THE COLLECTED NOVELS OF E. M. DELAFIELD (6 Titles in One Edition). E. M. Delafield
had not seen him at all. She wondered if he would always be broken-hearted, never to laugh and joke again, like the kind, jovial father she had always known. Were all widowers always unhappy for ever? Zella tried to recall any that she had ever known, and could only remember old Mr. Oliver, who had come with his daughter that afternoon. He was a kind, cheerful old man, who always talked a great deal and laughed at his own jokes; but, then, he was nearly seventy years old, and his wife had died a great many years ago.
"Perhaps when papa is quite old," thought Zella despairingly: "But how dreadful it will be during all the years and years before he is as old as Mr. Oliver, if he goes on being unhappy all the time! Will there be this dreadful silence all through the house, and nothing to do, and everything reminding us all the time, and never being able to say anything about mother. . . . Aunt Marianne says he mustn't be reminded of his loss. One doesn't talk about people who have died.
Uncle Henry never speak about poor little cousin Archie who died, except Aunt Marianne sometimes, in a sort of very solemn religious way. But how could one speak like that about mother? And yet we couldn't ever talk about her in an ordinary way, as if she were still here. Oh, how can I ever bear it? To think that I shall never be happy any more!"
Then poor Zella reproached herself bitterly for the heartlessness of even wishing to forget and be happy again. She strove passionately for a resigned, heartbroken attitude of mind, that should eventually find its chief comfort in memories of past happiness and in the tender cherishing of a widowed and heartbroken father.
It was an intense relief to the hypersensitive child, though she did not own it to herself, to find, on the days following her mother's funeral, that Mrs. Lloyd-Evans now deemed the first acute stages of grief to be left behind. She dwelt more upon the happiness of Zella's dear, dear mother in heaven, and the tenderness with which she would watch over her little daughter, and the necessity for being brave and making the best of one's life.
"A change of scene will be very good for you, my poor child," Mrs. Lloyd-Evans told her; "and poor papa will feel more free if he is alone just at present. I dare say he will go abroad for a little while;"
"We were going to Paris this winter to see Grand-mère and Tante Stéphanie."
"That will hardly be possible now, darling. Paris is no place to go to when one is in mourning."
Notwithstanding this conviction, Mrs. Lloyd-Evans, who knew that gentlemen did not always quite realize, felt no certainty that her brother-in-law would defer or omit the annual visit that he never failed to pay to his stepmother. Therefore she lost no time in suggesting that Zella should come to Boscombe and spend the winter at her uncle's house.
"It will be good for her, and she and Muriel are of just the same age, and can do their lessons and play together. And you know, Louis, the poor child would be dreadfully moped alone with you in this great house; and yet if you travel you could hardly take her with you, just at the age when she ought to be doing her lessons and everything."
"I suppose not," replied Louis in rather bewildered accents. It is very kind of you, Marianne. I had not given Zella much thought, I am afraid, poor child! But my mother would take charge of her, I know, if you really think she ought to have a change."
"Louis," said his sister-in-law earnestly, "not Paris. I implore you, for my dear sweet Esmée's sake, not Paris. A motherless child of Zella's age in Paris—a town without religion, and such a town! The modern Babylon!"
Mrs. Lloyd-Evans had only once spent a fortnight in the Modern Babylon, but she had read one or two novels on the subject, and her horror of the Ville Lumiere was only equalled by her ignorance.
"But, my dear Marianne," said Louis de Kervoyou, almost laughing, " Zella would be as well looked after at my mother's as she-would be anywhere; in fact, young girls in France are given very much less liberty than in England. She would never be allowed to go anywhere by herself."
"That is distinct proof of what I say, Louis. A town where such precautions are necessary can be no place for a young girl," said Mrs. Lloyd-Evans with triumphant logic. ...
"My mother and sister would look after her," repeated Louis patiently.
"I do not, naturally, wish to say one word against your stepmother, my dear Louis, or her daughter. But can you deny that they are Roman Catholics?"
"I have no wish to deny it, Marianne."
"Then I implore you, for her mother's sake, do not risk the loss of your daughter's faith. Foreigners and Jesuits are more artful than words can say—though, of course, I don't mean all. And I know some French people—you yourself, dear Louis"
Mrs. Lloyd-Evans became entangled in a painful confusion of words as she suddenly remembered that Louis himself laboured under the double misfortune of being by birth both a foreigner and a Frenchman. She wisely extricated herself by the unanswerable conclusion: "And I know you want what is best for dear little Zella."
"I will think it over."
"Louis! surely you cannot hesitate! One does not want to be interfering, but, after all—my own sister's only child, and Paris! A Roman Catholic household!"
Louis de Kervoyou listened without hearing. The stifling weight of pain seemed to be pressing on him with an intolerable heaviness, and he leant back in his chair, wondering if that soft, monotonous, rapid speech would never cease. He was a short, square-shouldered man, with thick light brown beard and hair, and eyes of the same dark grey as his daughter's. The habitual laugh in them was quenched now, and a keener physiognomist than Mrs. Lloyd-Evans might have read the hopeless misery in their depths.
When her low, relentless eloquence had at length ceased, he said wearily:
"I see what you mean. I will speak to Zella. She can do as she wishes."
He spoke English perfectly, with no trace of accent.
"No, Louis," said Mrs. Lloyd-Evans inexorably, "I cannot think that right. Zella must do as she is told, not merely as she wishes. Remember that one must be doubly careful about instilling really high principles into her, now that she no longer has a mother's influence to watch over her. She really needs the discipline of a good school, and later on"
"Marianne, I am very grateful to you and Henry and if Zella wishes it she shall go back with you to morrow," Louis interrupted decisively. "But I can make no further plans for the moment. I will write to you later-"
He wished she would go.
"Are you going away, dear Louis?"
"I don't suppose so. Why should I?"
"A change of scene would distract your mind a little, and this place, so full of associations"
Louis de Kervoyou, the limits of his endurance reached, rose and opened the door.
"I will send for Zella now," he said, making way for her to pass.
Mrs. Lloyd-Evans saw nothing for it but to leave the room. But her resources were not easily exhausted, and she made it so clear to the miserable and bewildered Zella how fully appropriate a visit to Boscombe would be, that the child, half hypnotized, felt that such calm, gentle assurance must necessarily be right.
Her father did not seem hurt, as Zella had half feared he might be, that she should prefer Mrs. Lloyd-Evans's house to his stepmother's little apartement in the Rue des ficoles where the Baronne de Kervoyou had offered to receive her. He said to Zella:
"You did not get on with your cousins last time you stayed at Boscombe."
"It will be different now; I am older," Zella replied faintly. Aunt Marianne had used the argument that morning. She wondered if her father was angry that she should elect to go to Boscombe. But if she had asked to be taken to Paris to her grandmother, of whom she was rather afraid, Aunt Marianne would have been vexed and thought it wrong. And Aunt Marianne would have been vexed, and called it morbid and unnatural, if Zella had asked to remain at Villetswood. Now that mother was no longer there, a sure refuge, and always certain to understand and approve, it had suddenly become of enormous importance to do what Aunt Marianne and everyone would think right and appropriate.