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.