Collected Works of E M Delafield

by E M Delafield

  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 needle-work — the Canon had long ago decreed that no discussion need entail idle hands — Canon Morchard looked wistfully at Adrian, leaning against the marble mantel piece 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 appletree. 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 $o 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 d
id you not tell me of your little sketch in the Athenef. 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 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.