THE COLLECTED NOVELS OF E. M. DELAFIELD (6 Titles in One Edition). E. M. Delafield
dismayed at the idea. She thinks—and I must say I quite agree with her—that it would be deliberately risking the loss of my faith if I went away now, just as I have really begun to appreciate the privileges we have at the convent. Besides, I can have instructions here regularly, besides the great advantage of the chapel always here.
I am quite, quite sure that it isn't only the influence of convent atmosphere, as you say in your letter, but real, absolute conviction; and Reverend Mother and Father Harding, who have had such quantities of experience in dealing with souls, both say that I am a case of true, sincere conversion. It would make me very unhappy to leave the consent, and I feel sure it wouldn't be right, either, unless you really ordered me to. I hope that when you come down Reverend Mother will see you. She wants to talk it all over with you very much, and I am sure that after you have been here you won't really want to take me away. Do come as soon as you can.
Of course I haven't told anybody that I want to be a Catholic, except Reverend Mother, who guessed it herself. But she thinks that these things had much better not be talked about until they are really settled, and so, of course, I have said nothing. But I can't help hoping that after I have seen you it will be really settled, and that you won't want me to come away from the convent. And I do want to be received in June.
Ever your loving child,
ZELLA.
Two months later.
VILLETSWOOD, June 28.
DEAREST LITTLE ONE,
I am glad you are so happy. My thoughts were altogether with you all yesterday, but I understood your desire not to have your attention distracted by any home presence. Your vivid description of the ceremony of your reception into the Church almost made me feel as though I had seen it.
You must write to your Aunt Marianne yourself, my Zella dear. I am afraid she will be distressed; and if she writes to me, as she probably will, I will try to convince her that you took this step of your own free will, and not under threats of being walled up alive in a convent cell.
You will have heard from both Grand'mère and Tante Stéphanie, who are very happy that you should have become a Catholic.
I am looking forward to having you for the holidays, my darling.
Ever your loving father,
L. DE K.
BOSCOMBE, Tuesday.
MY DEAREST ZELLA,
Your letter came as a very great shock both to Uncle Henry and myself, although I have always expected something of the kind to happen ever since I first knew that poor papa had decided to send his little daughter to a Roman Catholic convent school.
One cannot help feeling, dear, that it is all very sad, that you should change the religion into which you were born, although I cannot say that I think you are old enough to know in the very least what you are doing.
Of course I know very well that nowadays chopping and changing is the fashion, and young people are supposed to know their own minds, instead of being guided by those older and wiser. But if your dear mother had been here, this would probably never have happened. This saddens Aunt Marianne very much, my poor little Zella! but you must not feel that she loves you any the less. When you get tired of the Sisters who seem to have gained such a hold upon you, remember that there is always a welcome waiting for you here, and comfort and advice should you wish for it.
In any case, God bless you, my poor child!
Your affectionate
AUNT MARIANNE.
BOSCOMBE, Tuesday.
MY DEAR LOUIS, I have just been writing to poor little Zella, and now feel that I should not be doing my duty if I did not tell you quite frankly all that is in my mind. Poor little Zella's letter (which was obviously written at the suggestion, if not the actual dictation, of the Sisters) came to me as a great shock, though hardly as a surprise. One had felt that something of the kind was almost bound to happen, sad though it all is.
You must not think that I underrate the fascination of the Roman Catholic Church. They are all very clever and artful, as one knows perfectly well, and it is very natural that a child of Zella's age, without a mother, should let herself be taken in by the glamour of it all. But what I cannot understand is how you should have given your consent, which she assures me you did, to her leaving the Church and the faith in which dear Esmée was born, and in which she lived and died—as I need not remind you, Louis—in order to become a Roman Catholic at the bidding of these ignorant and terribly mistaken women.
One cannot help feeling that, if poor little Zella had not been the only child of a rich man, the Sisters would never have taken all this trouble to get hold of her, though no doubt she is far too innocent and inexperienced to have any suspicions of this. But, after all, as I always say, what is experience given us for, if not to guide and help others, especially the young people confided to our care?
Now, what I would suggest is this: Take poor little Zella away from this convent at once. You may think that this is shutting the stable door after the steed has been stolen, but better late than never is what I always say; and she can come straight to us for a few months, and then go with Muriel (of course under Miss Vincent's care) to finish her education by a year in Munich. Otherwise, Louis, mark my words, the next step will be that the Sisters will persuade Zella into becoming a nun. Girls are very impressionable and easily influenced, and the nuns will certainly stick at nothing where an heiress is concerned. One has heard of frightful cases where girls no older than poor little Zella have been trapped into taking vows that have ruined their whole lives. Of course one is broad-minded enough to know that some nuns do real good in the world, nursing or looking after the poor, but I cannot feel that it is what God really meant for any of us. After all, marriage is a woman's natural sphere, and, depend upon it, if each of these poor Sisters had found a good man to look after her, they would never have thought of shutting themselves up in such a morbid and unnatural life.
One does not want to depress you, Louis, since I know that you are probably feeling sad already at the thought of poor little Zella's folly; though I cannot deny that it seems both to me and to Henry that a very little firmness on your part might have prevented the whole thing. But it is too late to cry over spilt milk. I do not know how far this mad step that she has taken is irretrievable, but one cannot help hoping that when she is a little older and wiser Zella may see the beauty of her own true Church, and get over this infatuation for mere ritual and flowers and incense.
Well, dear Louis, this is a long letter indeed, but I felt that you would need comfort, as I do myself. Let me know if and when you will send Zella to us. She shall not hear one word of reproach, but I can't help thinking that when she is in the wholesome atmosphere of English home life again all this nonsense will be forgotten. After all, she is not even quite seventeen, and, as I always say, while there is life there is hope.
Ever your affectionate
MARIANNE LLOYD-EVANS.
VILLETSWOOD, July 7.
MY DEAR MARIANNE,
Your suggestion of having Zella with you for the present is an extremely kind one, and I trust that you will see no lack of gratitude in my refusal of the invitation on her behalf. Her holidays begin in a fortnight's time, and she will spend them at Villetswood with me, as I am anxious to judge for myself how this new experience of hers is affecting her.
I agree with you that it is not improbable that Zella's imagination will turn, for a time at any rate, in the direction of convent life. But I am quite sure that she is not of the stuff of which nuns are made, and I think she is quite clever enough to discover that for herself without even getting so far as to make a trial of it.
Believe me, Marianne, that I regret the pain which I know this act of Zella's has caused you, but I have a strong conviction that the question of creed is an individual one, and I should hardly have felt it right to withhold her from a step which she so greatly desired to take.
She seems very happy,