I’m thankful I did. -She would have broken my father’s heart. She was -a sort of—emotion-monger. She’d have spared him -nothing.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_232">[232]</span>“She spared you nothing, then, Flora?”</p> - -<p>“It’s different, for me. I would do anything in the -world, for my father’s sake. That’s my only excuse, -possibly, for deceiving him.”</p> - -<p>“Do you want excuses?”</p> - -<p>“No, I don’t. You’re right,” she said gravely. “I’ve -planned it all deliberately, and I’ve got to see it -through.”</p> - -<p>“I think you’re wrong, all along the line, and I want -to talk it over with you. It will be a bitter disappointment -to the Canon to be told that he has missed seeing -Mrs. Carey.”</p> - -<p>“Yes.”</p> - -<p>“But you’re going to leave it at that?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, more than ever. Owen, when do you go to -Stear?”</p> - -<p>“As soon as possible.”</p> - -<p>“Then could you travel down with us tomorrow? -We go by the three o’clock train. I think it may do -him good, to have you, and you see, he’ll be thinking -that the whole expedition has been a failure. It will -be easier for both of us, if you’re there.”</p> - -<p>“Very well, I’ll come.”</p> - -<p>They parted, and Flora went to seek her father. -Except from a certain curiosity, it could not be said -that Quentillian looked forward to an agreeable journey.</p> - -<p>By the time that he joined Canon Morchard and his -daughter at the railway station, he was beginning to -feel as though the whole of the involved deception perpetrated -with such a conviction of righteousness by -Flora, must have been a figment of imagination. One<span class="pagenum" id="Page_233">[233]</span> -glance at the Canon’s sombre and pallid face dispelled -the illusion.</p> - -<p>Flora looked pallid also, but her expression was one -of rapt intensity, as though only her own strange -vision, that Quentillian felt to be so singularly perverted, -were before her. She had, undeniably, shielded -her father from knowledge that must have appalled -him, and in that security, remained calm.</p> - -<p>The Canon, out of his lesser awareness, had not, -however, remained calm at all.</p> - -<p>“I have been angry, Owen,” he admitted, as they -paced the platform together, at the Canon’s own invitation. -“My disappointment has been very bitter. -This lady, this Mrs. Carey, the friend of my dear -boy David, left for Scotland last night. I went to her -house this morning, only to find her gone. Flora, -whom I trusted, had made a mistake of incredible -carelessness. I could not have believed it, in a matter -which <i>must</i> touch us all so nearly, which lay so close -to my own heart. Poor child, she has been highly -tried of late, and I have thought her looking ill. I -should not have trusted to her accuracy. Lucilla, who -has been my right hand, my secretary ever since her -childhood, could never have failed me thus. I forgot -that her sister was younger, unaccustomed to the task, -less to be relied upon. But it has been a cruel disappointment, -and I vented my first grief upon the culprit. -Is there <i>no</i> stage of the journey, Owen, when one can -see the undisciplined impulse driven underfoot, the -hasty word bridled? I, who have striven all my life, -I have again shown anger and violence—to my own -child!”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_234">[234]</span>The Canon’s peculiar predilection for making an -amateur confessor of Quentillian, was by force of -repetition ceasing to seem anything but natural.</p> - -<p>Quentillian said: “Flora looks overwrought, sir,” -and inwardly hoped that the train would arrive -shortly.</p> - -<p>“Aye, poor Flora! She was David’s especial favourite, -his best correspondent. This stroke has fallen -heavily upon Flora, Owen. And I, who should have -made all allowance, I turned against her! In my sharp -disappointment, I uttered those strong expressions that -come back to one, when the moment’s passion has -cooled, as they must have sounded to the unhappy sinner -by whom they were provoked.”</p> - -<p>It was the same piteous round of self-reproach, remorse -and profound depression to which Owen had so -frequently listened. He hoped that he might be of some -assistance, however, incomprehensibly to himself, in -listening yet once again.</p> - -<p>“I have written to Mrs. Carey. She must indeed -have thought my behaviour strange, ungrateful, unnatural -even. That matters little enough, yet it adds -its feather weight to the burden—its feather weight to -the burden. That I should have appeared careless, indifferent, -where news of David was concerned! I, who -would have given my heart’s blood, for one hour’s intercourse -with him since he left us for the last time! -Ah, well, it does not bear dwelling upon.”</p> - -<p>Nevertheless, the Canon dwelt upon it until it became -necessary to rejoining Flora and enter the train.</p> - -<p>During the journey he remained silent, with a profound<span class="pagenum" id="Page_235">[235]</span> -and unhappy silence. His manner towards his -daughter was peculiarly gentle and melancholy.</p> - -<p>Presently he leant back in the corner, the sad lines -of his face relaxing, and slept.</p> - -<p>Flora spoke to Quentillian in a low voice.</p> - -<p>“I’m so glad he’s asleep. Last night I heard him -walking up and down his room for such a long while.”</p> - -<p>“He is very much distressed,” said Quentillian -severely.</p> - -<p>“I know.” She acquiesced apathetically in the truth -of the statement.</p> - -<p>“Do you know that he has written to Mrs. Carey?”</p> - -<p>“Yes.”</p> - -<p>“How are you going to prevent her replying, and exposing -the fact that you have seen her?”</p> - -<p>Flora whitened perceptibly, but she answered him -with sudden spirit.</p> - -<p>“You have no right to question me, Owen, or to -demand explanations from me in that tone.”</p> - -<p>“I have this right, that you have made me a passive -partner in your extraordinary schemes.”</p> - -<p>Owen, too, was conscious of a rising anger.</p> - -<p>“I feel like a traitor to your father, Flora. What -are you going to do next?”</p> - -<p>“I am going to see it through,” said Flora doggedly. -“At least you will admit that to do a thing like this -by halves, is a great deal worse than useless. I have -saved my father from what must have broken his -heart.”</p> - -<p>“You have done evil that good may come,” he quoted -grimly.</p> - -<p>“If you like to put it so.” Flora was inexorable.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_236">[236]</span>“He has suffered too much already.”</p> - -<p>“You mock your own God,” said Quentillian, with -sudden, low vehemence. “You profess to believe in -Him, to trust Him, and yet you deceive and manoeuvre -and plot, sooner than leave your father to his dealings. -I have small belief in a personal God, Flora, but I can -see no justification in endeavouring madly to stand between -another soul, and life.”</p> - -<p>She gazed at him piteously.</p> - -<p>“Do you think I am not unhappy—that I have not -been torn in two? He was angry, Owen, when he -thought I had made a mistake about the appointment, -and oh, the relief of it! I should have welcomed it if -he had hit me—I deserved it all, and far more besides. -If I am doing wrong, I am suffering for it.”</p> - -<p>Quentillian, looking at her haggard, tragic face, felt -sure that she spoke literal truth.</p> - -<p>“When does Lucilla come home?” he suddenly asked.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know. Soon, I hope.”</p> - -<p>Quentillian hoped so too. It seemed to him that -only Lucilla’s normality could adjust to any sort of -balance the mental atmosphere of St. Gwenllian.</p> - -<p>Flora gazed at her father.</p> - -<p>“Think what it would have been to him to know, -now, that David had sinned, even that he contemplated -going through the form of marriage, with that poor -thing! The world’s standards of honour are not those -of my father.”</p> - -<p>“Nor yours either,” Quentillian had almost said, but -he checked the cheap retort as it rose.</p> - -<p>An impulse made him say instead:</p> - -<p>“Promise me at least, Flora, that if this becomes<span class="pagenum" id="Page_237">[237]</span> -too much for you, if it all breaks down, you will let -me share it with you. You owe it to me, I think, having -let me be partly responsible. Will you promise?”</p> - -<p>“You are very good,” said Flora, her mouth quivering -for the first time. “But I don’t mean to fail.”</p> - -<p>It was evident enough that her whole being was -strung up to the accomplishment of her purpose, and -that she was incapable of seeing beyond it.</p> - -<p>Quentillian, at his own station, parted from Canon -Morchard and his daughter with the direst forebodings. -Insensibly, he, too, had almost come to feel -that anxious preoccupation with the Canon’s peace of -mind that exercised the Canon’s daughters.</p> - -<p>Within a fortnight of his return he went over to -St. Gwenllian and found there no trace of catastrophe -such as he had half expected, but the usual atmosphere -of calm melancholy.</p> - -<p>He had no conversation with Flora, but she told -him briefly that there would be no correspondence between -her father and Mrs. Carey, and Quentillian -was left to surmise by what peculiar methods Flora had -achieved her ends.</p> - -<p>On the whole, he preferred not to dwell upon the subject. -He had a certain unwilling respect for Flora, -even if none for her casuistries, and he had no wish -to dwell either upon her astonishing machinations or -his own complicity.</p> - - -<h3>(iv)</h3> - -<p><span class="smcap">In</span> the spring Lucilla came back to St. Gwenllian.</p> - -<p>The first time that Owen saw her was in the presence -of the Canon.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_238">[238]</span>In his relief at her return, Canon Morchard had evidently -forgotten that he had thought it undutiful of her -to go.</p> - -<p>“You see I have my right hand once more,” he said -fondly. “Owen here can tell you that you have been -sadly missed, my daughter. Little Flora did her best, -but she is not my housekeeper, my experienced secretary. -Neither she nor our poor Valeria can equal -Lucilla there.”</p> - -<p>Quentillian took his advantage and asked Lucilla -for news of Valeria. The Canon, habitually, seemed -only too much inclined to view any mention of Valeria -and her husband as a rank indecency in the presence of -her quondam betrothed.</p> - -<p>“Val is very well and very busy,” said Lucilla. -“George is doing well, on the whole, though it’s a struggle, -but the land there is wonderful. I should like to -show you the photographs of their little farm, and the -children.”</p> - -<p>“Lucilla is our photographer,” said the Canon forbearingly, -as though in extenuation of what Quentillian -felt certain that he regarded as Lucilla’s indiscretion.</p> - -<p>Not for the first time, Quentillian suspected that -Lucilla was the only one of the Canon’s children able -to contemplate the Canon by the light of a sense of -humour, that detracted not at all from her affection -and respect.</p> - -<p>“They are not thinking of a visit to England, I -suppose?”</p> - -<p>“No. Expense is a consideration, and there are -the children.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_239">[239]</span>“My grandsons!” said the Canon. “I should like a -sight of my grandsons, but there could not be unalloyed -joy in the meeting. Nay, I ask myself sometimes -if there can be any unalloyed joy here below. Are not -the warp and woof intermingled even in the nearest -and dearest relationships? And the manner of poor -Valeria’s leaving home was such as to make one’s -heart ache, both for her and with her. But enough of -reminiscences, my children. I am in no mood for them -tonight. I wish to rest, and perhaps read. You may -some of you remember a very favourite old story of -mine,” said Canon Morchard genially. “That of the -famous saying, ‘We are none of us infallible, <i>not even -the youngest</i>.’”</p> - -<p>This terrible pronouncement, however historical, seldom -amused the juniors of its <i>raconteur</i>, and Flora -and Lucilla only accorded to it the most perfunctory -of smiles. Owen Quentillian remained entirely grave.</p> - -<p>“No one has more admiration than myself for the -quality of infallibility,” the Canon continued, humourously -“(always provided that it is not that which is -claimed by the Pope of Rome), but I must confess that -I am not amongst those who take the modern craze for -youthful intellectuals very seriously. This being so, -dear Owen, you will forgive me in that I have not yet -read anything of yours. Tonight I have a free hour—a -rare treat—and I am going to rectify the omission. -Will you read aloud to us of your work, or is that too -much to ask?”</p> - -<p>It was indeed too much to ask, Owen felt.