Collected Works of E M Delafield

by E M Delafield

  The Canon paused and looked wistfully at Quentillian upon the word.

  “Perhaps Adrian will come home. I have written to him — a long letter. He need not be afraid of me.

  “I have written to my three absent children: To Valeria — my blessing for her little sons — I would have given much to see them before going — aye, and their mother, too, my merry Valeria, as I once called her! I have missed Valeria’s laughter in this quiet house, that was once full of merriment and children’s voices.

  “And I have written to Flora, my Flora, who chose the better part. May she indeed be blessed in her choice — little Flora!”

  He sank back, looking exhausted.

  “I will stay as long as you wish me to stay, and I will do all that I can for Lucilla,” repeated Quentillian.

  “I know it. The last anxiety has been allayed. Aye, Owen, I have ceased to concern myself with these things now, I hope. If Adrian comes to me, and if Lucilla can count upon you as upon a brother, then I am well satisfied indeed. My affairs are in good order, I believe. My will is with my solicitors — Lucilla knows the address. What there is, goes in equal shares to Lucilla, Valeria, and Adrian. Flora has received her portion already. My books, dear Owen, are yours. All else — personal effects, manuscripts, and the rest — are Lucilla’s. She has been my right hand. There are mementos to Clover, to one or two old friends and servants — nothing else. I have thought it well to make Lucilla sole executrix — she has helped in all my business for so long!

  “So you see that my temporal concerns are over and done with. In regard to the spiritual, I have had the unutterable honour and pleasure of a visit from the Bishop himself. He was all fatherly goodness and kindness. The dear Clover is always at hand for reading, and I can depend on him utterly for those last commendations that are to smooth my way down the Valley of the Shadow. There is nothing wanting. And now you have come!,,

  The Canon’s wasted face was both radiant and serene.

  The grief that had so often shown there seemed to have passed away, and Quentillian found it almost incredible that he had ever seen the Canon angry, or weighed down by a leaden depression of spirits.

  “Is he really happy, all the time?” Quentillian asked Lucilla.

  “Yes, all the time. Even when he has pain. But they say there won’t be any more pain, most likely, now. He will just sink, gradually. If you knew how very little he is living on, even now, you would be surprised.”

  “Are you doing the nursing?”

  “He wants a trained nurse. One has been sent for. He thinks that it will spare me,” said Lucilla, smiling a little.

  In the days that followed, Owen saw how difficult Lucilla found it to be so spared.

  The nurse was an efficient and conscientious woman, and the Canon quickly became dependent upon her. He begged Owen to spend as much time as possible with Lucilla, who remained downstairs, replying to the innumerable letters and the enquirers who came to the house.

  She was now only with her father for a brief morning visit, and the hour in the afternoon when the nurse took her exercise out of doors. Very often Quentillian, at the Canon’s request, was also with them then.

  “Lucilla and I have long ago said our last words, such as they are,” the Canon told him with a smile. “We understand one another too well to need to be left alone together.”

  Time slipped by with monotonous regularity, the changes in the Canon almost imperceptibly to the onlookers.

  Then, preceded only by a telegram, Adrian came home.

  “My father isn’t really dying, is he?” he asked piteously.

  “He can’t take anything at all, now. It’s a question almost of hours.”

  Lucilla took him upstairs to where his father lay, propped upon pillows, and they were left alone together.

  “You know, it is very bad for Canon Morchard to have any agitation,” the nurse anxiously pointed out to Lucilla, when the interview had lasted a long while. “Can it make any real difference?”

  “It may reduce his strength more quickly.”

  “He would say that it was worth it. He has not seen this son for a long while.”

  Lucilla kept the woman out of the room as long as it was possible to do so.

  At last Adrian came downstairs.

  That evening the Canon said to Quentillian, with tears in his eyes:

  “Adrian has promised me to give up his work for that man. Is it not wonderful, dear Owen? All, all added unto me. If this pain of mine is to be the price of my boy’s awaking to his own better nature, how gladly shall I not pay it!”

  It was the only time that Quentillian had ever heard him allude to having suffered physical pain.

  “I have not been so much at rest about Adrian since he was a little boy,” said the Canon. “He was always the most affectionate of them all. And he cried like a little child, poor fellow, this afternoon, and voluntarily passed me his promise to’ leave that man.” Quentillian’s own involuntary distrust of the promise given by a weak nature, under strong emotional stress, was profound, but he gave no sign of it. It no longer caused him any satisfaction to be aware of a deeper insight in himself than in the Canon. He could not share that guileless singleness of vision, and felt no envy of it, and yet he paradoxically desired that it should remain unimpaired.

  He asked Lucilla if she knew of Adrian’s promise. “He told me. He was crying when he came down. He can’t believe even yet that father is dying, poor Adrian! And yet he must believe it, really, to have made that promise.”

  “The Canon is so thankful for it.”

  “I know. He wanted it more than anything in the world. Everything has come to make it easy for him to go, Owen.”

  Something in her tone made him say gently:

  “Poor Lucilla!”

  “Even if the impression is only temporary with Adrian, it will be a comfort to him afterwards. He is ‘ very unhappy now, that there should have been any estrangement between them.”

