“Stay with us now until the end comes. It cannot be far off. I have outlived my brothers, and Lucilla’s remaining aunt is old and infirm. It is not fit, even were it possible, that she should come here. She will receive Lucilla most tenderly after I am gone—of that I am assured. But there is no one to uphold her, to spare her needless distress, when the time comes.”
“I will do everything that I can to help her.”
“I know it, dear fellow—I know it. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. It seems natural to treat you as a son.”
The Canon paused and looked wistfully at Quentillian upon the word.
“Perhaps Adrian will come home. I have written to him—a long letter. He need not be afraid of me.
“I have written to my three absent children: To Valeria—my blessing for her little sons—I would have given much to see them before going—aye, and their mother, too, my merry Valeria, as I once called her! I have missed Valeria’s laughter in this quiet house, that was once full of merriment and children’s voices.
“And I have written to Flora, my Flora, who chose the better part. May she indeed be blessed in her choice—little Flora!”
He sank back, looking exhausted.
“I will stay as long as you wish me to stay, and I will do all that I can for Lucilla,” repeated Quentillian.
“I know it. The last anxiety has been allayed. Aye, Owen, I have ceased to concern myself with these things now, I hope. If Adrian comes to me, and if Lucilla can count upon you as upon a brother, then I am well satisfied indeed. My affairs are in good order, I believe. My will is with my solicitors—Lucilla knows the address. What there is, goes in equal shares to Lucilla, Valeria, and Adrian. Flora has received her portion already. My books, dear Owen, are yours. All else—personal effects, manuscripts, and the rest—are Lucilla’s. She has been my right hand. There are mementos to Clover, to one or two old friends and servants—nothing else. I have thought it well to make Lucilla sole executrix—she has helped in all my business for so long!