“I mean to say, he can’t afford to marry?” he amended hastily.
“He has satisfied me upon that score,” Canon Morchard admitted. “I have never desired wealth for my dear ones, nor have they been brought up to it. Valeria is not unfitted to become the wife of a poor man. Nay, had she but acted an honourable and high-minded part throughout, I should gladly send her forth into the New World. Valeria has something of the pioneer spirit, I have always felt.”
He sighed heavily.
“In short, Owen, if, as Lucilla tells me, you share her own view, then I shall not withhold my consent to this marriage. The haste is strange and unseemly, but Captain Cuscaden cannot postpone his departure, in view of the position awaiting him, and my unhappy child, left here, would be in a difficult and awkward situation, nor have I any security, alas, that she has sufficient discretion to face such a situation.”
“It might be difficult for her,” Quentillian admitted. “Lucilla is looking for us, I think, sir.”
Lucilla was indeed advancing towards them.
The Canon frowned slightly.
“Am I wanted, my child?”
“It was Owen that I wanted, father.”
“My dear, Owen is engaged with me.”
“I know,” Lucilla seemed slightly perplexed, but quite unruffled. “I know, but the post is just going, and I thought Owen ought to see this before I send it to the papers.”
She handed him a sheet of notepaper, upon which he read a brief and conventionally-worded announcement to the effect that the marriage arranged between himself and Valeria Morchard would not take place.
He passed it to the Canon, who groaned.
“Must this be?” he enquired, with some superfluity.
The superfluity seemed to strike himself, for he added almost at once:
“If ‘t’were done, ‘t’were well’t were done quickly’, no doubt.”
“There is the other announcement to be thought of,” said Lucilla with merciless common sense. “If Val is married at the end of this week, we shall have to put that in the papers.”
The Canon gave Owen a quick, anxious glance. “Come into the house, my daughter,” he said to Lucilla. “We can speak of such matters there.”
Owen understood that Canon Morchard was thinking of him.
On a sudden impulse he went to seek Valeria.
“Look here, my dear, I’d do anything to help you, but do you really want me to stay on here any longer? It’s more than I can stand.”
“Oh, Owen! I thought you’d forgiven me — I thought you didn’t mind, so very much, after all,” she cried in dismay.
“I don’t mind in the least,” Quentillian told her desperately. “But it’s a false position altogether, and I want to be out of it.”
“Of course you do, it was very selfish of me to want to keep you. Only somehow Father is less — dreadful — when you’re there, Owen. But he’s forgiven me,” her tears came falling fast, “and I’m going out with George when he sails, at the beginning of next week. We shall be married very, very quietly, on Saturday.”
“I’m very glad to hear it. Indeed I am, Val. I’m sure he’s a good fellow, and I hope he’ll make you very happy.”
She was crying too much to speak, as he went away from her.
And Quentillian, definitely, could tell himself that he had no regrets in relinquishing Valeria.
Her warm emotionalism had not been without its appeal, but he had no liking for tears at a crisis, nor indeed for a crisis at all. His mind reverted to Lucilla’s matter-of-fact fashion of dealing with the crucial instances of life at St. Gwenllian, and theoretically, he met her attitude with applause. But he also remembered that he had not found her sympathetic, upon the preceding evening.
Impartially, he acknowledged with a rueful smile, his own exactingness.
He must go, and decided that it should be to London. As for Stear, he would face it later. The thought of Stear, and the loneliness there, brought the realest sense of loss to him that he had yet experienced over the defection of Valeria.
He had thought to hear her laughter there, to see the apricot-bloom on her lovely face, her children growing up there.
With a long sigh, Owen let the vision go. The warm, human things of life had come very near to him, but he had not known how to hold them. Some subtle, inner sense warned him that Valeria had done well to betake herself and the rich gifts of her ardent nature, to the simple and primitive life of the colonies, and the man who was offering that life to her.
He went away to make his preparations for leaving St. Gwenllian.
Valeria’s wedding, not unnaturally, provided no occasion for festivity.
The bride herself remarked in private to her sisters:
“I feel exactly as though I was one of those unfortunate girls who come to Father for him to marry them so as to ‘make honest women of them’ at the eleventh hour. You know the way that sort of wedding is hurried through, in a hole-and-corner style ...”
“It’s lucky for you you’ve got a good deal of your trousseau made already,” was Lucilla’s practical reply.
“Yes, and ‘V. Q.’ embroidered on more than half of it!” cried Val hysterically.