</p> - -<p>He could have read his own work aloud with comparative -complacency to any critic capable of taking<span class="pagenum" id="Page_240">[240]</span> -it seriously, but to Canon Morchard the slight, cynical -epigrams, the terse, essentially unsentimental rationalism -of Owen’s views upon God and man, must come -either as wanton impertinence, or as meaningless folly.</p> - -<p>It was impossible to suppose that the Canon would -keep either opinion to himself, and Quentillian felt it -unlikely that he would either find himself capable of -listening to him tolerantly, or be given an opportunity -for demolishing his views.</p> - -<p>“I think I had rather not inflict my trivialities upon -you at all, sir,” he remarked, with truth, and yet -with an absence of sincerity of which he felt that -Lucilla, at all events, was quite as well aware as he -was himself.</p> - -<p>“I assure you that I’m not worth reading.”</p> - -<p>“I shall judge of that for myself,” said the Canon -kindly. “Was there not something in that Review that -was sent to you, Flora?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Flora unwillingly.</p> - -<p>“Fetch it, my dear.”</p> - -<p>Quentillian cast his mind over his more recent productions, -and was invaded by a grim dismay.</p> - -<p>His opinion of the Canon’s literary judgment, where -writings not directly connected with Church matters -were concerned, was of the slightest, but he disliked -the thought both of the pain that the elder man would -feel in reading that which would offend his taste, and -of the remonstrance that he would certainly believe it -his duty to make.</p> - -<p>It was a relief to him when Flora returned without -the Review, and said:</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_241">[241]</span>“There is someone who wants to speak to you in -the hall, Father. I’m so sorry.”</p> - -<p>The Canon rose at once.</p> - -<p>“‘The man who wants me is the man I want’,” he -quoted, and left the room.</p> - -<p>When the door had closed behind him, Flora said to -her sister, with a certain ruthless disregard of Quentillian’s -presence that at least established the earnestness -of her concern:</p> - -<p>“What shall we do?”</p> - -<p>“Nothing,” said Lucilla laconically.</p> - -<p>“But we can’t let him see that Review. Adrian sent -it to me—it’s got something in it by that man Hale. -Father would hate the whole thing.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla looked at Quentillian.</p> - -<p>“He won’t like my article, and I should very much -prefer him not to read it,” said the author candidly.</p> - -<p>She smiled slightly.</p> - -<p>“It’s the one on the Myth of Self-Sacrifice?”</p> - -<p>Owen nodded.</p> - -<p>“It might have been worse,” said Lucilla. “It might -have been the one in which you said that the parental -instinct was only another name for the possessive instinct. -And now I come to think of it, that one was -called The Sanctification of Domestic Tyranny, wasn’t -it?”</p> - -<p>“It was,” said Quentillian, in a tone which struck -himself as being rather that of a defiant child to its -nurse.</p> - -<p>“Well, Father would have liked that even less than -the Myth of Self-Sacrifice, I imagine.”</p> - -<p>She spoke without acrimony, without, in fact, any<span class="pagenum" id="Page_242">[242]</span> -effect at all of personal bias, but Quentillian said dispassionately:</p> - -<p>“You dislike the modern school of thought of which -my writings are a feeble example. May I ask why you -read them?”</p> - -<p>“But I don’t dislike it, Owen,” she returned with -a calm at least equal to his own. “As for what you -write, I think you’re very often mistaken, but that -doesn’t prevent my being interested.”</p> - -<p>Quentillian was slightly taken aback at being considered -mistaken, and still more at being told so. He -had always respected Lucilla, both morally and intellectually, -and he would have preferred to suppose the admiration -mutual.</p> - -<p>“Owen, haven’t you got anything else that he could -have to read?” broke in Flora.</p> - -<p>“Nothing that he would—care for,” answered Quentillian, -who had very nearly said “Nothing that he -would understand.”</p> - -<p>“Father has asked for the Review, Flossie, and you’d -better get it. You needn’t work yourself up about -it. He knows its general character quite as well as -you do.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t think he ought to be allowed to make himself -needlessly unhappy,” said Flora obstinately.</p> - -<p>“You can’t prevent it.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose it would be wrong to say that I don’t -know where the Review is?”</p> - -<p>“It would be foolish, which is worse,” said Lucilla -curtly. Her un-moral pronouncement closed the discussion.</p> - -<p>Flora, looking grave and unhappy, left the room,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_243">[243]</span> -and presently returned with the instrument of destruction, -as she evidently regarded the production.</p> - -<p>“Let us hope that Canon Morchard will continue to -be detained,” said Quentillian, not altogether ironically.</p> - -<p>Flora made no reply.</p> - -<p>In less than a quarter of an hour’s time, the Canon -came back again, picked up the Review and made a -careful scrutiny of the table of contents.</p> - -<p>“The <i>Myth</i> of Self-Sacrifice?” he enunciated, with -a strongly-enquiring inflexion in his tone, as though -prepared to receive the writer’s instant assurance that -he was not responsible for so strange a heading.</p> - -<p>Owen desired to leave the room, but was mysteriously -compelled to remain in it, glancing at intervals at -the all-too expressive face of his reader.</p> - -<p>The Canon read very attentively, pausing every now -and then to turn back a page or two, as though comparing -inconsistencies of text, and sometimes also turning -on a page or two ahead, as if desirous of establishing -the certainty that a conclusion was eventually to be -attained. His eyebrows worked as he read, after a -fashion habitual with him.</p> - -<p>There had been evenings when Flora had made the -slightest of pencil sketches, hardly caricaturing, but embodying, -this peculiarity, for her father’s subsequent -indulgent amusement. But no such artistic pleasantry -was undertaken tonight. The atmosphere did not lend -itself to pleasantry of any kind.</p> - -<p>At last the Canon closed the volume, laid it down, -and removed his glasses with some deliberation.</p> - -<p>“Dear lad, I am disappointed.”</p> - -<p>“I was afraid you would be.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_244">[244]</span>“Is this quite worthy of you?”</p> - -<p>Owen felt that a reply either in the affirmative or in -the negative, would be equally unsatisfactory, and made -none.</p> - -<p>“You have adopted the tone of the day to an extent -for which I was by no means prepared,” the Canon -said gently. “I am sorry for it, Owen—very sorry. I -think you have heard me speak before of my dislike -for the modern note, that emphasises the material -aspect, that miscalls ugliness realism, and coarseness -strength. Forgive me, dear Owen, if I hurt you, but -this—this trivial flippancy of yours, has hurt <i>me</i>.”</p> - -<p>Owen had no doubt that Canon Morchard spoke the -truth.</p> - -<p>“How emphatically he belongs to the generation that -took the errors of other people to heart,” Quentillian -reflected.</p> - -<p>He felt no great sympathy with such vicarious distresses.</p> - -<p>“There is so much that is sad and bad in life, that -one longs to read of happiness, and hope, and beauty,” -said the Canon. “Why not, dear Owen, seek out and -write of the ‘something afar from the sphere of our -sorrow’?”</p> - -<p>“Because to my way of thinking, only first-hand impressions -are of any value. The only value that any -point of view of mine can lay claim to, must lie in its -sincerity.”</p> - -<p>“Words, words! You delude yourself with many -words,” said the Canon sadly, rousing in Quentillian -a strong desire to retort with the obvious <i>tu quoque</i>.</p> - -<p>“Do not misunderstand me, dear fellow—there is<span class="pagenum" id="Page_245">[245]</span> -talent there—perversely exercised, if you will, but talent. -I cannot but believe that life has many lessons -in store for you, and when you have learnt them, then -you will write more kindly of human nature, more -reverently of Divine.”</p> - -<p>Hope was once more discernible in the Canon’s voice -and on his face, and as he rose he laid his hand affectionately -upon the young man’s arm. “Hoping all -things—believing all things,” he murmured, as he left -the room.</p> - -<p>Quentillian was left to the certainty that his brief -exposition of his literary <i>credo</i> had entirely failed to -convey any meaning to the Canon, and that the long -list of the Canon’s optimistic articles of faith now included -his own regeneration.</p> - - -<h3>(v)</h3> - -<p>“<span class="smcap">Father</span>, I think Flora looks ill.”</p> - -<p>Canon Morchard gazed with concern at Lucilla as -she made the announcement, and at once devoted himself -to the anxious analysis that he always accorded -to any problem affecting one of his children.</p> - -<p>“I have thought her altered myself, by the great grief -of last year. Spiritually, it has developed her, I believe. -But there is a sustained melancholy about her, -an absence of all hopeful reaction such as one looks for -from youth, that is certainly not wholly natural. You, -too, have observed it?”</p> - -<p>“Yes.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla had observed a great deal more besides, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_246">[246]</span> -she was at a loss for a definition of her secret, latent -fears.</p> - -<p>“Flossie has become very irritable,” she said at last, -voicing the least of her anxieties.</p> - -<p>“My dear, is that perfectly kind? Flora has had -much to try her, and your own absence in Canada -threw a great deal for which she is scarcely fitted, upon -her shoulders. I do so want you to overcome that -<i>critical</i> spirit of yours, dear Lucilla. It has very often -disturbed me.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla thought for a moment, and decided, without -resentment as without surprise, that it would be of no -use to say that her observation had not contained any -of the spirit of criticism at all. She said instead:</p> - -<p>“She doesn’t sleep well, and she is always up very -early.”</p> - -<p>“She is always at the early Celebration, dear child,” -said the Canon tenderly. “Our Flora’s religion is a -very living reality to her—more so than ever, of late, I -think.”</p> - -<p>“It’s a pity that it should make her unhappy, instead -of happy.”</p> - -<p>“What are you saying, Lucilla?” the Canon enquired -in highly-displeased accents.</p> - -<p>“It is perfectly true. She is very restless, and very -unhappy, and the more she goes to church, the less -it seems to satisfy her.”</p> - -<p>“And who are you, to judge thus of another’s spiritual -experiences? You mean well, Lucilla, but there -is a materialism about your point of view that has -long made me uneasy—exceedingly uneasy. You were -encumbered with household cares very young, and it<span class="pagenum" id="Page_247">[247]</span> -has given you the spirit of Martha, rather than the -spirit of Mary. Leave Flora to my direction, if you -please.”</p> - -<p>“I should like her to see the doctor.”</p> - -<p>“Has she complained of ill-health?”</p> - -<p>“No, not at all. She resents being asked if she is -well.”</p> - -<p>“Most naturally. She is not a child. You take too -much upon yourself, Lucilla, as I have told you before. -Leave Flora’s welfare in Higher hands than -ours, and remember that it is not the part of a Christian -to anticipate trouble. Where is your faith?”</p> - -<p>Lucilla was not unaccustomed to this enquiry, and -did not deem any specific reply to be necessary. Whatever -the whereabouts of that which the Canon termed -her faith, it did not serve in any way to allay her -anxiety.</p> - -<p>She watched Flora day by day.</p> - -<p>She saw her increasing pallor, her gradual loss of -weight, the black lines that deepened beneath her eyes. -Above all, she saw the mysterious sense of grievance, -that most salient characteristic of the neurotic, gather -round her sister’s spirit.</p> - -<p>After a little while, she ceased to talk of her visit -to Canada, of Valeria, and Valeria’s children, because -she saw that Flora could not bear these subjects.</p> - -<p>“She’s <i>jealous</i>,” thought Lucilla, with a sick pang -of pity.</p> - -<p>“I’m sorry for poor Val, living right away from civilization, -and absorbed by commonplace things all the -time,” said Flora.</p> - -<p>She went to church more frequently than ever.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_248">[248]</span>Lucilla wondered very often if anything had happened -while she was away.</p> - -<p>One day she asked Owen Quentillian.</p> - -<p>“There was the shock of David’s death,” he said -rather lamely.</p> - -<p>“Yes. Father says it affected Flora terribly for a -long while.”