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- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
E. M. Delafield's "Collected Novels of E. M. Delafield" brings together six of her most significant works, offering an expansive look into the intricacies of early 20th-century British society. Delafield employs a keen observational style infused with wit and irony, utilizing rich characterizations and subtle social critique to explore themes of gender roles, class dynamics, and the mundanity of domestic life. Each novel, while distinct, shares a thematic coherence that reflects the author's nuanced understanding of her contemporaries, encapsulating the challenges and complexities faced by women of her era. E. M. Delafield, born in 1890 in England, was an astute chronicler of her time, drawing upon her experiences as an educated woman navigating the constraints of societal expectations. Her literary career blossomed in the interwar period, during which she became a prominent voice in feminist literature. Additionally, her background in writing for magazines and her keen insights into the lives of women inform her narratives, allowing her to blend humor with poignant realism, ultimately shaping her unique voice. This collection is an invaluable resource for readers interested in feminist literature, British social history, and the evolution of the novel. Delafield's ability to weave humor into serious concerns makes her work both accessible and thought-provoking, appealing to both scholars and general readers alike. Engaging with this anthology is not merely an exploration of her literary contribution; it offers a window into the social fabric of her time. In this enriched edition, we have carefully created added value for your reading experience: - A comprehensive Introduction outlines these selected works' unifying features, themes, or stylistic evolutions. - A Historical Context section situates the works in their broader era—social currents, cultural trends, and key events that underpin their creation. - A concise Synopsis (Selection) offers an accessible overview of the included texts, helping readers navigate plotlines and main ideas without revealing critical twists. - A unified Analysis examines recurring motifs and stylistic hallmarks across the collection, tying the stories together while spotlighting the different work's strengths. - Reflection questions inspire deeper contemplation of the author's overarching message, inviting readers to draw connections among different texts and relate them to modern contexts. - Lastly, our hand‐picked Memorable Quotes distill pivotal lines and turning points, serving as touchstones for the collection's central themes.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024
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Collected Novels of E. M. Delafield (6 Unabridged Editions in One Volume)
Table of Contents
Introduction
This volume brings together six unabridged novels by E. M. Delafield, published between 1915 and 1922, offering a continuous view of an author refining her voice across a transformative period in British life. Zella Sees Herself, The War Workers, Consequences, Tension, The Heel of Achilles, and Humbug: A Study in Education are presented complete and in their original scope, allowing readers to trace Delafield’s evolving concerns and technique from the years of the First World War into its aftermath. The collection’s purpose is to preserve textual integrity while providing a coherent framework for appreciating how Delafield interrogates society, character, and conscience across varied settings and pressures.
The contents of this collection are novels exclusively. There are no plays, short stories, poems, essays, letters, or diaries included here. Within the single long-form genre, however, Delafield explores a range of modes: social comedy, institutional satire, domestic realism, and psychological study. Each book stands as a self-contained narrative, yet together they demonstrate the flexibility of the novel to encompass public and private life, the individual and the collective. Readers encounter wartime organization, professional workplaces, family spheres, and educational environments, all rendered through sustained prose fiction. This focus on the novel form underscores Delafield’s commitment to extended character development and to observing social worlds in depth.
Taken as a whole, these novels are unified by Delafield’s clear-eyed social observation, dry wit, and careful moral nuance. She is consistently attentive to the frictions between personal desire and prescribed roles, to the subtle choreography of manners, and to the way institutions shape and constrain behavior. Her prose favors economy over ornament, using precise description and alert dialogue to reveal character and community without recourse to sensationalism. The tone is often ironic but rarely unkind, committed to fairness even when exposing folly. These hallmarks have preserved the works’ significance, making them valuable documents of their time and enduring studies of how people manage expectation, duty, and self-knowledge.
The earliest titles here, Zella Sees Herself (1915) and Consequences (1919), consider the formative pressures that define identity. Both depict young women negotiating the social codes that dictate what life should look like, and the costs that follow when those definitions do not fit. Delafield is particularly sensitive to the role of self-perception, the mirrors offered by family and peers, and the uneasy distance between inner conviction and outward conformity. The pre-war and immediate post-war contexts complicate these questions, as established customs meet unsettling change. Without disclosing their plots, one can say that both novels treat choice and compromise as weighty, ambiguous, and deeply human concerns.