  It was evident enough that Lucilla, also, had no great reliance upon Adrian’s stability of purpose, although his present reaction had brought such joy and comfort to the dying man.

  That night for the first time the Canon’s mind wandered. He spoke of his children as though all were once more of nursery age, and at home together.

  “Little Adrian can take my hand, and then he can keep up with the others. Less noise, my love — a little less noise.... Valeria’s voice is too often raised, too often raised — although I like its merry note, in fit and proper season. My merry Valeria! Now are we ready? The sketch-book, Flora, the sketch-book.... I want to see that pretty attempt at the Church finished.”

  Then he said with an apologetic note in his voice: “Flora lacks perseverance, and is too easily discouraged, but we hope that she may show great feeling for art, by and bye. Lucilla’s forte lies in more practical directions. She is my housekeeper — my right hand, I often call her. Look, children, at that effect of sunlight through the beech-leaves. Is it not wonderful? Come, Adrian, my man — no lagging behind....” Presently a puzzled, distressed look came over his face and he asked: “Is not one missing? Is David here?”

  Lucilla bent over him to say, “Yes, father,” but the distressed look still lingered.

  “Where is David?” said the Canon. “Was there not some sadness — some trouble between us? Nono — all a dream.”

  His face lightened again. “David is safe home. I shall see David tonight.”

  By and by he asked to be told the time.

  It was nine o’clock.

  The Canon’s voice had become a weak whisper.

  “I thought it was morning, and that I had them all again — little children. Such trustful little hands lying in mine ... and the children have grown up and gone away.... No ... Lucilla, you are there, are you not, my dear love? And Owen — Owen, that was like a third son to me. My own sons are there, too — David is safe home ... only a very little way on ... and Adrian, little Adrian — he promised ... ah, a
ll things work together for good ... “ His voice trailed thinly away into silence, his wan face was smiling.

  “He will sleep,” whispered the nurse, and her words were verified almost instantly.

  Owen took Lucilla away.

  There was a strong sense upon him that the summons would not be long delayed now.

  Lucilla went downstairs and quietly opened the outer door into the garden. They walked up and down there, Owen watching the red spark waxing and waning from his own cigar. The night was extraordinarily still, the dark arch of the sky powdered with stars.

  Neither spoke directly of that which occupied their minds most, but Quentillian said by and bye:

  “Where shall you go, eventually?”

  “Torquay, perhaps. There is an old aunt there — father’s sister. I shall have just enough not to be dependent upon her, even if I make my home with her.”

  “Will that be congenial?”

  Lucilla gave a little low, sad laugh.

  “I don’t think there’s much alternative, is there? This house, of course, goes to the next incumbent. If Mr. Clover is appointed — and we very much hope that he will be — he would probably buy a good deal of the furniture (which is just as well, as it would certainly drop to pieces if we tried to move it). I couldn’t possibly afford to set up house for myself, in any case. And I must have something to do. Aunt Mary would find plenty for me to do.”

  “I daresay” said Quentillian without enthusiasm.

  “Perhaps you are thinking of my taking up an occupation or a profession seriously, but you know, Owen, it isn’t really a practical proposition, though one feels as though it ought to be. Just think for a minute, and tell me what I’m fit for — except perhaps being someone’s housekeeper.”

  “My dear Lucilla, with your education and the literary training your father has given you, surely anyone would be glad of your services.”

  “Not at all. I can’t write shorthand. My typing, which I taught myself, isn’t nearly as good or as quick as that of any little girl of sixteen who has learnt it properly, and can probably use half a dozen different makes of machine. I’ve never learnt office routine — filing, indexing, bookkeeping, the use of a dictaphone. I believe all those things are necessary nowadays. I don’t suppose, if I did learn them all now, I should ever be very good or very quick.”

  “I’m not suggesting that you should become a City clerk at forty shillings a week.”

  “A private secretary, then? I can’t honestly see why anyone should employ a woman with no experience, when there are so many experts wanting work. Languages might be an asset, but most people know French. German isn’t likely to be wanted now, and I don’t fancy there is any great demand for Latin or Greek. Even for teaching, schools want diplomas and certificates, besides proficiency in games.”

  “But the higher professions are all open to women of education nowadays,” he protested. “You’re not restricted to the kitchen or the nursery.”

  “Do you really think that I could work up, now, for a stiff legal or medical examination, and pass it?” she demanded with a sort of gentle irony. “You don’t realize, Owen, that I’m nearly forty.”

  He had not realized it, and it silenced him momentarily.

  “I think my chances went by a long time ago,” said Lucilla. “I’ve never told anyone about it, but I think I’d like to tell you now, because I don’t want you to think of me as a victim.”

  Quentillian registered a silent mental appreciation of a reason diametrically opposite to the reason for which the majority of confidences are bestowed.

  “Before Val and Flossie grew up, it was obvious that I should stay at home and look after the house. Besides, I liked doing it. My father was — and is — the whole world to me. But there was a time, just once, when Val grew up, and David had gone away, when I wanted to go away, too. Of course I’m talking of a good many years ago, and there weren’t so many openings to choose from. But I wanted very much to go to college. Father could just have managed it, without being unfair to any of the others.”

