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.