The War Workers (1918) and Tension (1920) move into the arenas of collective endeavor, where personalities clash within organizational structures. Set amid home-front activity during the First World War and in a provincial office community, respectively, they examine how efficiency, authority, and reputation operate under pressure. Delafield maps small shifts in status and sympathy with deftness, showing how public duty can heighten private motives, and how official roles intensify moral tests. The social ecosystems are finely drawn: meetings, corridors, and desks become stages for loyalty, rivalry, and principle. The result is incisive, humane commentary on bureaucracy and the everyday ethics of working with and for others.
The Heel of Achilles (1921) and Humbug: A Study in Education (1922) turn a lucid eye on vulnerability and institutional ideals. The former reflects on the frailties that accompany strength, while the latter, as its subtitle indicates, engages with education as a field where aspiration, authority, and practice intersect. Delafield probes the gap between proclaimed values and lived realities without schematic judgment, favoring closely observed character over polemic. In these settings, as elsewhere in her fiction, she treats ambition, responsibility, and self-deception as intertwined threads. The narratives show how structures meant to nurture can also constrain, and how clarity of purpose can be muddled by habit or pride.
Read together, these six novels present a rich portrait of early twentieth-century British society through an authorial sensibility that is skeptical yet compassionate. The unabridged texts invite immersion in Delafield’s rhythms and cadences, letting readers appreciate the recurrent motifs of social performance, institutional life, and the search for a viable self within given limits. Their enduring appeal lies in a balance of keen humor and sober insight, in characters recognizable for their contradictions, and in plots that illuminate rather than sensationalize. This collection offers both a cohesive introduction for new readers and a reliable, complete reference for those revisiting a distinctive, disciplined, and perceptive body of work.
Historical Context
E. M. Delafield—born Edmée Elizabeth Monica de la Pasture in 1890, daughter of the novelist Mrs. Henry de la Pasture—came of age at the hinge between the Edwardian era and modern Britain. Her first wartime novel appeared in 1915, and by 1922 she had charted, in successive fictions, the country’s passage from pre-war conventions to post-war improvisations. The six novels gathered here trace that arc, engaging the social dynamics of provincial England, London’s cultural gravity, and the war-shaped bureaucracies that touched everyday life. Marriage to Major Arthur Paul Dashwood in 1919 and a move to Devon grounded her in the West Country, a vantage that sharpened her portraits of small-town institutions, committees, and households.
The Edwardian background—1901 to 1910, extending into the tense pre-war years—framed Delafield’s early subjects: debutante seasons, finishing schools, convent education, and the precarious economies of middle-class respectability. Women’s public agitation intensified: the Women’s Social and Political Union under Emmeline and Christabel Pankhurst dramatized demands, while Millicent Fawcett’s National Union of Women’s Suffrage Societies pursued constitutional methods. The “Cat and Mouse Act” of 1913 symbolized state responses to militancy. Such pressures formed the mental furniture of a generation negotiating propriety, ambition, and marriage. London’s drawing rooms, suburban villas, and provincial parlors supplied stages where reputation, class distinction, and moral instruction intersected with new ideas about female autonomy.
The First World War (1914–1918) redirected British life into mobilized patterns of labor, charity, and administration that Delafield observed closely. The Defence of the Realm Act (1914) and the Ministry of Munitions (1915, under David Lloyd George) reconfigured work and authority. Voluntary Aid Detachments (VADs), the British Red Cross, and countless local committees created a vast female-led home front, while conscription (1916) and air raids pulled anxiety into domestic spaces. The 1918 influenza pandemic compounded the sense of precariousness. The Home Counties, the Midlands’ industrial belts, and West Country towns alike were folded into a national endeavor, generating the bureaucratic and philanthropic milieus that recur across Delafield’s wartime and immediate post-war fiction.
