On the words, the same as those with which Lucilla had begun their brief and rather amazing conversation, the Canon returned into the room.
IV
THE DEATH OF AN OPTIMIST
(i)
Quentillian’s next and final summons to St. Gwenllian came some months after Canon Morchard had taken Flora to her Sisterhood, and returned alone.
Owen was unprepared for the change in the Canon’s appearance, although he knew him to be ill.
“Aye, dear lad! It’s the last stage of the journey. I have thought that it was so for some time, and they tell me now that there is no doubt of it. This poor clay is worn out, and the spirit within is to be set free. Verily, I can still repeat those favourite words of mine: ‘All things work together for good, to those that love God.’ If you but knew the number of times during these last few years that I have cried out within myself ‘O for the wings of a dove, that I might fly away and be at rest!’ And now it has come! and I hope to keep my Christmas feast among the blest. They tell me that it cannot be long.”
Quentillian looked the enquiry that he felt it difficult to put into words.
“I can take very little. Soon, they tell me that even that little will have become impossible. See how even the crowning mercy of preparedness is vouchsafed to me! I have put my house in order as well as may be, and have no care save for my poor Lucilla. She will be alone indeed, and it is for her sake, Owen, that I want you to do a great kindness to a dying man.”
“Anything, sir. Do you want me to stay?”
“You have it, Owen.” The Canon laid his hand, thin now to emaciation, upon Quentillian’s.