</p> - -<p>“Do you find her much changed, then?”</p> - -<p>“I find her very unbalanced,” said Lucilla with her -usual directness.</p> - -<p>“I think she <i>is</i> an unbalanced person,” Quentillian -assented, levelly.</p> - -<p>“I wish she could leave home for a time.”</p> - -<p>But Flora, when this was suggested to her, said that -she did not wish to leave home. Her manner implied -that the suggestion hurt her.</p> - -<p>At first the Canon was pleased, assuring Lucilla that -the pleasant home-life at St. Gwenllian, even if robbed -of its old-time joyousness, would best restore Flora -to herself. But after a time, he, too, watched her with -anxiety.</p> - -<p>“Little Flora is not herself,” he began to say.</p> - -<p>“Let me send for the doctor, Father,” Lucilla urged.</p> - -<p>“We will see, my dear, later on. The unsettled -weather is trying to us all just now—no doubt things -will right themselves in a day or two, and we shall smile -at our own foolish, faithless fears.”</p> - -<p>Meanwhile, however, no one at St. Gwenllian evinced -any desire to smile at anything, and Flora became subject -to violent fits of crying.</p> - -<p>Her dignity and her delicate reticence seemed alike -to have deserted her. She cried in church, and sometimes<span class="pagenum" id="Page_249">[249]</span> -she cried at home, regardless of the presence of -her father and sister.</p> - -<p>“My dear, what is it?” the Canon enquired at last, -long after Lucilla had given up asking the same question -in despair.</p> - -<p>“Nothing,” said Flora.</p> - -<p>“It is not right to prolong your sorrow for your -dear one in this fashion,” said the Canon. “Can we -not trust dear David to the Everlasting Arms, and fulfil -our own appointed days here below?”</p> - -<p>His daughter made no reply.</p> - -<p>“This is reaction, Flora,” said Canon Morchard decisively. -“When this heavy blow first fell upon us, -you were my courageous daughter, my comforter—so -far as that was humanly possible. Do not falter -now—remember that whom He loveth, He chastizeth.”</p> - -<p>“I do remember,” she said, her face a mask of misery.</p> - -<p>“You are not well,” said the Canon tenderly. “I -shall no longer allow you to exert yourself as you have -been doing. Lucilla here will arrange that your class -shall be temporarily given over to other management, -and no doubt she can herself arrange to replace you -at the choir-practices.”</p> - -<p>“I can arrange it,” Lucilla said, “but——”</p> - -<p>She looked at her sister.</p> - -<p>Flora broke into a tempest of tears.</p> - -<p>“Don’t take away what work I <i>can</i> do,” she sobbed -out. “My life is useless enough, in all conscience.”</p> - -<p>“Flora!” the Canon thundered. “Have a care! Such -a thought is perilously near to being a blasphemous -one.”</p> - -<p>She hid her face in her hands.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_250">[250]</span>“You are unstrung, my poor child,” said her father. -He took to treating her almost as an invalid, and -failed to perceive that his watchful and incessant solicitude -produced upon Flora’s nerves an effect that was -the very reverse of soothing.</p> - -<p>“She ought to go right away from home,” said -Lucilla to Quentillian. “But it’s difficult to suggest it -again, she was so much upset when I spoke of it before. -Will you try what you can do, Owen? She -is a great deal more likely to listen to someone who is -not one of the family. It’s one of the symptoms.”</p> - -<p>“Symptoms of what?”</p> - -<p>“Of hysteria,” said Lucilla succinctly, facing the -word as she had already faced the fact.</p> - -<p>Quentillian admired her directness, but it did not -breed in him any desire to adopt the measure suggested, -and speak to Flora.</p> - -<p>At last, however, he did so. They had scarcely been -alone together since the day when she had told him -of her visit to Mrs. Carey.</p> - -<p>“Is that business on your mind, Flora?”</p> - -<p>He had thought for some time that it might be.</p> - -<p>“What?”</p> - -<p>“Mrs. Carey, I mean.”</p> - -<p>She coloured deeply.</p> - -<p>“I did what I thought right at the time, Owen. Is -there any necessity to discuss it again?”</p> - -<p>“Not if you don’t wish to, certainly. I had an idea -that it might be a relief. I suppose no one knows besides -ourselves?”</p> - -<p>“No one. She never wrote to me, you know, and -I feel sure she never will. She was the sort of person<span class="pagenum" id="Page_251">[251]</span> -to be thoroughly absorbed by her impressions of the -moment. I sometimes wonder what happened to her, -in Scotland.”</p> - -<p>“It is not very difficult to guess what <i>will</i> happen, -sooner or later, from what you told me. People like -Mrs. Carey live from one emotional crisis to another.”</p> - -<p>She gave him a curious look.</p> - -<p>“At least it’s living—not stagnation. That interview -with Mrs. Carey seems like a dream, almost, nowadays—something -quite apart from the rest of my life. -I suppose it’s because it’s the only thing I’ve ever done -entirely by myself, without any of the family knowing -about it. I’ve never even seen anyone else at all like -Mrs. Carey—it was impossible to get into touch with -her, really. She was like a painted cardboard figure, -with no back to it—nothing solid.”</p> - -<p>“But you’ve turned down that page, now—it’s finished -with?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” she said, looking down.</p> - -<p>He had wondered whether that which he sometimes -thought of as Flora’s Jesuitical plotting had come to -prey upon her mind.</p> - -<p>Evidently, if it did, he was not to be told so.</p> - -<p>In the end he could think of no more subtle enquiry -than:</p> - -<p>“Why are you unhappy?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know,” she said with a trembling lip.</p> - -<p>“I feel I’m of no use in the world. Wouldn’t you be -unhappy, if you felt like that—that nobody really -needed you in any way, and you had nothing to do?”</p> - -<p>“Not in the least,” said Quentillian reflectively. “I -am quite sure that nobody does need me, and it doesn’t<span class="pagenum" id="Page_252">[252]</span> -distress me. As for having nothing to do, I imagine—if -you will forgive me for saying so—that one can always -find something if one looks far enough.”</p> - -<p>“It’s different for a man.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps.”</p> - -<p>Quentillian went away still undetermined whether -Flora’s conduct of the <i>affaire</i> Carey was the cause or -the result of her present deplorable condition.</p> - -<p>That she had all the makings of a fanatic, he had -long suspected, and the Canon’s determination to treat -her as an invalid, in need of rest and complete inaction, -seemed to him to be a singularly ill-advised one.</p> - -<p>In spite of his disapproval of her methods, Quentillian -had come to feel a certain affection for Flora, -and he could not avoid a sense of complicity that drew -him to her, even while it chafed his self-righteousness.</p> - -<p>With an entire lack of originality, he informed -Lucilla that he thought her sister would be better away -from home.</p> - -<p>“Well, so do I. But even to go away for a few weeks -would only be a half-measure. Owen, I’m frightened -about Flora—far more than I’ve ever been about anyone -before.”</p> - -<p>He could partly apprehend her meaning.</p> - -<p>“Don’t you think that perhaps this—phase—is only -another manifestation of the same spirit that made -Val want to go and work somewhere?”</p> - -<p>“In a sense, yes. You see, all the intellectual interests, -and the mental appreciations, to which we were -brought up, although those things did fill our days—at -least before the war—were only superimposed on<span class="pagenum" id="Page_253">[253]</span> -what Val and Flossie and Adrian really were, in themselves. -Not essentials, I mean, to either of them.”</p> - -<p>Quentillian wondered what Lucilla’s own essentials -might be. She had given him no hint of them, ever, -and yet he suspected her of an almost aggressive neutrality -with regard to the imposed interests of which -she had spoken.</p> - -<p>The odd contradiction in terms seemed to him expressive -of the difference that he felt certain existed between -Lucilla’s daily life, and the personal, intimate -standpoint from which she all the time regarded that -life.</p> - -<p>Something of the same ruthlessness of purpose that -had once characterized Flora, he had always discerned -in Lucilla, but he felt very certain that her essential -sanity and humour would have kept her forever from -the strange and tortuous means adopted by Flora to -safeguard those interests of which she apparently felt -herself to be a better judge than her Creator.</p> - -<p>Lucilla would neither juggle with fate, nor see any -justification for tampering with other people’s correspondence.</p> - -<p>“Flora thinks, now, that she doesn’t want to go away -from home.”</p> - -<p>“It’s a pity, perhaps, that she didn’t go to Canada -instead of you.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, but you see Father didn’t really want either -of us to go, and Flossie wouldn’t have disobeyed him.”</p> - -<p>Flora’s conscience! Owen felt as impatient at the -thought of it, as he had frequently felt before. He had, -however, long ago sufficiently assimilated the atmosphere -of St. Gwenllian to refrain from pointing out<span class="pagenum" id="Page_254">[254]</span> -that Flora had been for some years of an age to act -for herself, independently of the parental sanction. He -did not, indeed, suppose that Lucilla needed to have -anything so self-evident put before her.</p> - -<p>“Do you think Flora would consent to see a doctor?”</p> - -<p>“No.”</p> - -<p>Miss Morchard’s unvarnished No-es and Yes-es always -took him slightly by surprise, especially after -any time spent with the Canon.</p> - -<p>“The fact is,” said Lucilla vigorously, “that Flora -needs something to occupy her mind. She is preying -on herself, and unless something happens to take her -out of herself, Owen, I think she will go mad.”</p> - -<p>He instinctively paid the homage due to her habitual -precision of expression, by taking the startling phrase -literally.</p> - -<p>“Have you told anyone?”</p> - -<p>“Not yet.”</p> - -<p>“But you must. If you really think that, you must -tell the Canon so.”</p> - -<p>“I know.” Her voice was rather faint, but she repeated, -more strongly and with entire acceptance in -her voice, “I know I must.”</p> - -<p>It reminded him of the long past days when one of -the St. Gwenllian children had been naughty, and the -task of taking the culprit before the Canon had invariably, -and as a matter of course, devolved upon -Lucilla.</p> - - -<h3>(vi)</h3> - -<p>“<span class="smcap">Flora</span> is treading the thorny way that saints have -trodden. If your own spirituality, which is in its infancy—in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_255">[255]</span> -its cradle, I may say—does not enable you -to understand that <i>via dolorosa</i>, at least refrain from -trivial interpolations and misrepresentations, Lucilla, I -beg.”</p> - -<p>Canon Morchard’s tone rather suggested commanding, -than begging, and his large eyes seemed to flash -with indignation as they looked, from beneath corrugated -brows, at Lucilla.</p> - -<p>She was rather paler than her usually colourless -wont.</p> - -<p>“I am afraid that Flora is suffering from a very -common form of hysteria, father, and I thoroughly -distrust any inspiration of hers in her present state -of health.”</p> - -<p>“She has told me herself that she is in her usual -health, and that she positively objects to the idea -of seeing a medical man. I see no reason for disbelieving -her own statement.”</p> - -<p>“Well, I do.”</p> - -<p>“Lucilla, you forget yourself.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla and the Canon looked at one another, each -seeming momentarily to despair of the other.</p> - -<p>At last Lucilla said:</p> - -<p>“A little time ago, you thought she was ill, too.”</p> - -<p>“Mind and body react upon one another, no doubt, -and our little Flora is highly strung. I do not recognize -it as being in any way incumbent upon me to explain -to you my treatment of any soul in my charge, -Lucilla, but I may say that I have now come to the -conclusion that Flora’s malady was of the soul. With -that, you must rest content.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla did not rest content at all.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_256">[256]</span>A philosophical acceptance of the inevitable had -long been part of Miss Morchard’s life, but in the -weeks that followed she came nearer to the futility -of the spoken protest than ever before.</p> - -<p>From seemingly eternal weeping, however, Flora -presently passed to a tense exaltation of spirit that -found its culmination in long hours spent upon her -knees.</p> - -<p>Lucilla made only one appeal to her.</p> - -<p>“Flossie, won’t you tell me what’s happening? I -can’t help knowing that you’ve been very unhappy.”