Bureaucracy, a recurring social environment in these novels, expanded dramatically during and after the war. New offices, record systems, and managerial hierarchies filtered from Whitehall into county councils and municipal departments. The efficiency movement, influenced by Frederick Winslow Taylor’s principles and British “National Efficiency” debates, encouraged audit culture, timetables, and performance measures. The Sex Disqualification (Removal) Act of 1919 opened professional doors to women, even as marriage bars, adopted by many parts of the Civil Service by the early 1920s, reinstated limits. These legal and administrative currents structured the tensions of status, credentialism, and gender that animate Delafield’s depictions of offices, committees, and the reputational risks of working women.
Demobilization unsettled expectations. The Treaty of Versailles (1919) was followed by the Addison Housing Act (1919), promising “Homes Fit for Heroes,” and by the severe slump of 1920–1921. The 1921 Census revealed a marked female “surplus,” a demographic fact altering marriage prospects and intensifying debates over women’s employment and independence. Rationing eased by 1920, but thrift and resourcefulness remained domestic virtues. Organizations such as the Women’s Institute (introduced to Britain in 1915) and the Girl Guides (founded 1910) helped craft rural and suburban networks of female sociability and leadership. These institutional and demographic shifts inform Delafield’s interest in household economies, spinsterhood, and civic responsibility across provincial settings.
Education and religion formed another crucible of post-war identity. The Fisher Education Act of 1918 raised the school-leaving age to 14 and endorsed continuation instruction, while the Newbolt Report (1921) reconsidered the teaching of English, culture, and citizenship. Progressive pedagogies—Montessori’s child-centered methods, the influence of schools like Bedales, and broader “New Education” currents—challenged rote discipline. Yet denominational schools and Catholic convents remained formative institutions, particularly for girls of certain classes. The tension between spiritual vocation and worldly duty, and between modern pedagogy and traditional moral tutelage, provided Delafield with a field in which to test aspirations, pieties, and the social uses of education in both city and countryside.
Delafield’s career unfolded within a dynamic literary marketplace reshaped by war-time paper controls (from 1917), circulating libraries like Boots, and an expanding periodical culture. The feminist weekly Time and Tide, founded by Margaret, Lady Rhondda in 1920, exemplified the platforms available to women writers and readers. Between the Edwardian realism of Arnold Bennett and the formal experiment of Virginia Woolf and May Sinclair, a broadly “middlebrow” novel of manners flourished, attentive to committees, offices, and drawing rooms. Satire, social comedy, and psychological scrutiny supplied tools for examining status anxiety, reputations, and provincial mores—techniques Delafield deployed across her 1915–1922 novels to register both continuity and dislocation.
Place, finally, shapes the collection’s shared background. London remained the axis of publishing, politics, and fashion, yet Delafield’s attention repeatedly returns to the provinces: Devon and Somerset villages, West Country market towns, and administrative centers across southern and midland counties. Railways, post-war housing estates, and municipal institutions stitched localities into national rhythms. The Qualification of Women (County and Borough Councils) Act of 1907 had already drawn women into local governance, especially on education and welfare committees, roles amplified during the war. In these civic and domestic microcosms—parish halls, council chambers, offices, and schoolrooms—Delafield situates the moral negotiations of class, gender, and duty that link all six novels.
Synopsis (Selection)
Zella Sees Herself (1915)
A coming-of-age portrait of a young woman negotiating class expectations and romantic prospects, as her sense of identity is shaped—often misleadingly—by how others see her.
The War Workers (1918)
Set on the British home front during World War I, this satire follows a bustling relief organization where an autocratic leader and fatigued volunteers clash over duty, vanity, and genuine service.
Consequences (1919)
Tracing a privileged young woman’s search for belonging—from society drawing rooms to the rigors of a religious vocation—the novel highlights the narrow choices available to women and the personal costs of conformity.
Tension (1920)
When a competent new employee with a rumored past joins a provincial institution, office politics, gossip, and class prejudice spark a campaign of quiet sabotage that threatens careers and reputations.
The Heel of Achilles (1921)
A study of talent and vulnerability in postwar society, in which a single, revealing weakness gradually undermines relationships and aspirations without tipping into melodrama.
