Collected Works of E M Delafield

by E M Delafield

  “Lucilla!” called the Canon’s voice.

  She opened the door.

  “No, I shouldn’t call that a very good rule, myself. You’ll let me know about Ethel as soon as you can, won’t you? Her month’s trial will be up next Wednesday.”

  “Lucilla!”

  “I’m coming, Father.”

  She went.

  Flora let her work drop into her lap and folded her hands, allowing her thoughts to wander.

  Could it be right to feel that the wrong-doing of another might prove to be one’s own opportunity, come at last? She felt herself to have striven for so long with the endeavour to prove faithful in that which was least, all the time stifling resentment that no greater, more heroic task should be set her. She had always felt herself to be “little Flora” to her father, a child, to be petted and sheltered, and in the minute introspection of a nightly examination of conscience, she had frequently to reproach herself bitterly for an ungrateful longing to emerge sometimes from the shielded into the shielding. If Lucilla went away, their father would be alone, deserted except for Flora. David was in India. He wrote very seldom, and then never of coming home. Even his letters to Flora herself, always his favourite sister, were neither confidential nor frequent. Val was married, in Canada, and was claiming Lucilla’s presence almost as a right. Adrian, in London, was the subject of daily intercession at St. Gwenllian but it was known to all his children that the Canon would not again receive Adrian at home until he should have severed all connection with the atheist. Hale.

  How they had failed their father, all of them! Flora resolved passionately that she herself would never fail him. Prayer was the form of self expression most natural to her, and she made ardent inward supplication that if Lucilla were permitted to follow her own way, good might come of it, and she herself prove worthy of her sacred filial charge. No such exaltation of spirit could be indulged in when Lucilla’s decision had been openly accepted, and her preparations begun.

  She preserved all her usual even cheerfulness, and her conversation was rather more severely practical than before.

  “Don’t let the key of the storeroom out of your own possession, Flossie, please. I’m sure both the maids are trustworthy, but it’s no use breaking rules.”

  And:

  “Remember not to order anything eggy when Mr. Clover comes to a meal. He can’t eat eggs.’’

  “I mean to do my very best for everyone while you’re away. But of course it won’t be the same for Father.”

  “I expect it will, if you’re careful,” said Lucilla kindly. “Don’t let her put flavourings into everything, though — he can’t bear them.”

  She seemed not at all preoccupied with less material considerations.

  Even at the last, she bade them good-bye without any of that aspect of remorse which Flora privately considered that she ought to have worn.

  The Canon was very kind and forbearing, and said at the last moment:

  “I hope and believe that you children understand what is meant by large-mindedness, and that I myself am the last man in the world to deny to each individual the right of an independent judgment. You are acting according to your lights, Lucilla, and I am willing — nay, eager — to believe in the sincerity of your motives. God bless you, my dearest one, and prosper your mission.”

  Lucilla’s farewell was affectionate, but not at all emotional, Flora was always undemonstrative by instinct, and it was only the Canon whose eyes were moist, and whose voice shook.

  Nevertheless, he turned to his remaining child after a moment and spoke very firmly.

  “You may wonder, little Flora, that I have no reproach for Lucilla. She is leaving home against my advice, against my wishes. I believe that she deceives herself. But Lucilla means well — she means well. As we go through life, we learn to be very tolerant, very patient, to understand better what is meant by forgiveness ‘unto seventy times seven’.”

  He smiled at her.

  “You and I must have some pleasant tête-à-tête evenings, Flora, now that we are left to bear one another company. I should like to rub up some of my old Italian lore. Shall we undertake some such task as Dante’s Paradiso for our leisure time?”

  Flora assented, gratified.

  Their days fell into a routine that suited her Well, and although in her daily and nightly prayers Flora mentioned the names of both Adrian and Lucilla as candidates for Divine Mercy, she was not really conscious of any very earnest personal wish for the return of either to St. Gwenllian.

  II

  “On the 18th November, suddenly, at Bombay, David, beloved elder son of Canon Morchard of St. Gwenllian Vicarage….”

  Owen Quentillian was away from Stear when he read the announcement, with a strong sense of shock.

  Why should David Morchard die?

  He wrote to the Canon, and also, after a little hesitation, to Flora Morchard.

  As he half expected, Flora’s reply told him more than the Canon’s numerous pages.

  “My Dear Owen:

  “Thank you for your letter. We knew that you would be sorry, and would understand what this must be to my father, and all of us. He is so brave and good, and everyone is kindness itself. We do not know anything at all except the bare fact, which was cabled from the Regimental headquarters, and it will probably be another three weeks before letters can reach us. If you like, I will write again when they do. We shall want to see you very much when you get back to Stear. Father speaks of you so often, as though it would be a comfort to him to see you again.

  “Yours sincerely,

  Flora Morchard.”

  The Canon’s minute legible handwriting covered several pages, and he, like Flora, but at far greater length, emphasized the kindness shown to him.

