“Dear fellow, I knew that I should find you awake. Owen, I could not but come to tell you that all is well with me now. I have forgiven, even as I myself hope—and need—to be forgiven. I will see Valeria tomorrow, and tell her that she has my full and free pardon. Together we will consider what is the best thing that we can make of this most unhappy business.”
“And Cuscaden, sir?”
Quentillian intended to suggest the inclusion of Captain Cuscaden in the proposed conference, which might reasonably be supposed to concern him closely, but the Canon misunderstood the elliptical reference.
“Aye, Owen, I have no bitterness left in my heart, even for him. ‘Unto seventy times seven.’ Those words have been ringing in my ears until I could almost bring myself to believe that I heard them uttered aloud. I need not ask if all is well with you, dear boy? Your self-command and generosity have shamed me all along.”
The absolute sincerity of the utterance caused Quentillian, with considerably more reason than the Canon, to feel ashamed in his turn.
“I am very far from being what you think me, sir,” he said, earnestly, and with complete truth. “I am afraid you are very tired.”
The Canon, indeed, looked utterly exhausted.
“If so, it is in my Master’s service,” said Canon Morchard gently. “And you remember, Owen—‘there remaineth a rest.’ May it be mine, and yours, too—all in His own good time! Good-night to you, my dear.”
For the first time since Owen’s childish days, the Canon placed his hand upon his head and murmured a word of blessing.
Then, with a smile as wistful as it was tender, he turned and went away upstairs.