  “You told him, then?”

  “Oh, yes; I told him.”

  “Would he not consent?” inquired Owen, as she paused.

  “He promised to consent if I still wished it, after thinking it over.”

  “But he persuaded you not to wish it any more?”

  “No, it wasn’t that. It’s a little bit difficult to explain. He did ask me what I should gain by it, and whether it wasn’t just restlessness and seeking a vocation to which I was not called. You remember hearing him say that about Val, too?”

  “I remember.”

  ‘‘Well, that was all. He didn’t say anything more. Of course I knew he wouldn’t like my going away from him, without being told. But it was I who decided that it was an occasion for making what I’m afraid I thought of as a sacrifice.”

  She surprised him by a little laugh.

  “You see, Owen, I think now that I was quite wrong.”

  “Quite wrong,” he echoed gravely.

  “It was an odd, muddled sort of time for some years after that. I suppose I was resenting my own decision, and yet trying to buoy myself up all the time by thinking of my own self-abnegation and generosity. It had seemed rather a beautiful thing to do at the time — to sacrifice my own life to my widowed father and my motherless brothers and sisters. At first, I remember thinking that there would be something almost sacred about my everyday life at home.”

  “When people begin to think that things are sacred to them, it generally means that they’re afraid of facing the truth about them.”

  “Exactly. It was a long time before I told myself the truth. But in the end I did, when I saw that no one was likely to want to marry me, and that my life was going to be exactly what I had decided to let it be. And of course from the minute I faced it fair and square — after the first — it all became a great deal easier. Besides, there were compensations, really.”

  He made a sound of interrogation.

  “Well, it’s really a great thing to have a home. I’ve always felt sorry for women who lived in their boxes, and had nowhere of their own. And being mistress of the house all these years — I’ve liked that, and been fairly interested in it. And I’ve got imagination enough to see that books, and music, and a garden, to anyone brought up as we were especially, are quite important items. You know, women who have a career don’t generally get those other things thrown in as well, unless they’re exceptionally fortunate.”

  “You set them against independence and your own freedom?”

  “I don’t say that, but they do count,” she said steadily. “If it comes to a question of relative values, of course they take second place. But once I’d admitted to myself, quite honestly, that I’d relinquished my chance of the best things of all, then I could quite see those other things as being intrinsically worth something — a very good second best. They’re really only unsatisfactory when one tries to think of them as substitutes. Taken at their own value — well, I’ve found them helpful, you know.”

  There was a silence before she spoke again.

  “Most of all, there was Father.”

  “That relationship has been the biggest factor in your life, of course.”

  “Yes.” She paused, and then in a tone resolutely matter-of-fact, said: “I think perhaps I won’t talk about that now. But I know just as well as you do that in the course of nature, those particular links can only be expected to endure for a certain number of years. They’re breaking now, for me, and it means that part of my life goes too.”

  He could not contradict her.

  “Is Adrian any use?”

  “Poor Adrian! He says now that he and I must keep together, and make a home for one another. He wants to comfort me, and he knows Father would be glad; but you can see for yourself that it wouldn’t be fair to take him at his word. Perhaps we may be together for a little while — till things have worn off a little bit, for him. Adrian is emotional, isn’t he? I
don’t know what he’ll do, eventually.”

  The recollection of Adrian’s promise to the Canon, that he would relinquish his work, was evidently not a factor that Lucilla took into serious consideration. By tacit agreement neither of them alluded to it.

  “Valeria will hardly be able to come home, I suppose?”

  “Oh, no. It’s out of the question. She couldn’t leave the two babies, nor very well bring them with her.”

  “Flora?”

  Already, Owen realized with faint surprise, he had come to remember Flora’s corporeal existence only by an effort. He could scarcely feel her to be less separated from the realities of life than one who had died in youth, and been long forgotten.

  Lucilla only shook her head.

  “They are all gone. Whatever anyone may say, Owen, they didn’t shirk their chances. They said Yes to Life as they saw it.”

  “Can you be glad of that?”

  “Very glad. Even selfishly, I can be glad. Think of three — unfulfilled — lives to be spent side by side, held together by affection if you like, but fundamentally built on an artificial basis! No, no” — her smile held humour, rather than conscious valour, though Owen saw it as valiant too— “I’m glad to have faced my facts at last, though it ought to have been done long ago, when I made my choice. I’m not optimistic now, but I — I’m free.”

  As they turned, at the end of the garden path, a dark figure sped across the grass towards them. Adrian’s voice reached them, low and urgent:

  “Come!”

  II

  The Canon lay back against his pillows and it did not need the nurse’s gesture to Lucilla to tell them that he was dying. His breath came loud and fast and his eyes were closed.

  Adrian had flung himself on his knees at the bedside and was sobbing, his face hidden in his arms. Quentillian stood beside Lucilla, who held her father’s hand in hers.

  “Is he conscious?” Lucilla asked.

  The nurse shook her head.

  “Can anything be done to make it easier?” Lucilla said then.

  “No, my dear. I’ve sent messages for the doctor and Mr. Clover, but”