</p> - -<p>“I’m not unhappy now,” said Flora quickly. “At -least, not like I was before. You know I’ve put myself -absolutely under father’s direction, Lucilla? How -wonderful he is!”</p> - -<p>“He has made you happier?”</p> - -<p>“Not he himself. He has shown me where to find -peace, at last.”</p> - -<p>“If you mean Church, I should have thought you’d -known about it ever since you were born, very nearly.”</p> - -<p>If the faint hint of impatient derision latent in her -sister’s tone was perceptible to Flora, she showed no -resentment at it.</p> - -<p>She flushed deeply and looked earnestly at Lucilla.</p> - -<p>“I wish I could make you understand. But some -things are too sacred to be described, even if one could. -The only thing I can say is that I was unhappy, I felt -I was wasting my life, and that nobody cared. And -I was full of remorse for a wrong I had done. I can’t -tell you what it was, Lucilla, nor anyone else, ever, -and I can’t undo it, now, but at least I can expiate it, -and all my other failings.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_257">[257]</span>“Expiation?” Lucilla spoke the word unenthusiastically. -“But if you can’t undo whatever it was you did—and -really, Flossie, I can’t believe it was anything -so very desperate—will it be a good plan to go on being -miserable about it for the rest of your life, all to no -purpose?”</p> - -<p>“‘The heart knoweth its own bitterness,’” Flora -replied gently.</p> - -<p>Lucilla was left to apply the truth of the adage to -her own condition of mind.</p> - -<p>She was very unhappy about her sister.</p> - -<p>Nevertheless, Flora had ceased to weep, and although -she ate less than ever and rose early for the purpose of -going to church, she looked rather less ill. Only the -strained look in her eyes remained, ever increasing, to -justify Lucilla’s feeling of sick dismay.</p> - -<p>That it was entirely unshared by Canon Morchard, -she knew already, but she was not altogether prepared -for the announcement that he presently made.</p> - -<p>“I am very happy about dear Flora—peculiarly -and wonderfully so. What think you, Lucilla, of this? -Flora is turning her thoughts towards the Sisterhood -at St. Marychurch.”</p> - -<p>It was never Miss Morchard’s way to respond over-emphatically -to an invitation from her father to state -her thoughts freely, experience having long since taught -her what a tangled web we weave when first we practice -speaking the truth inopportunely.</p> - -<p>“Has she only just started the idea?”</p> - -<p>“Nay, she tells me—and I can readily believe it—that -the grace of God, according to its mysterious -wont, has been working within her for a long while<span class="pagenum" id="Page_258">[258]</span> -now. There has been a period of darkness for Flora, -undoubtedly, but she is emerging more and more into -the light—that light that shineth into the Perfect Day!”</p> - -<p>The Canon seemed rather inclined to forget himself -in profound musings.</p> - -<p>“It implies losing her,” said Lucilla.</p> - -<p>“Humanly speaking, yes, and it is hard to eradicate -the human element. But once that is done—and done -it <i>shall</i> be—what remains is altogether joyful. I shall -see her go, if go she does, with feelings far other than -those with which I saw our poor Valeria leave home!”</p> - -<p>Lucilla thought so, too, and would emphatically have -given the preference to Valeria’s method of inaugurating -an independent career.</p> - -<p>“I <i>cannot</i> be anything but glad that one of mine -should be dedicated!” the Canon exclaimed, as though -the exclamation broke from him almost irrepressibly.</p> - -<p>“But does Flora mean to go away at once?”</p> - -<p>“She wishes it greatly, and I should hardly feel -justified in restraining her. Flora is not a child, and -her own desire, as she says herself, is to feel that wayward, -wayless will of hers at safe anchorage at last. -Dear child, her one regret is for me.”</p> - -<p>Tears stood in the Canon’s eyes.</p> - -<p>“The grief of last winter greatly developed Flora, -I believe. There has been a tendency to dreaminess, -to a too great absorption in her music, that I confess -has made me anxious in the past. But she speaks most -rightly and nobly of her certainty that a call has come -to her, and if so, it is indeed a vocation that must -not be gainsayed. She is all ardour and anxiety to -begin, and if all is well, she and I go to St. Marychurch<span class="pagenum" id="Page_259">[259]</span> -to view the establishment there next week, and enter -into the necessary arrangements.”</p> - -<p>“What sort of life will it mean for her?”</p> - -<p>“One of direct service, dear Lucilla, of shelter from -the temptations of this world, of close personal union -with Christ Himself, I trust. All indeed are not called -to such union, but I believe with all my heart that our -Flora is amongst the chosen few, and grievous though -it be to lose her from our sadly diminished home-circle, -I cannot but rejoice for her, and with her.”</p> - -<p>The Canon’s voice trembled very much as he spoke, -but his smile was one of single-hearted sincerity.</p> - -<p>“But <i>does</i> she rejoice?” said Lucilla rather faintly.</p> - -<p>“Indeed she does. I confess that Flora’s earnest -desire for self-immolation, her ardent spirit, have taken -me by surprise. She is of the stuff of which the -martyrs were made. No austerity has any terrors for -her—she is already far advanced upon the way of the -mystic.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla wrung her hands together.</p> - -<p>“What is it, my dear one?” said her father gently.</p> - -<p>She could not tell him. She felt unable to voice the -terror and the profound distrust that possessed her at -the thought of Flora, fanatically eager for discipline -of her own seeking, finding in religious emotionalism -an outlet for instincts that she had not dared, so far as -Lucilla could judge, to call by their right name.</p> - -<p>“One can only let other people go their own way, -then?” she murmured, more to herself than to the -Canon.</p> - -<p>“Say, rather, the way appointed for them, dear -Lucilla. Yours and mine may lie together yet awhile<span class="pagenum" id="Page_260">[260]</span> -longer, I trust, but I am no longer young, and these -repeated partings tell upon me. It is a sacrifice for -you, too, to make, but let us do so cheerfully—aye, -and right thankfully, too. Our little one has been -chosen for the Bride of Heaven, as the beautiful old -devotional phrase has it.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla was only too conscious that the beautiful -old devotional phrase awoke nothing in herself but -a shuddering distaste.</p> - -<p>She could not doubt, however, that its effect upon -Flora was far otherwise.</p> - -<p>Although she saw, as time went by, that no outside -influence would have power to shatter the vision -so clearly before the Canon’s eyes and to which he so -unfalteringly directed Flora’s gaze, it brought to her -a slight sense of personal relief when the Canon, after -inditing a letter of his usual unbridled length and -meticulous candour, informed her that he had besought -Quentillian to spend at St. Gwenllian that which he -emphasized as Flora’s last evening at home.</p> - -<p>“It will make it easier for us all, to have that dearest -of dear fellows amongst us. He is so truly one of ourselves, -and yet the mere presence of someone who -does not always form part of our familiar little circle, -will prevent overmuch dwelling upon the tender associations -of the past that are well-nigh beyond bearing, -at such a time as this.”</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Owen, laconic as Lucilla herself, made no attempt to -conceal either his personal dislike of the solution to -Flora’s problem, or his innate conviction of her complete<span class="pagenum" id="Page_261">[261]</span> -right to any form of self-slaughter that she might -select.</p> - -<p>They exchanged no opinions, but he found occasion -to say to her in private:</p> - -<p>“One thing, Flora. Will you leave me to deal with -the Mrs. Carey equation, if it ever comes to be necessary?”</p> - -<p>“I hope it never will.”</p> - -<p>“So do I. But make it your legacy to me, so that if -ever it has to be thought of again, I may do as seems -best to me.”</p> - -<p>Flora smiled, her shadowy, tremulous smile.</p> - -<p>“Wouldn’t you do that anyway?”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps I should. But I would rather have your -permission. And after all, you know, Flora—you -won’t be able to pull strings from your Sisterhood.”</p> - -<p>It was the last, almost the only, reference that he -would permit himself, and both could smile at it -faintly.</p> - -<p>“Very well, Owen. I don’t want to remember it -ever again, and I shall only think of Mrs. Carey now -in one way.”</p> - -<p>She lacked the Canon’s capacity for outward expression, -even now, and her colour rose as she spoke.</p> - -<p>Only in earnest and uncondemnatory intercession -would Mrs. Carey find place again in Flora’s thoughts.</p> - -<p>Owen knew it as well as though she had told him -so.</p> - -<p>The evening was mild and beautiful, and the Canon -sat at the open window, leaning back as though greatly -fatigued, and asked Flora for some music.</p> - -<p>“Shall I sing?” she asked.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_262">[262]</span>“Are you able to, my dear?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, indeed,” she said earnestly, and Quentillian -could surmise that she was instinctively eager for the -form of self-expression most natural to her, as a vent -for her own mingled emotions.</p> - -<p>Her voice was more beautiful than ever, with a -depth of feeling new to it.</p> - -<p>Quentillian was indignant with himself when he -found that this perfectly traditional setting for a -pathetic situation was unmistakably affecting him.</p> - -<p>The only light round them was that of the summer’s -evening, and Flora’s voice came with strength and -sweetness and purity from her scarcely-seen figure at -the far end of the room, in well-remembered and intrinsically-exquisite -melody. She was part of his childhood—she -was going away—they would none of them -ever again see Flora, as they had known her, any -more....</p> - -<p>Quentillian, in a violent endeavour to react from -an emotion that he unsparingly qualified as blatant, -turned his eyes away from the singer.</p> - -<p>He looked at Lucilla, and saw that she sat very still. -He reflected that for a face so sensitive, and possessed -of so much latent humour, hers was singularly inexpressive -of anything but acceptance. Nevertheless it -was an acceptance that had its origin, most unmistakably, -in a self-control acquired long since, rather than -in an absence of any capacity for strong feeling.</p> - -<p>He wondered, not for the first time, what her life -had taught Lucilla.</p> - -<p>He looked at Canon Morchard.</p> - -<p>The Canon had closed his eyes and his face, on<span class="pagenum" id="Page_263">[263]</span> -which the lines were showing heavily at last, was white -with the grey pallor of age. Nevertheless he, too, -showed the deep, essential placidity of a conscious acceptance, -and for the first time Quentillian perceived a -fundamental resemblance between the Canon and his -eldest daughter.</p> - -<p>As though aware of the scrutiny fixed upon him, the -Canon opened his eyes, and smiled as they met Quentillian’s.</p> - -<p>“That harmony will be lost to us for a time, perhaps,” -he said softly. “But is it not a foretaste of -that great Song of Praise that will have no ending, and -in which all, all, will be able to join together? I -think so, Owen.”</p> - -<p>He turned his head slightly, his finger-tips joined -together in the position habitual to him.</p> - -<p>“Flora, my child, my dear daughter, will it be too -much if I ask for ‘Lead, Kindly Light,’ as you have -so often given it to us on long-ago Sundays when we -have been all together—all together?”</p> - -<p>For answer, she struck the opening chords very -gently.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="verse">“Lead, kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom</div> -<div class="indent">“Lead thou me on</div> -<div class="verse">“The night is dark, and I am far from home</div> -<div class="indent">“Lead thou me on ...</div> -<div class="indent3">.... “Till, the night is gone</div> -<div class="verse">“And with the morn those Angel faces smile</div> -<div class="verse">“Which I have loved long since and lost awhile.”</div> -</div></div> - -<p>Flora’s voice was rapt and unfaltering.</p> - -<p>Lucilla did not move, nor raise her eyes.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_264">[264]</span>It was Owen Quentillian, poignantly and unwillingly -conscious of pathos, who set his teeth in a profound -and intense resentment at the obvious emotional appeal -that he found himself unable to ignore.