“You can’t possibly use it,” Flora declared austerely. “Unless I can alter it for you in time.”
“Of course she can use it,” said Lucilla.
Valeria left them both. In the overstrained condition of her nerves, Lucilla’s crudely-worded common-sense and Flora’s fastidiousness were equally little to her taste. Her father’s sorrowful gravity struck her with despair, and Owen Quentillian’s magnanimous detachment puzzled her sincerely, and made her doubly remorseful.
It was only when George Cuscaden was actually with her that she knew with real certainty that she had done right at the last moment.
On the night before her wedding, Canon Morchard called Valeria, gave her his blessing and forgiveness, and handed to her some of her dead mother’s jewelry.
“God bless and help you in the way that you have chosen, and may He bring all things together for good, as He alone can do.’’
“Forgive me, Father.”
“My child, I have nothing to forgive. It was not I whom you wronged, but yourself, — and one other. His pardon is yours, fully and freely, as you know well. And now, my Valeria, you owe it to your husband to put the past behind you. You will enter into your new, life purified by that very sense of past error, humbled by repentance.”
The Canon’s voice was very gentle.
It was long after midnight when Valeria heard him go upstairs.
George Cuscaden and Valeria were married by Mr. Clover, immediately after Matins next day, and Canon Morchard, throughout the ceremony, knelt with his face hidden by his hand.
The sense of irrevocability that comes to most brides assailed Valeria irresistibly for a moment as she walked, alone with her husband, the short distance from the church back to St. Gwenllian.
She glanced up at him, and in the look that met hers she found all the reassurance that she was ever to need.
“A new life, and a new world, my Val. We’re going to face things together, now.”
She was no longer afraid or doubtful, but felt the strangest rush of pure exhilaration.
It was her justification for the past.
“A new life, and a new world,” she repeated. “We’re going to be very happy, in spite of everything that’s happened.”
“We are very happy,” said George Cuscaden firmly, her hand held fast in his.
“I think they’ll forgive me, at home, in time. Father was very kind last night, and Flossie and Lucilla have been so good.”
“Val, my darling,” said the young man very seriously, “there’s one thing I do want to say, and you mustn’t mind. You’ve got to leave the past behind you, now. Isn’t there something or other in the Bible about forgetting thy father’s house and thine own people?”
“Something like that.”
“Well, I
don’t really mean forgetting them, you know. But you’ve got your own life now, and it isn’t going to run on the old lines any more. It seems to me there’s been such a lot of talking and thinking in your life up to now, that there’s been no room for doing anything. You and I are going to change all that.”
“Yes, George” said Valeria.
She had, mysteriously, become absolutely happy and absolutely secure. Nothing mattered any more at all except the fact that George and she had found one another in time.
And she was able to surmise, not without a smile, that she had that moment heard almost the only Scriptural quotation from her husband of which he was ever likely to deliver himself.
Quotations, collections, barren discussions, abstract ideals, all lay behind her. In future her preoccupations would concern the health and welfare of her husband and perhaps his children, food and clothing and warmth, pots and pans, and the work of her own hands.
And from the depths of her heart, Valeria was glad.
II. ADRIAN
I
“You know, I can’t help thinking you’ve been all wrong about this business of Val’s,” Adrian said reproachfully to his remaining sisters.
Lucilla seemed singularly undisturbed by the distressing pronouncement, but Flora said anxiously:
“Why, Adrian?”
“Well, look how frightfully hard it is on the rest of us. You know what Father is — he’ll be days and days, if not months and months, getting over this, and it’ll put him dead against anything of that sort for life.”
“These things don’t happen twice in one family, I hope,” said Lucilla. “Neither Flora nor I are particularly likely to break off one engagement and enter into another and get married and go off to Canada, all inside a week.”
“You girls never think of anybody but yourselves.”
“Are you thinking of doing anything like that, then, Adrian?’’
Lucilla appeared mildly to be amused, and not at all impressed by the probability of her own suggestion.
“How can I think of doing anything at all when I can’t get a decent job and only have a nominal allowance? I know Father can’t afford more, and we’re all in the same box — and then Val goes and marries a chap like Cuscaden, who hasn’t a penny, when she could have had a fellow with a decent little property and some money of his own, besides what I suppose he makes by writing. Why, just think what she could have done for all of us!”
Lucilla laughed outright.
“It wouldn’t have made millionaires of us, if she had married Owen.”
“Well, I can’t say I blame her, from one point of view,” Adrian conceded. “A more absolute prig than Owen has turned into, I never wish to meet. You know he won’t promise me the living at Stear?”