Humbug: A Study in Education (1922)
A sharp satire of fashionable educational theories, following well-meaning adults and impressionable pupils as lofty ideals collide with vanity, incompetence, and unintended outcomes.
Collected Novels of E. M. Delafield (6 Unabridged Editions in One Volume)
Zella Sees Herself (1915)
PROLOGUE
THE French window of the dining-room at Villetswood stood wide open, disclosing a glittering perspective of white cloth laden with silver and flowers and gilt candlesticks crowned by pink shades.
Gisèle de Kervoyou, aged seven, balanced herself on one foot upon the threshold of the window.
She was gazing eagerly at the beautiful, gleaming vista, repeated in the great mirror at the far end of the room. With a gesture that was essentially un-English, the child shrugged her shoulders together, stepped very daintily into the dining-room, and approached the table. Her dark grey eyes were narrowed together, her head thrown back as though to catch any possible sound, and she moved as gracefully and as soundlessly as a kitten.
With tiny dexterous fingers she abstracted some three or four chocolate bon-bons from as many little silver dessert-dishes, thrust one into her mouth, and the others into the diminutive pocket of her white frock. Then for the first time she looked guilty, flung a terrified glance round her, and fled noiselessly across the room and out into the garden again.
"Zella! aren't you coming?"
"Yes, yes."
Zella ran across the terrace to the big oak-tree where her cousins, James and Muriel Lloyd-Evans, wore earnestly engaged in digging a passage through the earth to Australia
"Where have you been?" Muriel inquired.
"On to the top terrace," said Zella glibly; "and I saw a big white horse, trampling on all the flowers."
"Where, where?" shrieked Muriel, flinging down her spade. James, a quiet little boy who bore unmoved the reputation of being a prig, looked up inquiringly.
"It's gone now," said Zella. "Papa shot it."
"Shot it dead?" said Muriel, awestruck.
"I don't believe it," remarked James, and resumed his digging.
Zella felt a wave of fury pass over her at this insult. It made her so angry to be disbelieved that she completely lost sight of the entire justification for James' attitude.
"It is true," she cried passionately; "I did see it!" And across her mental vision there passed a very distinct picture of a mammoth white horse destroying the geraniums with plunging hooves, and then suddenly stilled for ever by a gun-shot.
Muriel, who hated quarrels, said: "Don't be angry, Zella. Let's go on digging."
And the governess, who had followed the conversation with what attention she could spare from a novel, looked up and remarked, "James, you are not to tease your cousin," while inwardly thanking Providence that she was not responsible for the upbringing of that untruthful little half-foreign child, Zella de Kervoyou.
But Zella, who was hurt by a suspicion of her truthfulness as by nothing else, rushed away to sob and cry behind the laurel hedge, and wish that she was dead.
"Was it really an untruth?" Muriel asked with a horrified face as her cousin fled in tears.
"I am afraid so, dear," replied Miss Vincent with some asperity, thinking it worth while to improve the occasion. "Your little cousin is very young; when she grows older she will see how very naughty it is to tell stories."
"I don't believe Zella tells stories," muttered James, in a tone inaudible to the governess.
"But you said she did, just now."
"No, I didn't. I said I didn't believe about the horse, that's all."
Muriel looked bewildered.
"But, then, it was an untruth," she reiterated helplessly.
"It's an untruth when you or me say what isn't true, but not Zella," said James, with psychological insight far beyond his powers of grammatical expression.
"But why?"
"Because she's different, that's all. Let's go on digging."
Meanwhile Zella cried and sobbed, crouching on the ground behind the laurel hedge, convinced that nobody loved her, and with a terrible feeling that she was the naughtiest little girl in the whole world. This dreadful state of affairs had all been brought about by the theft of the chocolates, and now that she was confronted by some of the results of her crime Zella felt an unendurable remorse. At least she mistook it for remorse, though it was chiefly a passionate desire to regain her own self-esteem. She rose and went slowly towards the house, a pathetic tiny figure, in her crumpled white frock, with tear-stained face and quivering mouth.
From the top terrace her mother was advancing slowly. At sight of the woe-begone figure of her only child, Madame de Kervoyou sprang forward.
"What is the matter, my darling?"