</p> - -<p>He unspeakably dreaded the breakdown of the -Canon’s composure that he foresaw, when Flora’s last -note had died away into silence.</p> - -<p>He could not look up.</p> - -<p>“Flora!”</p> - -<p>The Canon’s voice was steady and gentle.</p> - -<p>“Thank you, my child. Bid me good-night, and go, -now. You must have some rest, before your journey -tomorrow.”</p> - -<p>She came to him and he blessed and kissed her as -usual, only letting his hand linger for a moment on -her head as he repeated as though speaking to himself:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="verse">“And with the morn those Angel faces smile</div> -<div class="verse">“Which I have loved long since and lost awhile.”</div> -</div></div> - -<p>“Good-night, Owen. Goodbye,” said Flora.</p> - -<p>She left the room, and the Canon raised himself -with difficulty from his low chair and said:</p> - -<p>“I have some preparations to make for tomorrow. I -will leave you for a little while.”</p> - -<p>When he had gone, Owen felt the relaxation of his -own mental tension.</p> - -<p>For the first time, and with a sincerity that left him -amazed, he found himself making use of the phrase -that from others had so often aroused rebellion in -himself:</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_265">[265]</span>“He is wonderful!”</p> - -<p>Lucilla raised her eyes now, and looked full and -gravely at Quentillian.</p> - -<p>“Yes. I’m glad you see it at last, Owen.”</p> - -<p>“At last?” he stammered, replying to her voice -rather than to her words.</p> - -<p>“He is very fond of you. He has always been very -fond of you, ever since you were a little boy. And -it has—vexed me—very often, to see that you gave -him nothing in return, that, because he belongs to another -school, and another generation, you have almost -despised him, I think.”</p> - -<p>Owen was conscious of colouring deeply in his sudden -surprise and humiliation.</p> - -<p>“Although you are so clever, Owen,” she said in -the same grave, un-ironical tone, “it has seemed as -though you are not able, at all, to see beyond the surface. -I know that my father’s religious sentiment, -sentimentality even, his constant outward expression of -emotional piety, his guileless optimism, have all jarred -upon you. But you have had no eyes for his pathetic -courage, his constant striving for what he sees as the -highest.”</p> - -<p>“Lucilla—in justice to myself—although what you -say may be true, if I have judged your father it has -been far more on account of his children—of what I -have seen of their lives.”</p> - -<p>“You were not called upon to constitute yourself -the champion of his children. Valeria, even, had no -claim on your championship. It was not you whom -she loved, and you, too, tried to make Val what she -was never meant to be. When Val threw you over,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_266">[266]</span> -if my father tried to force upon you what you could -only see as the conventional <i>beau geste</i> of renunciation, -it was because he was incapable of believing that you -could have asked a woman to marry you without loving -her, body and soul. His forgiveness of Val, -whether you thought him entitled to forgive or not, -lay between him and her. And when you speak of our -lives, Owen, can’t you see that Val and Adrian and I, -and perhaps in a way even Flora, too, have come to -what we were meant for? No one can stand between -another soul, and life, really.”</p> - -<p>He was oddly struck by the echo of words that he -had himself once used to Flora.</p> - -<p>“You admit that he tried, to stand between you and -life?”</p> - -<p>“I do,” she said instantly. “But if he had succeeded, -the fault would have been ours.”</p> - -<p>She suddenly smiled.</p> - -<p>“Isn’t it true that to face facts means freedom? -That’s why I’m not an optimist, Owen. I am willing -to face all the facts you like. But you, I think, in -judging my father, have only faced half of them.”</p> - -<p>“You find me intolerant!” he exclaimed, half-ironically. -Never before had such an adjective been presented -to his strong sense of his own impartiality, his -detached rationalism.</p> - -<p>“Not exactly. Only, I’m afraid—a little bit of a -prig.”</p> - -<p>She uttered the strange, unimposing accusation, not -rudely, not unkindly, but almost mournfully.</p> - -<p>“Christianity has been accused of intolerance very -often, and with only too much reason, but those outside<span class="pagenum" id="Page_267">[267]</span> -the Churches, who frankly claim to be agnostic, -often seem to me to be the most intolerant of all, of -what they look upon as superstition. Why should you -despise my father for beliefs that have led him to lead -an honourable life, and that have given him courage -to bear his many sorrows?”</p> - -<p>“You have said, yourself, that the facing of facts -means freedom. I can see no freedom, and therefore -no beauty, in living in illusion.”</p> - -<p>“Not for yourself, perhaps. Illusions could never -be anything but conscious, for you.”</p> - -<p>“Nor for yourself, Lucilla,” he retorted swiftly.</p> - -<p>“But how does that entitle us to despise another for -holding them?” she demanded, quite as swiftly. Nevertheless -Owen detected a lessening of severity, in so far -as she had coupled them together in her speech.</p> - -<p>“Tonight,” he said gravely, “I admired your father -with all my heart.”</p> - -<p>“I’m glad.”</p> - -<p>On the words, the same as those with which Lucilla -had begun their brief and rather amazing conversation, -the Canon returned into the room.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_268">[268]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">IV<br /> - - -<small>THE DEATH OF AN OPTIMIST</small></h2> -</div> - -<h3>(i)</h3> - -<p><span class="smcap">Quentillian’s</span> next and final summons to St. -Gwenllian came some months after Canon Morchard -had taken Flora to her Sisterhood, and returned alone.</p> - -<p>Owen was unprepared for the change in the Canon’s -appearance, although he knew him to be ill.</p> - -<p>“Aye, dear lad! It’s the last stage of the journey. -I have thought that it was so for some time, and they -tell me now that there is no doubt of it. This poor -clay is worn out, and the spirit within is to be set free. -Verily, I can still repeat those favourite words of mine: -‘All things work together for good, to those that love -God.’ If you but knew the number of times during -these last few years that I have cried out within myself -‘O for the wings of a dove, that I might fly away -and be at rest!’ And now it has come! and I hope to -keep my Christmas feast among the blest. They tell -me that it cannot be long.”</p> - -<p>Quentillian looked the enquiry that he felt it difficult -to put into words.</p> - -<p>“I can take very little. Soon, they tell me that even -that little will have become impossible. See how even -the crowning mercy of preparedness is vouchsafed to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_269">[269]</span> -me! I have put my house in order as well as may be, -and have no care save for my poor Lucilla. She will -be alone indeed, and it is for her sake, Owen, that I -want you to do a great kindness to a dying man.”</p> - -<p>“Anything, sir. Do you want me to stay?”</p> - -<p>“You have it, Owen.” The Canon laid his hand, -thin now to emaciation, upon Quentillian’s.</p> - -<p>“Stay with us now until the end comes. It cannot -be far off. I have outlived my brothers, and Lucilla’s -remaining aunt is old and infirm. It is not fit, even -were it possible, that she should come here. She will -receive Lucilla most tenderly after I am gone—of that -I am assured. But there is no one to uphold her, to -spare her needless distress, when the time comes.”</p> - -<p>“I will do everything that I can to help her.”</p> - -<p>“I know it, dear fellow—I know it. Thank you -from the bottom of my heart. It seems natural to treat -you as a son.”</p> - -<p>The Canon paused and looked wistfully at Quentillian -upon the word.</p> - -<p>“Perhaps Adrian will come home. I have written -to him—a long letter. He need not be afraid of me.</p> - -<p>“I have written to my three absent children: To -Valeria—my blessing for her little sons—I would have -given much to see them before going—aye, and their -mother, too, my merry Valeria, as I once called her! -I have missed Valeria’s laughter in this quiet house, -that was once full of merriment and children’s voices.</p> - -<p>“And I have written to Flora, my Flora, who chose -the better part. May she indeed be blessed in her -choice—little Flora!”</p> - -<p>He sank back, looking exhausted.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_270">[270]</span>“I will stay as long as you wish me to stay, and I -will do all that I can for Lucilla,” repeated Quentillian.</p> - -<p>“I know it. The last anxiety has been allayed. Aye, -Owen, I have ceased to concern myself with these -things now, I hope. If Adrian comes to me, and if -Lucilla can count upon you as upon a brother, then I -am well satisfied indeed. My affairs are in good order, -I believe. My will is with my solicitors—Lucilla knows -the address. What there is, goes in equal shares to -Lucilla, Valeria, and Adrian. Flora has received her -portion already. My books, dear Owen, are yours. -All else—personal effects, manuscripts, and the rest—are -Lucilla’s. She has been my right hand. There -are mementos to Clover, to one or two old friends -and servants—nothing else. I have thought it well to -make Lucilla sole executrix—she has helped in all my -business for so long!</p> - -<p>“So you see that my temporal concerns are over and -done with. In regard to the spiritual, I have had the -unutterable honour and pleasure of a visit from the -Bishop himself. He was all fatherly goodness and -kindness. The dear Clover is always at hand for reading, -and I can depend on him utterly for those last -commendations that are to smooth my way down the -Valley of the Shadow. There is nothing wanting. -And now you have come!”</p> - -<p>The Canon’s wasted face was both radiant and -serene.</p> - -<p>The grief that had so often shown there seemed to -have passed away, and Quentillian found it almost -incredible that he had ever seen the Canon angry, or -weighed down by a leaden depression of spirits.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_271">[271]</span>“Is he really happy, all the time?” Quentillian asked -Lucilla.</p> - -<p>“Yes, all the time. Even when he has pain. But -they say there won’t be any more pain, most likely, -now. He will just sink, gradually. If you knew how -very little he is living on, even now, you would be -surprised.”</p> - -<p>“Are you doing the nursing?”</p> - -<p>“He wants a trained nurse. One has been sent for. -He thinks that it will spare me,” said Lucilla, smiling -a little.</p> - -<p>In the days that followed, Owen saw how difficult -Lucilla found it to be so spared.</p> - -<p>The nurse was an efficient and conscientious woman, -and the Canon quickly became dependent upon her. He -begged Owen to spend as much time as possible with -Lucilla, who remained downstairs, replying to the innumerable -letters and the enquirers who came to the -house.</p> - -<p>She was now only with her father for a brief morning -visit, and the hour in the afternoon when the nurse -took her exercise out of doors. Very often Quentillian, -at the Canon’s request, was also with them then.</p> - -<p>“Lucilla and I have long ago said our last words, -such as they are,” the Canon told him with a smile. -“We understand one another too well to need to be -left alone together.”</p> - -<p>Time slipped by with monotonous regularity, the -changes in the Canon almost imperceptible to the onlookers.</p> - -<p>Then, preceded only by a telegram, Adrian came -home.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_272">[272]</span>“My father isn’t really dying, is he?” he asked -piteously.</p> - -<p>“He can’t take anything at all, now. It’s a question -almost of hours.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla took him upstairs to where his father lay, -propped upon pillows, and they were left alone together.</p> - -<p>“You know, it is very bad for Canon Morchard to -have any agitation,” the nurse anxiously pointed out -to Lucilla, when the interview had lasted a long while.</p> - -<p>“Can it make any real difference?”</p> - -<p>“It may reduce his strength more quickly.”</p> - -<p>“He would say that it was worth it. He has not -seen this son for a long while.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla kept the woman out of the room as long as it -was possible to do so.</p> - -<p>At last Adrian came downstairs.</p> - -<p>That evening the Canon said to Quentillian, with -tears in his eyes:</p> - -<p>“Adrian has promised me to give up his work for -that man. Is it not wonderful, dear Owen? All, all -added unto me. If this pain of mine is to be the price -of my boy’s awaking to his own better nature, how -gladly shall I not pay it!”