THE COLLECTED NOVELS OF E. M. DELAFIELD (6 Titles in One Edition). E. M. Delafield
in a conversation where she knew herself unwanted, and at the same time too self-conscious and too much alive to the absurdity of her position not to make a pretence of being actively interested in her companions' discussion.
But she was seldom sought out for her own sake. The other girls and she had no common meeting-ground. Zella could neither discuss the relative merits of St. Aloysius and St. Ignatius with any enthusiasm, nor exchange raptures over the nuns. She would fain have set up a heroine-worship for any of her mistresses, but knew secretly that her taste revolted against the sentimental gushes of mingled schwarmerei and piety in which her companions indulged freely, and the knowledge pierced in spite of herself through all her pretences. Moreover, none of these kindly, commonplace women seemed to Zella to be endowed with the glamour through which the other girls obviously viewed them. They were merely kind and good and childish, and dressed in a becoming habit and veil.
Zella, brought up in an atmosphere of latent cynicism and declared scepticism of the orthodox forms of belief, honestly supposed that the nuns in charge of her education were merely the more or less unconscious dupes of superstition.
But she posed valiantly, gushed in chorus, and was astonished and mortified as she gradually perceived that even to these unperceiving companions her pretences somehow failed to carry any conviction. Reality was lacking, and they knew it instinctively.
Yet it must be admitted that the convent atmosphere was not calculated to encourage Zella in any way towards naturalness.
She counted her most glaring bévues by the number of times in which she had been the victim of a genuine impulse.
She was too impressionable not to learn quickly, and the impulses were seldom yielded to as time went on, but it was one of these outbursts of spontaneity that cost her the only possible friendship of her school days.
Zella had been distinctly attracted by Kathleen Mallet, who was pretty and refined-looking, with a ready Irish tongue and ease of manner. She was nearly eighteen, and Zella's predilections were ever for those older than herself. Moreover, Kathleen was popular, and her notice of the new girl gratified Zella's vanity.
A certain mild air of convent romance surrounded Kathleen, too. She had an elder sister who had run away from home at nineteen in order to become a Benedictine nun, and it was well known that the Mallets were the poorest family in County Wicklow.
"Sometimes there really and truly hasn't been enough to eat in the house, I believe," Mary McNeill assured Zella, with a look of horror.
"But why?"
"Oh, I don't know," always the recognized preface to the bestowal of information. "You see, the father always was rather poor, and then he lost all the money there was, racing, and of course there are eight of them to bring up, all girls. It's awful, isn't it?"
"What do they do!" said Zella, who had never heard of such poverty as lacked food except in the lowest classes of life.
"Well, two of the younger ones got taken by the nuns in Dublin—for nothing, of course; and there s another, the eldest, who's a daily governess, and of course Eileen is a nun at St. Benedict's."
"What a good thing!"
"The father was perfectly furious, and wouldn't give his consent. That's why she had to run away."
"But why was he furious? It seems such a good thing, if they're so poor, that one should be settled."
"Oh, well," said Mary comfortably, "I suppose parents very often hate it, though, as Reverend Mother says, it's all nonsense. They don't mind if their daughters go away and marry, so why should they mind their becoming nuns?"
Zella thought there was a fallacy in the argument, but was too much interested in the poverty of the Mallet family to pursue it.
"I suppose they don't have to pay anything for Kathleen here, do they?"
Mary suddenly assumed a shocked expression and grew rather red.
"What a funny thing to ask, Zella!" she said reprovingly.
Zella coloured scarlet on the instant, scenting another mistake, but asked rather defiantly:
"Why? You told me the younger ones got taken at the convent in Dublin for nothing, so why shouldn't I ask if Kathleen is here for nothing?"
"Well, it's a funny thing to ask, isn't it?" coldly returned Mary, still resentful, "considering that you know her and everything. It's rather cheek, in a new girl, to ask that sort of thing, you know."
Zella felt indignant, but dared not imperil her equilibrium by speaking. Her tears, like those of most oversensitive people, were always perilously near the surface, and she knew that Mary's unimaginative, rather hostile gaze was fixed upon her.
"You needn't look so furious. I dare say you didn't mean it, and, of course, I shan't tell anyone you asked. Of course, Kathleen minds about it frightfully. She must. Not so much about being here without paying, because I believe Reverend Mother was a friend of her mother's or something, but about the whole thing, and never having a single penny. She never talks about it; she's frightfully reserved, you know, really. Mind you don't go and ask her about it, Zella."
Unperceptive, suspicious Mary! Zella felt a thrill of fury and of contempt for the lack of judgment which could suppose her capable of such tactless ill-breeding. She endeavoured to reply haughtily, "Naturally, I shouldn't dream of speaking to Kathleen about such a thing," but, to her dismay, again felt her tears rising. She remained silent, but grew scarlet to the roots of her hair. Her hot, frequent blushes were a source of endless misery to her and of unfailing amusement to her companions. Mary stared at her now, and then began to laugh.
"Well, you needn't set the place on fire," she said not ill-naturedly, and with a giggling appreciation of her own wit. But Zella felt as though she had suddenly and purposely been struck in the face.
But her interest in Kathleen deepened after this conversation. The very restrictions imposed by the school regulations upon their intercourse greatly increased Kathleen's attractions, and Zella presently began to wonder whether this was not the ideal friend for whom she had been waiting, so she firmly told herself, all her life.
She wondered if eighteen would condescend to the friendship of fifteen, and began to indulge in various small antics designed to draw Kathleen's attention to herself.
Sitting next to Kathleen at the mid-day recreation, with an expression of portentous thoughtfulness so marked that it could hardly fail to draw forth comment, Zella gazed with a fixed, unseeing, and yet far-reaching look at her neighbour. It was not a look designed to escape attention, nor did it do so.
"What are you staring at, Zella?"
Zella started slightly.
"Was I staring?" A rapid movement of the head backwards and a hasty blink or two indicated a rudely severed reverie. "I suppose I was just thinking."
"What about?" asked Kathleen, as punctually as could be wished.
"As a matter of fact," laughed Zella, with the merest hint of embarrassment—" as a matter of fact, I was thinking about you."
The next step was of course inevitable.
"What about me?" Kathleen inquired with much interest.
And Zella, delighted, implied that her natural shyness did not allow her to answer the question in detail, even while her charmingly expressive glance and smile assured Kathleen that she could, if she wished, have furnished a flattering explanation of her absorption.
Subtlety was not needed, and would, in fact, have been lost upon the Irish girl, and Zella was sufficiently aware of it to indulge in broad effects only.
The eagerness with which she watched for some sign that the attraction was mutual was the first thing that added interest to her life as a convent school girl.
When Kathleen, one evening at recreation, thrust her arm through Zella's, and said, "You're looking tired to-night, aren't you?" Zella's heart beat violently with disproportionate triumph and excitement.
Her