Zella immediately began to cry again, was lifted on to her mother's lap, and asked if she had hurt herself.
"No—no."
"Oh, my pet, you haven't quarrelled with the others again, have you? said poor Madame de Kervoyou, who knew that her sister would place any dissension among the children to the credit of that French blood of Zella's, which she owed entirely to her father.
"Have you been naughty?"
"Yes," wailed Zella, with an awful sense of the relief to be founding confession;" I've been most dreadfully wicked." "What have you done?"
"I went into the dining-room, and—and—I took"
Zella gasped.
The clasp of her mother's arms was intensely comforting, and she dreaded the loosening of that clasp at the revelation of her iniquity.
"I took—I took "—her courage failed her—" one chocolate off the table, and I ate it."
"My darling! you know you must never take what isn't yours like that.. It's stealing," said Madame de Kervoyou, with an utter absence of conviction in her tone that was not lost upon Zella.
"But it was very brave of you to come and tell me, and when you are honest like that you know mother never punishes you."
The most intense relief of which seven-years-old is capable filled Zella's heart. Her partial confession had brought her comfort, absolution, and even a sense of complacency at her own voluntary revelation of a sin that might have remained hidden for ever. When her mother said, " Were you crying so sadly about that, my poor little baby?" it was with perfect conviction that Zella replied, "Yes; I was so miserable after I'd done it." It was the orthodox attitude of a sinner, and rilled Zella with a feeling of self-righteousness.
It was with a pang of undiluted dismay that she remembered, half an hour afterwards, the other stolen chocolates in her pocket. Before she went to bed Zella had buried them in the garden, and felt herself noble because she did not eat one of them.
The episode of the white horse amongst the flower-beds was allowed to drop, and never penetrated to the ears of the authorities. Nor was it mentioned amongst the children during the rest of James and Muriel's visit. Muriel forgot the incident, but retained a general impression that Zella was by nature untruthful, and therefore never to be quite trusted again. James, who never forgot things, remembered all about it, but thought it profoundly unimportant. Zella forgot everything but that she had courageously confessed a great sin to her mother, and had been pardoned, and that night she fell asleep with tears still sparkling on her thick lashes and her lips parted in
The attitude of mind thus denoted remained typical of Zella de Kervoyou.
I
WHEN Zella de Kervoyou was fourteen her mother died.
She died at Villetswood, towards evening, after a week's illness, when September reds and golds were staining the trees and a species of Indian summer had set in. The day after her death, her only sister, Mrs. Lloyd Evans, telegraphed to Zella's father: "Heartbroken at terrible news of dearest Esmée. Shall be with you this evening."
Louis de Kervoyou crumpled the telegram into the waste-paper basket. He sat at the writing-table in the bay-window of the study, where the blind was not drawn, and looked out at the garden, still brilliant with autumn flowers.
The door opened, and his only child, Zella, came in.
She was a slender little thing, very small for her age, with beautiful grey eyes and thick soft hair of a peculiarly pale brown colour. Her face was pale and stained with tears. Louis had hardly seen her since the preceding evening, when he had himself told her of her mother's death.
She crept towards him now, half timidly, and he held out his hand. Zella flung herself on the floor beside him, and leant her head, that ached from crying, against his knee.
"Poor child !" said Louis very gently, and stroked the brown hair. But his gaze was far away over the distant hills.
"Papa—may I—may I "said Zella, half choked.
"May you what, my dear?" Louis's voice was as usual, though Zella spoke in a half-whisper, but there was an underlying note of despairing weariness in his level tones.
"Come with you and see her?" said Zella, with a fresh outburst of tears.
"Why?"
The question startled Zella, and jarred upon her, gently though it had been spoken.
"Because," she sobbed—" because—oh, don't you understand?—to say good-bye to her?"
"She is not there," said Louis very steadily. "Your mother's spirit is not there. All that was her is gone. She would not wish you to see what is left, my poor little child!"
There was a silence. Zella was crying again. Presently he spoke to her softly:
"Zella, try and stop crying, mignonne. You will make yourself ill."
"I can't—I can't—I wish I was dead, too."