</p> - -<p>It was the only time that Quentillian had ever heard -him allude to having suffered physical pain.</p> - -<p>“I have not been so much at rest about Adrian since -he was a little boy,” said the Canon. “He was always -the most affectionate of them all. And he cried like -a little child, poor fellow, this afternoon, and voluntarily -passed me his promise to leave that man.”</p> - -<p>Quentillian’s own involuntary distrust of the promise -given by a weak nature, under strong emotional stress,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_273">[273]</span> -was profound, but he gave no sign of it. It no longer -caused him any satisfaction to be aware of a deeper -insight in himself than in the Canon. He could not -share that guileless singleness of vision, and felt no -envy of it, and yet he paradoxically desired that it -should remain unimpaired.</p> - -<p>He asked Lucilla if she knew of Adrian’s promise.</p> - -<p>“He told me. He was crying when he came down. -He can’t believe even yet that father is dying, poor -Adrian! And yet he must believe it, really, to have -made that promise.”</p> - -<p>“The Canon is so thankful for it.”</p> - -<p>“I know. He wanted it more than anything in the -world. Everything has come to make it easy for him -to go, Owen.”</p> - -<p>Something in her tone made him say gently:</p> - -<p>“Poor Lucilla!”</p> - -<p>“Even if the impression is only temporary with -Adrian, it will be a comfort to him afterwards. He is -very unhappy now, that there should have been any -estrangement between them.”</p> - -<p>It was evident enough that Lucilla, also, had no great -reliance upon Adrian’s stability of purpose, although -his present reaction had brought such joy and comfort -to the dying man.</p> - -<p>That night for the first time the Canon’s mind wandered. -He spoke of his children as though all were -once more of nursery age, and at home together.</p> - -<p>“Little Adrian can take my hand, and then he can -keep up with the others. Less noise, my love—a little -less noise.... Valeria’s voice is too often raised, -too often raised—although I like its merry note, in fit<span class="pagenum" id="Page_274">[274]</span> -and proper season. My merry Valeria! Now are we -ready? The sketch-book, Flora, the sketch-book.... -I want to see that pretty attempt at the Church finished.”</p> - -<p>Then he said with an apologetic note in his voice:</p> - -<p>“Flora lacks perseverance, and is too easily discouraged, -but we hope that she may show great feeling for -art, by and bye. Lucilla’s <i>forte</i> lies in more practical -directions. She is my housekeeper—my right hand, -I often call her. Look, children, at that effect of sunlight -through the beech-leaves. Is it not wonderful? -Come, Adrian, my man—no lagging behind....”</p> - -<p>Presently a puzzled, distressed look came over his -face and he asked: “Is not one missing? Is David -here?”</p> - -<p>Lucilla bent over him to say, “Yes, father,” but the -distressed look still lingered.</p> - -<p>“Where is David?” said the Canon. “Was there -not some sadness—some trouble between us? No—no—all -a dream.”</p> - -<p>His face lightened again. “David is safe home. I -shall see David tonight.”</p> - -<p>By and by he asked to be told the time.</p> - -<p>It was nine o’clock.</p> - -<p>The Canon’s voice had become a weak whisper.</p> - -<p>“I thought it was morning, and that I had them all -again—little children. Such trustful little hands lying -in mine ... and the children have grown up and -gone away.... No ... Lucilla, you are there, -are you not, my dear love? And Owen—Owen, that -was like a third son to me. My own sons are there, -too—David is safe home ... only a very little way<span class="pagenum" id="Page_275">[275]</span> -on ... and Adrian, little Adrian—he promised -... ah, all things work together for good....”</p> - -<p>His voice trailed thinly away into silence, his wan -face was smiling.</p> - -<p>“He will sleep,” whispered the nurse, and her words -were verified almost instantly.</p> - -<p>Owen took Lucilla away.</p> - -<p>There was a strong sense upon him that the summons -would not be long delayed now.</p> - -<p>Lucilla went downstairs and quietly opened the outer -door into the garden. They walked up and down -there, Owen watching the red spark waxing and waning -from his own cigar. The night was extraordinarily -still, the dark arch of the sky powdered with -stars.</p> - -<p>Neither spoke directly of that which occupied their -minds most, but Quentillian said by and bye:</p> - -<p>“Where shall you go, eventually?”</p> - -<p>“Torquay, perhaps. There is an old aunt there—father’s -sister. I shall have just enough not to be -dependent upon her, even if I make my home with her.”</p> - -<p>“Will that be congenial?”</p> - -<p>Lucilla gave a little low, sad laugh.</p> - -<p>“I don’t think there’s much alternative, is there? -This house, of course, goes to the next incumbent. If -Mr. Clover is appointed—and we very much hope that -he will be—he would probably buy a good deal of the -furniture (which is just as well, as it would certainly -drop to pieces if we tried to move it). I couldn’t -possibly afford to set up house for myself, in any case. -And I must have something to do. Aunt Mary would -find plenty for me to do.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_276">[276]</span>“I daresay,” said Quentillian without enthusiasm.</p> - -<p>“Perhaps you are thinking of my taking up an occupation -or a profession seriously, but you know, Owen, -it isn’t really a practical proposition, though one feels -as though it ought to be. Just think for a minute, and -tell me what I’m fit for—except perhaps being someone’s -housekeeper.”</p> - -<p>“My dear Lucilla, with your education and the literary -training your father has given you, surely anyone -would be glad of your services.”</p> - -<p>“Not at all. I can’t write shorthand. My typing, -which I taught myself, isn’t nearly as good or as quick -as that of any little girl of sixteen who has learnt it -properly, and can probably use half a dozen different -makes of machine. I’ve never learnt office routine—filing, -indexing, bookkeeping, the use of a dictaphone. -I believe all those things are necessary nowadays. I -don’t suppose, if I did learn them all now, I should -ever be very good or very quick.”</p> - -<p>“I’m not suggesting that you should become a City -clerk at forty shillings a week.”</p> - -<p>“A private secretary, then? I can’t honestly see why -anyone should employ a woman with no experience, -when there are so many experts wanting work. Languages -might be an asset, but most people know -French. German isn’t likely to be wanted now, and I -don’t fancy there is any great demand for Latin or -Greek. Even for teaching, schools want diplomas and -certificates, besides proficiency in games.”</p> - -<p>“But the higher professions are all open to women -of education nowadays,” he protested. “You’re not -restricted to the kitchen or the nursery.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_277">[277]</span>“Do you really think that I could work up, now, -for a stiff legal or medical examination, and pass it?” -she demanded with a sort of gentle irony. “You don’t -realize, Owen, that I’m nearly forty.”</p> - -<p>He had not realized it, and it silenced him momentarily.</p> - -<p>“I think my chances went by a long time ago,” said -Lucilla. “I’ve never told anyone about it, but I think -I’d like to tell you now, because I don’t want you to -think of me as a victim.”</p> - -<p>Quentillian registered a silent mental appreciation -of a reason diametrically opposite to the reason for -which the majority of confidences are bestowed.</p> - -<p>“Before Val and Flossie grew up, it was obvious -that I should stay at home and look after the house. -Besides, I liked doing it. My father was—and is—the -whole world to me. But there was a time, just -once, when Val grew up, and David had gone away, -when I wanted to go away, too. Of course I’m talking -of a good many years ago, and there weren’t so many -openings to choose from. But I wanted very much to -go to college. Father could just have managed it, without -being unfair to any of the others.”</p> - -<p>“You told him, then?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes; I told him.”</p> - -<p>“Would he not consent?” inquired Owen, as she -paused.</p> - -<p>“He promised to consent if I still wished it, after -thinking it over.”</p> - -<p>“But he persuaded you not to wish it any more?”</p> - -<p>“No, it wasn’t that. It’s a little bit difficult to explain. -He did ask me what I should gain by it, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_278">[278]</span> -whether it wasn’t just restlessness and seeking a vocation -to which I was not called. You remember hearing -him say that about Val, too?”</p> - -<p>“I remember.”</p> - -<p>“Well, that was all. He didn’t say anything more. -Of course I knew he wouldn’t like my going away -from him, without being told. But it was I who decided -that it was an occasion for making what I’m -afraid I thought of as a sacrifice.”</p> - -<p>She surprised him by a little laugh.</p> - -<p>“You see, Owen, I think <i>now</i> that I was quite -wrong.”</p> - -<p>“Quite wrong,” he echoed gravely.</p> - -<p>“It was an odd, muddled sort of time for some years -after that. I suppose I was resenting my own decision, -and yet trying to buoy myself up all the time by thinking -of my own self-abnegation and generosity. It had -seemed rather a beautiful thing to do at the time—to -sacrifice my own life to my widowed father and my -motherless brothers and sisters. At first, I remember -thinking that there would be something almost sacred -about my everyday life at home.”</p> - -<p>“When people begin to think that things are sacred -to them, it generally means that they’re afraid of facing -the truth about them.”</p> - -<p>“Exactly. It was a long time before I told myself -the truth. But in the end I did, when I saw that no -one was likely to want to marry me, and that my life -was going to be exactly what I had decided to let it -be. And of course from the minute I faced it fair and -square—after the first—it all became a great deal -easier. Besides, there were compensations, really.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_279">[279]</span>He made a sound of interrogation.</p> - -<p>“Well, it’s really a great thing to have a home. I’ve -always felt sorry for women who lived in their boxes, -and had nowhere of their own. And being mistress -of the house all these years—I’ve liked that, and been -fairly interested in it. And I’ve got imagination enough -to see that books, and music, and a garden, to anyone -brought up as we were especially, are quite important -items. You know, women who have a career don’t -generally get those other things thrown in as well, -unless they’re exceptionally fortunate.”</p> - -<p>“You set them against independence and your own -freedom?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t say that, but they <i>do</i> count,” she said steadily. -“If it comes to a question of relative values, of -course they take second place. But once I’d admitted -to myself, quite honestly, that I’d relinquished my -chance of the best things of all, then I could quite see -those other things as being intrinsically worth something—a -very good second best. They’re really only -unsatisfactory when one tries to think of them as substitutes. -Taken at their own value—well, I’ve found -them helpful, you know.”</p> - -<p>There was a silence before she spoke again.</p> - -<p>“Most of all, there was Father.”</p> - -<p>“That relationship has been the biggest factor in -your life, of course.”</p> - -<p>“Yes.” She paused, and then in a tone resolutely -matter-of-fact, said: “I think perhaps I won’t talk -about that now. But I know just as well as you do -that in the course of nature, those particular links can -only be expected to endure for a certain number of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_280">[280]</span> -years. They’re breaking now, for me, and it means -that part of my life goes too.”</p> - -<p>He could not contradict her.</p> - -<p>“Is Adrian any use?”</p> - -<p>“Poor Adrian! He says now that he and I must -keep together, and make a home for one another. He -wants to comfort me, and he knows Father would be -glad; but you can see for yourself that it wouldn’t -be fair to take him at his word. Perhaps we may be -together for a little while—till things have worn off -a little bit, for him. Adrian is emotional, isn’t he? I -don’t know what he’ll do, eventually.”</p> - -<p>The recollection of Adrian’s promise to the Canon, -that he would relinquish his work, was evidently not -a factor that Lucilla took into serious consideration. -By tacit agreement neither of them alluded to it.</p> - -<p>“Valeria will hardly be able to come home, I suppose?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no. It’s out of the question. She couldn’t -leave the two babies, nor very well bring them with -her.”</p> - -<p>“Flora?”