“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.”
“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.”
“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 somethingdesperate, 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 aman, and in grim earnest oversomethings, 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 whatreligionleads 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 withpovertyif 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 amcompletelyoff 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 andnot before, so it’s no use father dictating to me.“Yours,“Adrian.”
“Dear Lucilla,
“If you hear of me doing somethingdesperate, 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 aman, and in grim earnest oversomethings, 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 whatreligionleads 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 withpovertyif 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 amcompletelyoff 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 andnot 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 beconsiderate, quite apart from the question ofdutifulness—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 areminder, 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 onSaturday. God by you, dearest of lads, until we meet.“Your devoted“Father.”
“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 beconsiderate, quite apart from the question ofdutifulness—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 areminder, 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 onSaturday. 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 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 visitto 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’vebeen. 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 hedo?” 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 thathehad, 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 Timeison 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 personalliking 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 havefound their way now and again into our pleasant confabulations on life and letters in general:
There comes a tide in the affairs of menThat, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune.
There comes a tide in the affairs of menThat, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune.
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 whateveris, is best. Let us go on, believing all things, hoping all things.... If there has been weakness in the past, dear Adrian, Iknowthat 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.
Formany 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 notaltogether 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 amagnum 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 fertileearth 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 myfirst 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 itwillbe 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 mustat oncedischarge 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 absolutedishonestyto 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 topose 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 youmustlearn to deny yourself. How I wish I couldsaythis, 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 soif 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.Dowrite 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.’Allis 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 theAthene? 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 ‘entomology.’ If this is a printer’s error, and you did not correct the proofs yourself, draw your editor’s attention to itat once. The final quotation from de Musset, is, Ithink, 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?”
“My Dearest Adrian,
“First and foremost, I enclose a cheque, with which you mustat oncedischarge 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 absolutedishonestyto 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 topose 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 youmustlearn to deny yourself. How I wish I couldsaythis, 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 soif 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.Dowrite 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.’Allis 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 theAthene? 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 ‘entomology.’ If this is a printer’s error, and you did not correct the proofs yourself, draw your editor’s attention to itat once. The final quotation from de Musset, is, Ithink, 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 slangabsolutely, at least in writing! I quite consider that ‘stunt’ comes under this heading, in your article. It is an Americanism, and sougly! 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 appliesdoublyto 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 theunfailingstrength 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 youcan. 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 utterlyidealone.“My love to you, as always, and do writeat once. I must not end this without reminding you that business-like habits, which I am so anxious that you should acquire, make itobligatoryto acknowledge a cheque by return of post, even were there not other reasons forwriting 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.”
“Do eschew the use of slangabsolutely, at least in writing! I quite consider that ‘stunt’ comes under this heading, in your article. It is an Americanism, and sougly! 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 appliesdoublyto 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 theunfailingstrength 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 youcan. 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 utterlyidealone.
“My love to you, as always, and do writeat once. I must not end this without reminding you that business-like habits, which I am so anxious that you should acquire, make itobligatoryto acknowledge a cheque by return of post, even were there not other reasons forwriting 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 moreoften, 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 theAthene. The point is that he is working for a manlike 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 withan 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.