THE COLLECTED NOVELS OF E. M. DELAFIELD (6 Titles in One Edition). E. M. Delafield
observed Zella, for the sake of saying something.
Lady St. Craye looked at the chairs helplessly.
"Ten—eleven—twelve," she murmured. "If there are to be fifteen, we must have at least three more."
"Miladi désire quinze chaises?"
"Trois. Il en faut encore trois."
"Dix—onze—douze: tiens, oui, c'est vrai. Il faudra trois autres chaises."
"Have we got three or four more of those chairs? we shall need them," reiterated Lady St. Craye.
They looked helplessly at the chairs, as if expecting them to multiply themselves.
Then Alison said with a short laugh:
"This becomes farcical. I cannot go on discussing these chairs any longer. Let us away." She laid her hand upon Zella's shoulder. "You must come and see your room. A fig for the three chairs!"
She snapped her fingers in mock dramatic style, and turned on her heel, meekly followed by Zella.
Twenty minutes later, when Alison had donned a heavy shot satin dress that looked too old for her, Zella returned with her to the drawing-room, and, surreptitiously counting the gilt chairs, found that Lady St. Craye and Antoinette had somehow supplied the deficiency.
The debate proved tedious.
A nervous-looking girl in black was voted into the chair, and made a preliminary speech which began and ended with a stammering sentence to the effect that everyone must agree, whatever their individual view of the matter, that the subject of Reincarnation was a very interesting one.
"Hear! hear!"
Alison's speech was a lengthy one. Her delivery was slow and over-emphatic; she spoke kindly of Christianity and its doctrines.
Most of the speakers had some personal example, that bore more or less upon the subject, to relate. One or two adduced strange phenomena experienced by themselves, and a young married woman recounted at some length vivid recollections of ancient Carthage that obsessed her.
Alison shook her head slowly from side to side, with contemptuous disapproval, or nodded it slowly up and down with contemptuous approval. Lady St. Craye looked interested, and gently clapped each speaker.
Zella thought that she could have made a far more striking and original speech than any of them, but knew herself well enough to be aware that, if she were suddenly called upon to speak, her self-confidence would leave her, and leave her helpless.
After the debate was over, there was a little desultory talking, and the Debating Society melted away.
Antoinette appeared unexpectedly, with two footmen in tow, whom she peremptorily waved towards the disordered chairs.
Lady St. Craye looked rather guiltily at Alison.
"I am afraid Antoinette did not like my carrying the chairs," she murmured deprecatingly. It is foolish of her, I know, dear. But, indeed, I do not think John and William will mind doing it. They look very strong, and they have not much to do."
Zella almost wondered if the speech could have been made in earnest, but Lady St. Craye's face was serious and rather flushed, like that of a timid child.
"My dear mother, do not for a moment imagine that I object," said Alison rather impatiently. "It is merely the principle of the thing that is all wrong."
But she did not, as Zella had half feared she might, propose that they should halve the labours of John and William.
"My mother is one of those women whose great fear in life is that they may hurt someone," Alison informed Zella that evening; "whereas in point of fact she is like a flower—harmless, charming. A Christmas rose, perhaps, that imagines itself to possess the deadly qualities of nightshade; whereas it is the most scentless and innocent of decorations. Yes," said Alison, thoughtfully weighing her own simile with some complacency, "that describes my mother—a harmless, decorative piece of still-life."
Zella felt annoyed with herself because she knew that she was inwardly shocked at Alison's impersonal dissecting of her mother.
"She is very devoted to you," was the nearest she could compass to an equally dispassionate comment.
Alison shrugged her shoulders with an exaggeratedly foreign gesture.
"No doubt. It is part of the conventional widow's equipment to adore her only child, and my mother is conventional to the tips of her exceedingly pretty fingers. She does not know me, but she remains serenely unconscious of that."
"She does not understand you?"
"How should she? I am of another mould—a feminine, a thing of ready smiles and tears and blushes— all surface."
"Ah," said Zella, deeply anxious not to stem the tide of what she regarded as flattering confidences, but utterly unable to think of any rejoinder adequate to the occasion.
"I have evolved myself spiritually and mentally," pursued Alison thoughtfully, and with that deep absorption which is accorded only to the topic of selfevolution.
"My religion, my character, everything, I have had to make for myself."
"What is your religion?" asked Zella, convinced that, whatever it was, it would be nothing orthodox.
"I am a Theosophist, in so far as I am anything. Not that Theosophy is a creed; it has merely taken the heart out of all the creeds, and welded the whole into that glorious law which your Prophet set forth so admirably: 'Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself.'"
Zella felt a sudden shock, as though Alison had worded her theory most irreverently.
"Simply Love," repeated the Theosophist dreamily. "It is very easy, and ah, Zella! life becomes almost beautiful in spite of its pain, and it would be wholly so if only everyone could see as we do. So many of us fail to recognize the Divine lurking in every human soul, in every bird and insect, in every blade of grass!"
She is the exquisite eternal
Zella thought wistfully that a certainty of the all pervadingness of the Divine must indeed alter the values of life; but Alison's words had nevertheless failed to carry any real conviction, or any but the most superficial of thrills.
"I myself have thought a good deal about Catholicism," she began shyly.
Alison looked at her kindly, but lost her expression of rapt intensity.
"Ah," she said lightly, "many of us go through that stage, and the symbolism of Rome has its poetical attraction. But at present, my dear Zella, it is time to go and dress for dinner."
XXII
"ISN'T there anyone whom you would like to ask to dinner here before you go, Zella dear? We might make up a little theatre-party," said Lady St. Craye.
Zella could not think of anyone whom she knew well enough or wished to ask to dinner, but thought it would sound childish and countrified to say so, so she exclaimed gratefully, "Oh, thank you so much. How very kind of you to think of it!" in order to gain time.
"Thursday night would do," said Lady St. Craye kindly.
Zella had an inspiration.
"I should rather like to ask my cousin, James Lloyd-Evans," she said shyly.
"Yes, do, dear, that will be very nice. I think he is rather a friend of Alison's."
"James Lloyd-Evans is a youth of parts," conceded Alison graciously, " and he certainly understands music."
"He is a great admirer of Alison's 'cello-playing," said Lady St. Craye innocently.
Zella was rather amused, but looked forward to impressing James by her friendship with the gifted Miss St. Craye.
Impressiveness,