  “My people here have shown feeling such as I dare hardly dwell upon, lest I overset altogether such composure as I may have won. Some of them, of course, remember our dear, dear fellow well, young though he was when he left us. But even those who never knew him speak such words as well-nigh break one’s heart with gratitude and pity and tenderness. I tell myself that whatever is, must be best, and yet, Owen, the longing, that I can only trust may not be repining, to have had but one day — one hour — together, before this blow fell! It was so long since we had spoken together! And sometimes I reproached him for his long silences, for the absence of the details that one longed for, in his letters home. How could I, ah, how could I, I now ask myself sadly, who will receive no more letters from him again. How one learns to be gentle, as the years go on, but the day comes when each unloving word, each selfish thought, comes back to break one’s heart! And yet, Owen, who could have thought that I should be left, who have seen nigh on three-score years, and that strong, gallant lad taken in the very strength of his manhood. Truly, God’s ways are not our ways.

  “It does not bear writing of. We must have many long talks together, when you are with us again. What a contrast to that first visit of yours, Owen, when our numbers were yet unbroken, save indeed that first, great gap that only Lucilla and the dear lad who is gone, could realize. At least, their mother has one with her!

  “When you first came to us after the war, it was to give us direct news of our beloved boy. I seem to remember some merry gatherings then, with Lucilla and Flora ‘making musik,’ and Valeria all fun and brightness — I can write of her freely, dear Owen, can I not — the old wound is healed now? — and Adrian still the veriest boy, the light and sunshine of the house.

  “You will find change and stillness and emptiness about the old place, now. All are scattered, only Flora left in the empty nest. I can find no words to tell you what she has been, Owen. Friend, companion, daughter, comforter! Of all my children, Flora and Lucilla are the two who have never failed me, never failed their own higher selves. And Lucilla, as you know, is away from us at present. Poor child! What a punishment for her self-will in leaving us.

  “Flora and poor Clover have spared me in every possible way these days, and wh
ilst I have them, I can indeed never think myself wholly desolate. Letters will not reach us yet awhile from India, and one longs, and yet dreads, to receive them. There may be one from our poor lad himself — yet why do I call him ‘poor’ when he is so far more blest than we who are left? We can only conjecture that cholera or fever struck him down, he said nothing of sickness in his last letter, and whatever it was must have come upon him with fearful suddenness. One can only hope and pray that the Infinite Mercy allowed him time to meet the dread King of Terrors as one knows that he would have wished to do, but all, all is in other hands than ours.

  “I have said nothing of your letter, dear Owen, my heart is too full. Let me answer it in person. Both Flora and I look for your return with eagerness and hope to persuade you to come to us at least for a day or two. You knew our loved one, and it is not so long since you and he met. How I envy you that meeting now! We have heard of it all in detail, I know, but you will have patience, and go over it all once more with us. The only thing that gives one courage to face the present (saving always that far-reaching Comfort which one knows to be there, but which poor humanity cannot always feel) is a mournful, tender lingering over the past. Nor must you fear that I always weep, dear Owen — there is often absolute rest and joy in dwelling on the past happiness that one knows to be only a shadow and faint forecasting of the Joy that is to come.

  “Bless you, dear fellow, and though I have said so little of thanks for all the sympathy and understanding in your dear letter, do not think of me as anything but profoundly touched and grateful.

  “Sorrowfully and ever affectionately yours,

  Fenwick Morchard.”

  Quentillian folded the letter and put it away.

  He mentally visualized the silent and grief-stricken house, and his heart contracted strangely.

  Valeria had gone, and would come back no more. Her heart was given to her new life, to her new country. Lucilla was with her. Adrian — the Adrian of the Canon’s tender love and pride — had never been. David, who had not wanted to come home, who had left “long intervals” between his scanty letters — David was dead.

  There was only Flora left at St. Gwenllian.

  He thought that he could see her, remote and austere, either devoid of capability for human emotion, or regarding emotional display as rebellion against Heaven. He had never known which. Flora would move about the cold, silent house, and write the letters, and give the orders, and remember the sane, everyday things that must be done. She would be helped by the eager, anxious curate. Mr. Clover would remember things, too, but he would not, like Flora, accomplish them in silence. He would suggest, and remind, and humbly and timidly deprecate his own efforts.

  Quentillian could see the Canon, too.

  The Canon would spare himself nothing, but he would break down, with gusts of overwhelming sorrow and bitter remorse for his own want of resignation. He would write, and write, and write, in the lonely study, often blinded with tears, yet deriving his realest comfort from the outward expression of his grief.

  Quentillian could accept that, now, could realize it as the interpretation of a sincerity at least as complete as his own.

  Within the fortnight, he went to St. Gwenllian. It was all very much as he had pictured it to himself. Only Flora was a little, a very little, less remote than he had expected to find her.

  He thought that she dreaded the arrival of the letters from India, and feared their effect upon her father.

  When the mail did arrive, the letters were brief, and said that David Morchard had died in hospital of dysentery after three days’ illness. The colonel of the regiment wrote in praise of a career interrupted abruptly, and a parcel of effects was promised.

  There was no more.

  “Such letters have become so sadly common in the last few years,” said the Canon wistfully. “How can one hope that in each individual case the writer will realize the yearning with which one looks for one personal touch — one word to show that all was well.”