Louis spoke no more. Presently a servant came in half hesitatingly, and announced that the clergyman was waiting; and he rose instantly and went into the hall, where Zella heard a subdued murmur of voices. Only one sentence reached her, spoken by her father.
"I wish it to be at once. To-day is Monday—on Thursday afternoon, then."
Zella guessed, with a pang that made her feel physically sick, that they were speaking of her mother's funeral. She fled away through the other door of the study, and gained her own room, where she lay on the bed unable to cry any more, until a pitying maid brought her a cup of tea.
"Try and drink it, Miss Zella dear; it'll do you good," said the maid, sobbing.
"I can't—take it away," moaned Zella, although she was faint from crying and want of food.
"Oh, Miss Zella dear, you must. Whatever will your poor papa do if you're ill! you've got to be a comfort to him now."
Zella sobbed drearily.
"Do try and take just a drop, like a dear. Sophia!" cried the maid in a sort of subdued call, as another servant went past the open door, and cast a pitying look at the little prone figure on the bed.
"Sophia ! whatever can I do with Miss Zella if she won't eat nor drink? I tell her she'll be ill—won't she?—if she goes on crying so."
"And she didn't eat a morsel of breakfast, either," chimed in Sophia.
"Come, Miss Zella, do have a try, like a dear!"
The two servants coaxed and implored the child, the violence of whose sobs had now redoubled, until she at length sat up and choked over a few mouthfuls of the tea, long since grown cold.
"That's a brave young lady," said the kind maids admiringly as they went away, whispering to one another that poor Miss Zella had a terrible amount of feeling, and had been crying all night.
"The master, he hasn't shed a tear yet. Stunned, I believe," said Sophia.
And they descended to the lower regions, to join in the innumerable comments on the awful suddenness of it all, and the " dreadful feeling " produced by a death in the house.
Towards six o'clock the wheels of the carriage were heard, and Louis came out of his wife's room with his set face of resolute composure, and went into the hall to greet his sister-in-law.
Mrs. Lloyd-Evans was a tall, good-looking woman, still under forty, and looking even younger than she was. She resembled Esmée de Kervoyou in nothing.
Her face was swollen with tears, and she was in black, with a heavy crepe veil.
"Louis! Louis!" she wrung her brother-in-law's hand: "I can't believe it—our poor, poor darling! . . ." Her voice died away under the crepe veil.
"It was very good of you to come so quickly," said Louis gently. "Have you had tea, Marianne?"
She shook her head and negatived the suggestion by a quick movement.
"Where is poor, poor little Zella?" inquired Mrs. Lloyd-Evans.
"I will send for her: come into the drawing-room."
In the drawing-room a fresh paroxysm of sobbing overtook her, as she raised the heavy veil and looked around her.
"Last time I was here—how different! Oh, her workbox—her piano!" Louis rang the bell.
"It must have been fearfully sudden—your letter gave me no idea; and the shock of the telegram was terrible. You were with her?"
"Yes," said Louis in an expressionless voice. "I will tell you all you want to hear, Marianne; but pray try and —and be brave now. I will send for Zella."
"How is she?" said his sister-in-law, wiping her eyes.
The servant entered.
"Will you bring tea, and tell Miss Zella that Mrs. Lloyd-Evans has arrived?"
"How is the poor child?" again inquired her aunt.
"She is very much overwrought," said Louis calmly, "and has cried herself almost ill. I shall be very grateful, Marianne, if you will help her through the next two or three days, and induce her to eat and sleep properly, and try to check her tears. Her mother would not wish her to cry so, and make herself ill."
"It is far more natural that she should cry, and will be better for her in the end," said Marianne Lloyd-Evans almost resentfully. "And how can she not cry, unless she were utterly heartless and callous—her own mother, and, oh, what a devoted one!" Louis remembered the number of times that Marianne had accused Esmée of spoiling her only child, and said nothing.
When Zella entered, her aunt sprang up with a cry of pity, and clasped the little forlorn figure in her arms.
Zella's tears began afresh at the tenderness, and they wept together. Louis de Kervoyou gazed again out of the window, where darkness was falling over the garden, and presently left the room.
He did not again see his sister-in-law until they met at dinner.