“The living at Stear?”
Flora looked at her brother in all but speechless astonishment, and Lucilla observed that a living was usually offered to a clergyman.
“And is there any reason why I shouldn’t go into the Church?” Adrian enquired, in counter-irony. “Goodness knows there was enough talk about it before the war, and it would please the governor frightfully. In fact, really, I’m thinking of him as much as anything. He was disappointed about old David going into the army, and he’s frightfully cut up about Val, and he may as well get a little comfort out of one of us. And I really don’t dislike the idea much, especially if it means a settled income in a year or two’s time.”
Lucilla got up.
“Talk to Mr. Clover, before you say anything to Father,” she advised. “Flossie, I’m going to see about Val’s class.”
Flora looked at Adrian with grave, unhumourous eyes.
“You don’t realize what Father would feel about your speaking of going into the priesthood in that sort of way, Adrian. You have no faintest vocation to the life of a clergyman.”
“What do you know about it? I’m the only person who can judge of that.”
“It lies between you and your conscience, certainly. But if you suppose that Father, with all his experience, would be satisfied with any but the highest motives”
She stopped expressively.
“There may be different opinions as to what the highest motives are,” said Adrian. “I wish this business of Val’s hadn’t put it out of the question to ask Owen anything.”
“Owen is coming to Stear in another month. I am quite certain that he doesn’t mean to let this make any difference, and you can ask him anything you want to. But really and truly, Adrian, if this suggestion wasn’t so absolutely wild, I should call it most irreverent.”
It was evident that Flora had uttered the most profound condemnation of which she was capable.
That night she enquired of Lucilla whether it was Adrian’s infatuation for Miss Duffle that brought to birth his strangely sudden desire for clerical life.
“I suppose so.”
“But apart from everything else, he’s much too young to marry. And I don’t suppose she’d look at him.”
“Neither do I. So we needn’t worry about it.”
“I feel as if Adrian was somebody quite new, whom I’d never known before.”
“He’s only growing up.”
“Does Father really know Adrian?”
Lucilla shook her head.
Both missed Valeria, and the mournful haste with which she had been equipped for her wedding and immediate departure for Canada had left them with a curious sense of having come through a great catastrophe.
The Canon was more profoundly depressed than they had ever seen him, and rarely spoke. The reduced number of people present at every meal rendered more significant the abysmal silences of each gathering.
Owen Quentillian, who had shown no marked disposition to take an immediate departure from St. Gwenllian, had been constrained to do so by the Canon’s grieved air of perceiving for him no other alternative.
The house bore a stricken aspect.
Only Adrian retained a sort of uneasy jauntiness, that petered away into silence in the presence of his father.
Canon Morchard’s presence, however, was far more withdrawn than usual from his family circle. Always energetic, he seemed able to find innumerable claims upon his time, and after the daily adjustment of these, the study door was apt to shut upon him decisively.
At dinner time only were they certain of seeing him, and the resultant gloom was of a nature that induced Adrian, far more affected by it than either of his sisters appeared to be, to invite the innocuous Mr. Clover to dinner very soon after Valeria’s departure.
The curate was always ready to promote conversation, and sincerely supposed that his efforts must be consolatory to his hosts. His attempts took the form habitual to him of slightly self-evident remarks upon whatever caught his eye in his surroundings.
“Ha! Clover, dear man!” The Canon’s voice was sepulchral, rather than cordial. “Sit ye down — sit ye down.”
Mr. Clover made a few timid remarks to his neighbour, Flora, and wished that it had been Lucilla. He was always rather frightened of the silent Flora, and showed his alarmed consciousness of her musical talent by inquiring:
“And how is the piano?”
“What have we here, Lucilla?” said the Canon gravely, although the dish of cutlets was of an unmistakable nature.
He often made use of the phrase, and on this occasion it bore an inflexion of disapproval that was evidently not inspired by the cutlets themselves, but by some inner, more profound discontent.
“Cutlets in a silver dish,” said Mr. Clover.
“Do you know that the Admastons are getting up a theatrical show?” Adrian inquired. “Good idea, isn’t it?”
“I didn’t know any of them could act,” said Flora.
“Oh, they’ve got friends and people. I tell you who’s awfully good — Olga Duffle. She’s going to stay on for the performance. As a matter of fact, they’ve asked me to help get the thing up.”
Adrian’s elaborately casual tone did not prevent anyone ex
cept 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 Tagging’ or Totting.’ 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.”
Collected Works of E M Delafield Page 223