  “Perhaps they will write from the hospital — the chaplain or the matron, — when they send the things,” Quentillian suggested.

  He, too, was faintly disappointed and puzzled at the reticence of the letters.

  Flora’s face, set in its sad composure, told him nothing of her feelings.

  But the day following brought him enlightenment from Flora herself.

  They were sent out for a walk together.

  “Take her for a walk, dear Owen,” said the Canon solicitously. “Flora is pale, and cold. She has shut herself up too much of late. Go, my child, I shall do very well, and can find only too much to occupy me. Enjoy the fresh air.”

  Flora made no protestations of inability to enjoy herself, nor any assumption of indispensability at home. It was the Canon, again, who suggested an errand to a distant cottage, and she acquiesced without comment.

  It was a cold, grey day, with swiftly moving masses of cloud and a chill in the wind. Flora and Owen walked quickly, and at first neither spoke. Then Flora said:

  “How much, exactly, were you a friend of David’s?”

  His own surprise made Quentillian realize afresh how very seldom it was that Flora initiated any topic of a personal nature.

  “We were not intimate,” he replied.

  “It was more the time that you spent with us here, when you were a little boy, than anything else, that established a relationship between you?”

  “I suppose it was.”

  “I think you are very much interested in people, and Lucilla says that you are very observant,” said Flora, smiling a little. “Would you mind telling me, quite dispassionately, if David was popular with other men — the officers in his regiment, for instance?”

  He did not understand at what her question aimed, but replied with unhesitating candour.

  “I should say he was very popular. He was a good sportsman, and everyone liked him, although as far as I know he wasn’t a man of intimate friendships. That type isn’t.”

  “No. You see, Owen, there have been no letters from people who were in India with him, although you say he was popular. Only just those few lines from the Colonel. And I was afraid before — and I’m afraid now—” She stopped.

  “Of what?”

  “That it wasn’t dysentery, or anything like that. That they’re keeping the truth from us out of pity, or to save some scandal. I — I can’t get it out of my mind, Owen.”

  He heard her with something that was not altogether surprise. Subconsciously, he felt that his own uneasiness had been only dormant.

  “Have you anything beyond intuition, to go upon?”

  “No.”

  “Why have you told me?”

  He felt certain that she had not spoken merely in order to be reassured, nor in order to find relief. Speaking was no relief to Flora, so far as Owen could see.

  “I want you to try and find out definitely.”

  “Yes. And supposing I do, supposing that what you fear is true—” he hesitated.

  “That David took his own life?” said Flora, shuddering. “Then, don’t you see, Owen, I shall have to tell Father — or else to make it absolutely certain that no one will ever tell him.”

  “You can’t,” said Owen gently.

  “But I must,” she told him, with the same intensity. “He’s had a great deal to bear already, and this would be worse than anything. Suicide is a mortal sin. Bodily separation, one can resign oneself to — he is resigning himself, poor Father, to separation from nearly all those whom he loves, — but suicide would mean eternal separation. It would be worse than anything — the loss of David’s soul.”

  “I see.”

  Quentillian did indeed see.

  “Val, and Adrian, and David — they’ve all gone away from him,” said Flora. “Only he knows there is another life, so much more real and enduring than this one, to which he looks. It means everything to him. If David did do — that — then the hope of meeting him again, in eternity, is gone.” />
  Quentillian felt the force of her low-spoken, anguished statement.

  “You are taking it for granted that a suspicion — which after all, rests on very little indeed — is true.”

  “You see, if I am to safeguard my father from this thing, I can’t very well afford to wait and do nothing, just because there’s quite a big chance that it isn’t true at all. The chance that it is true, may be infinitesimal — the hundredth chance, if you like — but it’s that which I’ve got to think about, not the other. Optimism doesn’t carry one far enough, in preparing a line of defence.”

  “I agree with you.”

  “I don’t think that either you or I are optimists, Owen,” said Flora, faintly smiling.

  “No.”

  “That’s why I want you to help me. Can you make enquiries at any of the headquarter places in London where they might know something?”

  “I can try.”

  “Thank you very much,” said Flora, as though his unenthusiastic assent had closed the subject.

  They went along the muddy road in silence.

  It was from no sense that it was necessary to break it, that Quentillian spoke again at last.

  “Will Lucilla come back to England at once?”

  “I don’t think so. She promised to stay till the spring. You know Val has another little boy? I wish we could see them, but Father will never really be happy about Val, I’m afraid. He forgave her, long ago, but he doesn’t forget things, ever, I don’t think.”

  “I don’t consider that the Canon had anything to forgive,” said Quentillian in tones of finality.

  “But he does.”

  If Quentillian had expected a certain meed of recognition for the magnanimity of his point of view, he was not destined to be gratified. Flora spoke rather as one giving utterance to an obvious platitude.

  “Is Val happy?”

  “Very. She has exactly what she always really wanted. Sometimes they have a servant, but most of the time she does everything herself, and has occasional help. She is so happy with the two little boys, too, all her letters are about them, and about the house, and all they’re doing to improve it. She’s got the life that she was really meant for, and after all, isn’t that what makes happiness?”