</p> - -<p>Already, Owen realized with faint surprise, he had -come to remember Flora’s corporeal existence only by -an effort. He could scarcely feel her to be less separated -from the realities of life than one who had died -in youth, and been long forgotten.</p> - -<p>Lucilla only shook her head.</p> - -<p>“They are all gone. Whatever anyone may say, -Owen, they didn’t shirk their chances. They said Yes -to Life as they saw it.”</p> - -<p>“Can you be glad of that?”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_281">[281]</span>“Very glad. Even selfishly, I can be glad. Think -of three—unfulfilled—lives to be spent side by side, -held together by affection if you like, but fundamentally -built on an artificial basis! No, no”—her smile -held humour, rather than conscious valour, though -Owen saw it as valiant too—“I’m glad to have faced -my facts at last, though it ought to have been done -long ago, when I made my choice. I’m not optimistic -now, but I—I’m free.”</p> - -<p>As they turned, at the end of the garden path, a -dark figure sped across the grass towards them. -Adrian’s voice reached them, low and urgent:</p> - -<p>“Come!”</p> - - -<h3>(ii)</h3> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> Canon lay back against his pillows and it did -not need the nurse’s gesture to Lucilla to tell them that -he was dying. His breath came loud and fast and his -eyes were closed.</p> - -<p>Adrian had flung himself on his knees at the bedside -and was sobbing, his face hidden in his arms. Quentillian -stood beside Lucilla, who held her father’s hand -in hers.</p> - -<p>“Is he conscious?” Lucilla asked.</p> - -<p>The nurse shook her head.</p> - -<p>“Can anything be done to make it easier?” Lucilla -said then.</p> - -<p>“No, my dear. I’ve sent messages for the doctor -and Mr. Clover, but——”</p> - -<p>Her face completed the sentence.</p> - -<p>They remained motionless, Adrian’s irregular sobs<span class="pagenum" id="Page_282">[282]</span> -and the Canon’s heavy breathing alone cutting intermittently -across the silence.</p> - -<p>Quentillian never knew how long it was before -Canon Morchard opened his eyes and spoke, articulating -with great difficulty.</p> - -<p>“All safe—all happy ... verily, <i>all</i> things work -together for good!”</p> - -<p>He smiled, looking straight across at Owen Quentillian, -and suddenly said with great distinctness:</p> - -<p>“<i>Mors janua vitæ!</i>”</p> - -<p>Owen could hear the cry still, ringing through the -room, in the time of dumb struggle that followed.</p> - -<p>It seemed a fitting epitome of the spirit that had -been Fenwick Morchard’s.</p> - -<p>Just before the first hint of day dawned into the -room, Lucilla and the nurse laid back on to the pillows -the form that they had been supporting.</p> - -<p>Adrian was crying and shivering like a child.</p> - -<p>“Take him downstairs and give him something hot -to drink,” the nurse commanded Owen. “There’s a fire -in the kitchen.”</p> - -<p>Quentillian looked at Lucilla.</p> - -<p>“Please go,” she said.</p> - -<p>He went downstairs with Adrian.</p> - -<p>“If only I’d been better to him! He was awfully -good to me, really,” sobbed Adrian. “He used to -make an awful fuss of me when I was a little chap, -and I wasn’t half grateful enough—beast that I was!”</p> - -<p>“Drink this.”</p> - -<p>“I can’t.”</p> - -<p>“Of course you can. Try and be a man, Adrian, -for your sister’s sake.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_283">[283]</span>“It’s worse for me than for any of them,” said -Adrian ingenuously, “because I’ve got things to be -remorseful about, and they haven’t. And now it’s too -late!”</p> - -<p>“You were here in time,” said Quentillian, abominably -conscious, and resentful, of his own triteness.</p> - -<p>“And I promised him I’d chuck my job. I think -it comforted him.”</p> - -<p>“I’m sure it did.”</p> - -<p>“It was a sacrifice, in a way, to throw the whole -thing up, when I was doing well and keen on it, and -all that sort of thing; but I’m thankful now that I -did it. Perhaps it made up to—<i>him</i>—for my having -been such a hound, often and often.”</p> - -<p>It was oddly evident that Adrian was torn between -genuine grief and shock and a latent desire to make -the most of his own former depravity.</p> - -<p>“I daresay you’re thinking that having been through -the war and everything, I ought to be used to the sight -of death,” he said presently; “but it’s quite different -when it’s like this. One got sort of hardened there, -and everybody was running the same risk—oneself included. -But my father—why, it seems like the end -of everything, Owen. I must say, I think I’m a bit -young to have my home broken up like this, don’t -you?”</p> - -<p>“Very young,” repeated Quentillian automatically, -and yet not altogether without significance.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know what will happen, but of course Lucilla -and I have to leave St. Gwenllian. It’s hard on -her, too. I thought we ought to keep together, you -know, for a bit. It seems more natural. I shall have<span class="pagenum" id="Page_284">[284]</span> -to look for a fresh job, and I don’t know what Hale -will say to my chucking him.”</p> - -<p>Adrian was silent, obviously uneasy, and it was evident -enough that it was the strong revulsion from that -anxiety which prompted his next sudden outburst.</p> - -<p>“I’m so awfully thankful that I had the strength to -make that promise about leaving Hale. It’ll always -be a comfort to me to feel that I made a sacrifice for -the dear old man, and that he—went—the happier for -it. Mind you, I don’t agree with him about Hale and -Hale’s crowd. Father had the old-fashioned ideas of -his generation, you know, and of course all progress -seemed a sort of vandalism to him. I daresay if he’d -ever met Hale he’d have had his eyes opened a bit, -and seen things quite differently. Hale was always -jolly decent about him, too—he’d read some of his -stuff, and had quite a sort of admiration for it, in a -way. Said it was reactionary, and all that, but perfectly -sound in its own way, you know—scholarly, and -all that kind of muck.”</p> - -<p>“Have you written to Hale?”</p> - -<p>“No. Of course, in a way it’s an awfully awkward -situation for me, having to tell him why I’m not coming -back to him, and so on. I thought I’d pop up -and see him as soon as it could be managed. Of course -there are arrangements to be made——”</p> - -<p>The boy broke off, in a fresh access of bewilderment -and grief.</p> - -<p>“I simply can’t realize he’s gone, Owen. I say—you -do think he was happy, don’t you?”</p> - -<p>“Yes.”</p> - -<p>“That promise of mine meant a lot to him. I’m so<span class="pagenum" id="Page_285">[285]</span> -thankful that I’ve got that to remember. You might -say, in a way, considering how much he always thought -of us, that some of his children had rather let him -down, in a way. I mean, Lucilla and I were the only -two there, out of the five of us. Of course, David, -poor chap, had gone already, and Val and Flossie -couldn’t very well help themselves—and yet there it -was! Do you suppose that when he said—<i>that</i>—about -‘all safe, all happy’—he was thinking of us?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I do.”</p> - -<p>“It’s a comfort to know his mind was at rest. He -wouldn’t have said that if I hadn’t made that promise, -you know,” said Adrian.</p> - -<p>“Look here, Adrian, hadn’t you better try and get -some sleep? There’ll be things to be done, later, you -know, and you and I—if you’ll let me help—must try -and take some of it off Lucilla’s hands.”</p> - -<p>All the child in Adrian responded to the transparent -lure.</p> - -<p>He drew himself up.</p> - -<p>“Thanks awfully, Owen. I shall be only too glad of -your help. There’ll be a good deal for me to see to, -of course, so perhaps I’d better lie down for an hour -or two while I can. What about Lucilla?”</p> - -<p>“Would you like to come and find her?”</p> - -<p>The boy shuddered violently.</p> - -<p>“Not in there—I couldn’t,” he said piteously.</p> - -<p>They went upstairs together.</p> - -<p>As they passed the door of the Canon’s room, it was -cautiously opened and the nurse came outside and spoke -to Adrian.</p> - -<p>“The doctor should be here presently. I want him<span class="pagenum" id="Page_286">[286]</span> -to see Miss Morchard. She turned faint a little while -ago, and I’ve got her into her room, but I’m afraid -she’s in for a breakdown. I’ve seen them like this -before, after a long strain, you know.”</p> - -<p>The woman’s tone was professionally matter-of-fact.</p> - -<p>“Had I better go to her?” said Adrian, troubled, and -seeming rather resentful at the fresh anxiety thrust -upon him.</p> - -<p>“I shouldn’t, if I were you. It’ll only upset her. -She’s broken down a bit—hysterical. It’ll relieve her, -in the end. I shan’t leave her now, till the doctor -comes.”</p> - -<p>Lucilla hysterical!</p> - -<p>Owen, almost more amazed than concerned, watched -the nurse depart to what she evidently looked upon as -a fresh case.</p> - -<p>“Well, I can’t do anything, I suppose,” said Adrian -miserably.</p> - -<p>“Go to bed,” Quentillian repeated. “Shall I draft -out some telegrams for you, and let you see them before -they go? It’s no use sending them to the post-office -before eight.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t you want to sleep yourself?”</p> - -<p>“Not just now, thanks.”</p> - -<p>“Well, I’ll relieve you at seven. Send someone to -call me, will you?—though I don’t suppose I shall -sleep.”</p> - -<p>The boy trailed into his room, disconsolate and -frightened-looking.</p> - -<p>Owen Quentillian, searching for writing materials, -found them on the table in the Canon’s study, a table -scrupulous in its orderliness, each stack of papers docketed,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_287">[287]</span> -each article laid with symmetrical precision in its -own place.</p> - -<p>Owen would not sit there, where only the Canon -had sat, under the crucifix mounted on the green velvet -plaque. He went instead to another, smaller table, in -the embrasure of a window, and sat there writing until -the morning light streamed in upon him.</p> - -<p>Then he laid down the pen, with a sense of the futility -of activities that sought to cheat reflection, and -let his mind dwell upon that which subconsciously -obsessed it.</p> - -<p>Canon Morchard had died as he had lived—an optimist. -An invincible faith in the ultimate rightness of -all things had been his to the end, and perhaps most -of all at the end.</p> - -<p>Quentillian envisaged the Canon’s causes of thankfulness.</p> - -<p>He had seen his children as “safe” and “happy.” -Was it only because he had wanted so to see them?</p> - -<p>David, who was dead, had been mourned for, but -the Canon had been spared the deepest bitterness of -separation. He had known nothing of the gulf widening -between his own soul and that of his eldest -son....</p> - -<p>A fool’s paradise?</p> - -<p>He had seen Lucilla as safe and happy.</p> - -<p>And yet Lucilla’s life was over, unlived. As she -herself had said, her chances had gone by. Torquay -remained. It was not very difficult to imagine her -days there. An old lady—the placid kindness accorded -by the aged to the middle-ageing—the outside interests -of a little music, a few books, a flower-garden—the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_288">[288]</span> -pathetic, vicarious planning for scarcely-seen nephews -and nieces—the quick, solitary walks, cut short by the -fear of being missed, and then, as years went on, more -solitude, and again more solitude.</p> - -<p>Lucilla had said: “I’m not an optimist now—but I’m -free.”</p> - -<p>From the bottom of his heart Owen recalled with -thankfulness the fact of Lucilla’s freed spirit.</p> - -<p>It was the best that life would ever hold for her now.</p> - -<p>His thoughts turned to Flora.</p> - -<p>Quentillian could not envisage her life: eternally secluded, -eternally withdrawn. She was lost to them, as -they were lost to her.</p> - -<p>Subconsciously, he was aware of associations connected -with Flora’s vocation upon which he preferred -not to dwell. He knew, dimly, intuitively, that Lucilla’s -merciless clarity of outlook had seen Flora less -as a voluntary sacrifice than as the self-deluded victim -of fanaticism.</p> - -<p>But no doubts had crossed the Canon’s mind on -Flora’s behalf. He had known no distrust of her craving -for self-immolation, no dread of reaction coming -too late.</p> - -<p>He had thanked God for the dedication of Flora.</p> - -<p>The one of his children for whom he had grieved -perhaps longest was Valeria. And it was on Valeria -that Owen’s thoughts dwelt most gladly. She had purchased -reality for herself, and although the price might -include his own temporary discomfiture, Quentillian rejoiced -in it candidly. Nevertheless, it was Val’s error, -and not Val’s achievement, that her father had seen. -His hope for her had been the one of ultimate reparation<span class="pagenum" id="Page_289">[289]</span> -implied in his own favourite words—“All things -work together for good.”