At the sight of Esmée's empty chair she started a little and pressed her handkerchief to her eyes. They spoke very little while the servants were in the room. The strange awe that fills a house visited by death hung heavy in the silence.
Once Louis asked, "Has Zella gone to bed?" and her aunt said, "Yes, she is worn out. I gave her a little something that will put her to sleep."
When dinner was over, and they were again in the drawing-room, Marianne said rather nervously:
"I shall be glad to go to bed early to-night, but I wanted to ask you first, Louis, about arrangements."
"The funeral is to be on Thursday. There is no reason to make it any later. It will be here, of course."
"She would have wished that," murmured Marianne "—to lie in the little churchyard so near her own home. Oh, Louis, Louis! I can't realize she's gone."
Louis listened to her as in a dream, but spoke very gently:
"It has been a terrible shock to you. I wish you could have had more preparation, but no one anticipated it until the very day before, when I sent you the first telegram."
"I know—I know. Can you bear to tell me how it all was?"
There was little enough to tell, but Louis told her briefly of his wife's short illness and painless death. She had died unconscious.
"No words—no message?" sobbed Mrs. Lloyd-Evans.
"She did not know that she was dying."
"The clergyman?"
"I did not send for him," replied Louis quietly.
Mrs. Lloyd-Evans had long known that her brother-in-law was "nothing," as she phrased it, with regard to religious convictions, and she had often feared that poor Esmée, since her marriage, had given up even going to church, which, to Mrs. Lloyd-Evans, was synonymous with atheism. She said no more, but bade Louis an emotional good-night, and went slowly up to her room, although it was very little after nine.
Louis, left alone at last, went out into the dusk of the garden.
"Esmée! Esmée!"
He wondered if he could retain his sanity.
"Zella, my child, have you nothing black to put on?" Mrs. Lloyd-Evans had never addressed her niece as "my child before, and had she done so Zella would have resented it extremely, but now it appeared to them both as appropriately solemn.
next morning, looked at her aunt with vague, dark circled eyes. She was still in her white petticoat, and looked pathetically small and childish.
"I hadn't thought of that, Aunt Marianne," she faltered. "Must I put on black things?"
Mrs. Lloyd-Evans thought that the gentlest of hints might not come amiss, in order to counteract any possible unconventional ideas on the part of poor Louis, who, after all, was far more French than English.
"You see, dear," she said very gently, " it is as a mark of respect. One doesn't want anyone—the servants or anybody—to think one doesn't care. You will wear mourning a year for your dear, dear mother. That is what is customary."
"Will papa want me to? asked Zella unexpectedly.
"He will want you to do what is right, darling. Aunt Marianne will talk to him about it."
Mrs. Lloyd-Evans habitually spoke of herself in the third person when addressing children.
"Now let me see what you've got," she continued, in the same gentle, inflexible voice.
"I have a black serge skirt, but not any blouses," said Zella, pulling open a drawer.
"Perhaps a white one would do for to-day. Or look, dear, this check one is black and grey: that will do better still; it is nice and dark."
"It is one that—that—she hated. I have hardly ever worn it," said Zella, beginning to cry again.
"You mustn't give way, Zella dear. That blouse and skirt must do for to-day, and I will telegraph for real mourning at once. You see, my poor darling, you must have it for Thursday; but there will just be time for it to arrive. To-day is Tuesday."
"Only Tuesday," thought Zella miserably, as she put on the check blouse and black skirt. "It was only Sunday evening that mother died, and it feels like days and days."
She wondered drearily if all her life she would be as miserable as she was now, and if so how she should bear it.
Presently she mechanically took up the broad scarlet ribbon that habitually tied back her brown hair.
"Haven't you a black ribbon, dear?" asked her aunt softly.
Zella had no black ribbon, and Mrs. Lloyd-Evans told her to plait her hair instead of tying it. It altered her appearance and made her look older.
They went slowly downstairs, Mrs. Lloyd-Evans holding her niece's hand as though she were a small child, and squeezing it convulsively as they passed the closed door of the room which had been Esmée's.
"It's so dreadful to have meals and everything just the same," said poor Zella as they passed through the hall to the dining-room.
