“I am afraid that you bear no very glad tidings, dear fellow. No matter. We will have our talk later. Let us forget grave subjects, and partake of ‘the cup that cheers,’ which I can see that Lucilla there has ready for us. What think you of this political crisis?”
In the ensuing conversation the Canon, if not merry, was at least gravely cheerful.
Afterwards he took Owen into the garden, his arm laid across the young man’s shoulders in the fashion that he so often adopted.
They remained out for a long while.
Lucilla did not see her father again until evening, when it was evident that a weight of unhappiness had descended upon him.
He read Prayers as usual, and the servants left the room.
“One moment, my daughters. It is right that you should know the very grievous news I have learnt today. Adrian has definitely adopted a career which must cut him off from those of us who are living members of the Church. He has cast in his lot with an enemy of the Church—a man who makes his living, and has acquired a disgraceful notoriety, by attacking the Church. Your brother has been seduced into a friendship with this man—he is working for him, writing for his paper.”
The Canon’s voice broke.
“I am going up to seek him tomorrow, and plead with him, but I have little hope. He does not answer the letters that I write with such yearning anxiety and love—I have lost my influence over him. If it is, as I fear, then—‘if thy right hand offend thee, cut it off.’ My dear children, I ask you to join with me here and now in intercession for our erring one.”
He broke down, and the tears ran down his face.