“Habeo!” he said. “The Bishop is holding a confirmation to-morrow, and I could see him in the afternoon if Mrs. Owen disagrees with us, and refer the whole matter to him.”
But his wife, though usually they were so much of a mind, did not welcome the suggestion.
“One does not want to tell more people about it than is absolutely necessary,” she said, “because one of our chief objects is to let nobody know. Let us see, anyhow, what Mrs. Owen thinks first.”
Mrs. Owen accordingly came to lunch after service next day, for though Canon Alington and his wife made it a rule not to go out to any meal on Sunday, it did not cause a breach of Sunday observance that other people should take a meal with them. For this entailed no extra work for the household, since on Sunday Ambrose and Perpetua did the work of the parlour-maid at table, and handed everybody their rations and took away their plates when they had consumed them. The possible view, too, that this was only a shifting of extra work on to the shoulders of the children had no more than a superficial semblance of truth about it, with no foundation in real fact, since to perform those little services for their parents and Mrs. Owen was not love’s labour lost, but love’s pleasure found.
It was the custom for Ambrose and Perpetua to sing hymns after lunch on Sunday, each choosing one in turn, to their mother’s accompaniment, until they were so hoarse that they could sing no more or it was tea-time. But to-day they had been privately instructed that they ask Mrs. Owen to sing once to them, and that they must then take themselves off to sing in the nursery if they chose or to go for a walk, since their parents desired some private talk with her. She, no more than anybody else in busy Mannington, had not been idle this last year, and in addition to nearly six weeks spent in town since Easter, as well as a memorable visit to Venice in April had written two more Galahad songs, and contemplated a whole Galahad cycle. Indeed it was “Galahad’s Good-morning” that she sang this afternoon, which was to be the first of the Galahad cycle, which would when finished be a whole day in Galahad’s life, from the time he said good-morning to the time he said good-night. In these Galahad songs there was, of course, no meeting in orchards, although the middle verse was full of temptation and foes, which he routed without the slightest difficulty, and instantly returned to the three-two as good as new. And to-day as Mrs. Owen sang Agnes could not help her eyes growing a little moist as she looked across to her Galahad who was gently beating time (while Ambrose and Perpetua vied with each other in turning over), and thought how pleasant a little coincidence it was that on the very day when he had to charge and rout the fell Lady Hamilton, Mrs. Owen, with her sweet face and voice so full of expression, should be singing “Galahad’s Good-morning” to them. Once her eyes met those of her husband, and she felt sure he understood what was in her mind. She was quite right; he did. At the end Ambrose and Perpetua both gave a great gasp.
“I think it’s the loveliest song I ever heard,” said Perpetua. “Do you know, Mrs. Owen, mamma calls papa Galahad? I can see why now.”
Perpetua was a great happiness to both her parents, but at moments the happiness was almost embarrassing.
“Now, children,” said her father. “Ordered aloft, weren’t you?”
They kissed Mrs. Owen loudly and went out hand-in-hand.
Mrs. Owen, it was universally agreed, had great tact and perception. She closed the piano and left the music-stool.