“I know. He wanted it more than anything in the world. Everything has come to make it easy for him to go, Owen.”
Something in her tone made him say gently:
“Poor Lucilla!”
“Even if the impression is only temporary with Adrian, it will be a comfort to him afterwards. He is very unhappy now, that there should have been any estrangement between them.”
It was evident enough that Lucilla, also, had no great reliance upon Adrian’s stability of purpose, although his present reaction had brought such joy and comfort to the dying man.
That night for the first time the Canon’s mind wandered. He spoke of his children as though all were once more of nursery age, and at home together.
“Little Adrian can take my hand, and then he can keep up with the others. Less noise, my love—a little less noise.... Valeria’s voice is too often raised, too often raised—although I like its merry note, in fit and proper season. My merry Valeria! Now are we ready? The sketch-book, Flora, the sketch-book.... I want to see that pretty attempt at the Church finished.”
Then he said with an apologetic note in his voice:
“Flora lacks perseverance, and is too easily discouraged, but we hope that she may show great feeling for art, by and bye. Lucilla’s forte lies in more practical directions. She is my housekeeper—my right hand, I often call her. Look, children, at that effect of sunlight through the beech-leaves. Is it not wonderful? Come, Adrian, my man—no lagging behind....”
Presently a puzzled, distressed look came over his face and he asked: “Is not one missing? Is David here?”