</p> - -<p>And the Canon had quoted those words yet again, -when Adrian, his favourite child, had come back to -him. His deepest thankfulness had been for the emotional, -unstable promise volunteered by Adrian’s impulsive -youth.</p> - -<p>Quentillian could see no reliance to be placed upon -that promise to which the Canon, with such ardent -gratitude and joy, had trusted. Adrian would drift, -the type that does little harm, if less good. Strength -of intellect, as of character, had been denied him. No -interest would hold him long, no aim seem to him to be -worth sustained effort.</p> - -<p>And yet the Canon had felt Adrian, too—perhaps -most of all Adrian, in the flush of reconciliation after -their estrangement—to be “safe” and “happy.”</p> - -<p>Then optimism was merely a veil, drawn across the -nakedness of Truth?</p> - -<p>From the depths of a profound and ingrained pessimism, -Quentillian sought to view the question dispassionately, -and felt himself fundamentally unable to -do so.</p> - -<p>Hard facts and—at best—resignation, or baseless -hopes and undaunted courage, such as had been Canon -Morchard’s?</p> - -<p>The death of the Canon, bereft of all and yet believing -himself to possess all, had epitomized his life.</p> - -<p>Overhead, sounds and stirrings had begun, and -Quentillian softly let himself out of the house and -stepped out into the fresh chill of the morning air. -His eyelids were stiff and aching from his vigil, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_290">[290]</span> -sudden, most unwonted tears filled them. He glanced -at the windows of the old house. A light still burned -in Lucilla’s, as though the nurse had been able to spare -no thought from her ministrations.</p> - -<p>Lucilla, the finest and bravest of the Canon’s children, -had been broken on the wheel.</p> - -<p>In the passionless sorrow that possessed him, Quentillian -grasped at the strand of consolation that he knew -to exist somewhere. It had been found for him once -before, by Canon Morchard.</p> - -<p>He found it again, remembering.</p> - -<p><i>Mors janua vitæ.</i></p> - -<p>The Canon had proclaimed it, as a joyful certainty. -Approached far otherwise, Owen could yet proclaim -it, too, as the supreme and ultimate Fact to be faced, -of which the true realization would strike forever the -balance between optimism and pessimism.</p> - -<p>He turned towards the entrance again, and as he did -so the blinds of Canon Morchard’s room were drawn -down, by a careful, unseen hand.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_291">[291]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">V<br /> - - -<small>OWEN AND LUCILLA</small></h2> -</div> - -<h3>(i)</h3> - -<p><span class="smcap">It</span> was nearly a year later that Owen Quentillian -went to Torquay to see Lucilla Morchard, and asked -her to marry him.</p> - -<p>Nothing in the occasional letters that they had exchanged -could have been regarded as in any way indicative -of such a <i>dénouement</i>, and for once Owen saw -Lucilla thoroughly disconcerted.</p> - -<p>“But why?” she demanded, in a tone at once wistful -and indignant.</p> - -<p>Her face was pale and lined, but her eyes had lost -neither humour nor sanity of outlook.</p> - -<p>“Not for the only reason that it ought to be, dear -Lucilla,” he answered humbly. “But because of the -awful loneliness at Stear, and my own weakness which -makes me afraid of it. And a little because of your -sadness here, perhaps, but most of all because you are -the only person I know who can face facts, and <i>then</i> -be happy. It’s the most wonderful combination in -life.”</p> - -<p>“You have faced facts, yourself.”</p> - -<p>“And it has only brought me bitterness.”</p> - -<p>She reflected for a moment and then said:</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_292">[292]</span>“That’s true. But you won’t find your remedy in -marriage with me, Owen.”</p> - -<p>Her voice held all its old crisp, common-sense.</p> - -<p>“Are you staying to tea, because if so, my aunt will -want some warning. She is old, and fussy, and there’s -only one maid.”</p> - -<p>They had met out of doors.</p> - -<p>“Pray don’t let me cause any inconvenience,” he said -stiffly, offended by the irrelevance.</p> - -<p>“It won’t be in the least inconvenient,” Lucilla assured -him kindly. “Aunt Mary likes to see people, very -much, it’s a new interest for her. Only it worries her -if the drawing-room fire isn’t lit, or there’s no cake for -tea. Things like that, you know.”</p> - -<p>He hardly did know, so different was his own world, -and he could scarcely credit that Lucilla, the erstwhile -mistress of St. Gwenllian, could know.</p> - -<p>“You’ve remembered, of course,” she said reflectively, -“that I’m several years older than you are?”</p> - -<p>“What can that matter?”</p> - -<p>“Nothing at all, certainly, if you’ve faced the risk -that it entails and are prepared to take it. But, of -course, that isn’t the only risk, Owen.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose not. Is this an acceptance, or a refusal, -Lucilla?”</p> - -<p>They both broke into laughter.</p> - -<p>“Here we are,” said Lucilla, stopping at a little gate -in a row of other little gates. “I’ll walk with you to -the station afterwards.”</p> - -<p>She paused, with her hand on the little gate, and -looked at him.</p> - -<p>“It’s only that we are—or we ought to be—past the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_293">[293]</span> -stage of following a generous impulse and hoping for -the best. I—I don’t want either of us to bite off more -than we can chew.”</p> - -<p>On the elegance of her simile, Miss Morchard -opened the front door of “Balmoral” with a latchkey, -allowing no time for a reply.</p> - -<p>She left Quentillian in the tiny, red-tiled hall while -she went into a room opening out of it, that was as -obviously the drawing-room as the room on the other -side was the dining-room.</p> - -<p>Quentillian looked round him, at the walls crowded -with foolish brackets and bad water-colours, at the -painted deal staircase and balusters, at the window on -the landing that looked out on to little back gardens, -all of exactly the same size and shape, and had a momentary -vivid recollection of the shabby, dignified -rooms at St. Gwenllian, and the old cedars close to the -tennis court.</p> - -<p>Lucilla had been fond of gardening.</p> - -<p>From somewhere in the basement came the screeching -note of a parrot.</p> - -<p>Then Lucilla summoned him.</p> - -<p>The drawing-room was exactly what he had expected -it to be, and so was the aunt.</p> - -<p>She talked a little about Torquay, and explained that -she knew some of the residents, but none of the visitors, -unless there was “a link,” and she asked Owen if -he had read the life of Mary Slessor of Calabar.</p> - -<p>He had not.</p> - -<p>“You ought to read it. She was such a wonderful -person,” said the old lady with enthusiasm, and she -talked about foreign missions for some time, though<span class="pagenum" id="Page_294">[294]</span> -even this failed to enlighten the uninterested Quentillian -on the identity of Mary Slessor of Calabar.</p> - -<p>Lucilla did not talk very much—but, then, she never -had talked very much.</p> - -<p>The old aunt referred to her several times, and once -said to Quentillian: “My niece is clever, you know. -She reads a great deal. I like having an opinion to -go by, and she chooses my books for me so much better -than the girl at Boots’ lending library. So many -people just go by the name of a book, I fancy, but -Lucilla and I like to know something about the author -as well.”</p> - -<p>She spoke with a faint air of justifiable pride.</p> - -<p>Quentillian suddenly thought of the mountain of -manuscript concerning Leonidas of Alexandria, at the -laborious compilation for which Lucilla had worked -for so many years. He heard the oft-repeated tag of -which Canon Morchard had been fond: “Lucilla, here, -is our literary critic.”</p> - -<p>A small, panting maid brought in tea, and the old -lady poured it out, and was very meticulous in inquiring -into Quentillian’s precise tastes as to milk and -sugar.</p> - -<p>As soon as he could, he made his farewell.</p> - -<p>“I hope you’ll come again, now you’ve found the way -here,” said Lucilla’s aunt, kindly.</p> - -<p>Lucilla, as she had promised, went with him, when -he left “Balmoral.”</p> - -<p>They walked in silence for a little way and then -Owen said pleadingly:</p> - -<p>“You’ll let me take you away from that, won’t you, -Lucilla? It’s an impossible life for you.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_295">[295]</span>“Why do you confuse the issue like that? It’s just -what I said before—you want to follow a generous -impulse without counting the cost. My life has really -nothing to do with the question.”</p> - -<p>He was frankly confounded.</p> - -<p>“I thought it might be an argument in my favour,” -he said resentfully.</p> - -<p>“There’s only one thing that could really count in -that way—well, two things, to be accurate. Your need -of me, Owen.”</p> - -<p>“It’s quite real,” he returned levelly. “I’m lonely, -and yet the company of most of the people I know -rather annoys me. And there’s another thing. I’m -frightened, very often. It’s since the war, and—and -you know I’d been shell-shocked, as they call it? I’ve -thought lately that if you were there—the realest person -I know—I shouldn’t be frightened, at Stear. I’m -giving you facts, Lucilla—not romance. We’ve both -missed <i>that</i>.”</p> - -<p>“Val didn’t stand to you for romance, did she?”</p> - -<p>“No.”</p> - -<p>Quentillian could think of nothing at all to add to -his bald negative.</p> - -<p>“Well, we’ve faced your risks,” said Lucilla. “What -about mine?”</p> - -<p>“The worst one is that you should find me an intolerable -egotist,” he said rather unsteadily.</p> - -<p>“We can discount that.”</p> - -<p>She spoke curtly, and he made no rejoinder, uncertain -of her meaning.</p> - -<p>“What was the other argument that might count in -my favour, Lucilla? One was my need of you. I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_296">[296]</span> -think I’ve shown you that. But you said ‘two things, -to be accurate.’ Tell me what the other was.”</p> - -<p>“Is,” she corrected, with a sound that was very -nearly a laugh, and that caused him to look at her.</p> - -<p>She faced his gaze with all her own steadiness, but -for the first time he saw Lucilla’s mild imperviousness -her implacable matter-of-factness, as a shield for something -infinitely fragile and sensitive.</p> - -<p>Her voice, always quiet, was quieter than ever when -she spoke.</p> - -<p>“It’s fair to tell you, I think. I’ve loved you for a -long time now. So you see my risks would be greater -than yours, Owen. That’s why I was afraid of impulse. -But you see I’ve told you this—which was -rather difficult to say—because it seems to me that our -one chance lies in absolute honesty. We’ve faced the -fact together that you’re—just lonely, and that’s why -you want me—but—we’ve got to face the other fact -too—both of us—I mean that, for me—you <i>do</i> stand -for romance, Owen.”</p> - -<p>Her voice had not altered, but the effort with which -she had spoken had brought tears, that Owen had -never seen there before, to Lucilla’s eyes.</p> - -<p>Nevertheless she smiled at him valiantly.</p> - -<p>For the first time, perhaps, since his childhood, -Quentillian found himself unable to analyse his feelings -or to translate them into tersely sententious periods.</p> - -<p>In the long silence that fell between them, there began -a process by which he slowly reversed certain judgments, -and eliminated certain axioms, which hitherto -had stood to him for wisdom.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_297">[297]</span>But it was with scarcely any knowledge of this, that -Owen Quentillian, reduced at last to making an appeal, -asked Lucilla Morchard once more:</p> - -<p>“Will you marry me? The risks are all yours—will -you take them?”</p> - -<p>With her most characteristic gesture, she bent her -head in assent, neither impulsive nor emotional, but -fully accepting responsibility, and said seriously and -gently:</p> - -<p>“Yes, Owen, I will.”</p> - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<div class="transnote"> -<p class="ph1">TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:</p> - -<p>Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.</p> - -<p>Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.</p> - -<p>Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.</p> - -<p>The cover image for this eBook was created by the transcriber and is entered into the public domain.</p> - -</div></div> -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE OPTIMIST ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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