"One must be brave, dear," replied her aunt.
Louis de Kervoyou was in the dining-room when they entered, and Mrs. Lloyd-Evans thought that he looked ten years older. When he had spoken the briefest of good-mornings, he looked rather strangely at Zella in her dark clothes and the unaccustomed plaited-back hair, but he said nothing. Mrs. Lloyd-Evans, who had rather dreaded some eccentric objection to conventional mourning, felt relieved, and the moment the silent breakfast was over she hastened to write out a telegraphic order to London for the blackest of garments on Zella's behalf.
This done, she again sought her niece.
"Zella, dear child," she said tremulously, "you know that—that it"—she could not bring herself to use the word "funeral "—" is to be on Thursday. Don't you wish to come with Aunt Marianne and see dearest mother for the last time? I'm afraid that a little later on it won't be possible any longer."
Zella did not understand, and looked up with miserable bewildered eyes.
"Papa said not," she faltered.
"Darling, you must have misunderstood him! Surely he would wish you to go in just for a little while—surely you wish it yourself?"
"Yes, oh yes! I did ask him, but he said not."
Zella felt a strange shame when she saw Aunt Marianne's disapproval. Of course it was right that she should be allowed to go and say a last good-bye to her dear, dear mother, and evidently Aunt Marianne had expected it.
"Wait here a moment, dear child," said Mrs. Lloyd-Evans.
She went downstairs and found Louis de Kervoyou wearily tearing open a number of telegrams of condolence.
"I have put 'No flowers ' in the obituary notice," he said, "but one or two wreaths have arrived. Perhaps you would be goad enough to see to them. And let Zella help you., Anything would be better for her than doing nothing."
"But why have you said 'No flowers,' Louis? It is such a beautiful idea, to give flowers as a token of love and remembrance. I know that Henry is bringing down a cross of lilies on Thursday, for I particularly told him to write for one from Soloman's at once."
"Yes—yes. Of course yours and Henry's shall be there," said poor Louis patiently. "That is not the same thing as a quantity of wreaths, which, though kindly meant, give a good deal of extra trouble."
"She would have liked one from Henry and me," said Mrs. Lloyd-Evans tearfully. "But, Louis, I came to speak to you about Zella. I want you to let me take the poor little thing with me into her room, before— before the men come to—to—"
"No!" cried Louis almost violently. "Esmee "— his sister-in-law drew in her breath with a sharp sound of pain at the name—" would not wish the child to remember her lying there, perhaps frightening her and making her ill."
"But Zella wishes to come, and I think she ought to," said Mrs. Lloyd-Evans with characteristically unmoved persistence.
"I refuse to allow it. You may take her in there, if you must, when the coffin is closed." His tone was absolutely final. "But, Marianne, I wish that you would take Zella out into the garden, at the back of the house, before eleven o'clock this morning."
"Oh, Louis! out so soon! the servants—"
"Marianne, I do not want her in the house eitherthen or to-morrow afternoon, and I beg that you willdo as I ask."
Marianne, against her better judgment, as she afterwards told her husband, felt that one could only yield. And so Zella knew nothing of the strange men who penetrated into the closed room that morning, and next day heard nothing of the heavy hammering that seemed to Louis de Kervoyou as though it would never cease.
II
ON Wednesday afternoon Mrs. Lloyd-Evans saw her brother-in-law shut himself into the study, after a morning spent in necessary and painful business, and immediately said to Zella, who had been gazing hopelessly into the small fire for the last hour:
"Will you come upstairs with Aunt Marianne now, darling?"
Zella understood that she meant to visit her mother's room, and her little drawn face became a shade more colourless than before.
She had scarcely seen her father since Aunt Marianne's arrival, and had clung to the weeping, demonstrative tenderness and ceaseless murmured recollections of dear, dear mother that alone seemed to make endurable the endless hours. She crept upstairs with her little shaking hand in Aunt Marianne's, but at the familiar door, which had suddenly grown terrible, Zella began to sob hysterically.
Aunt Marianne tightened her hold on Zella's hand and gently opened the door.
Such a curious hush pervaded the darkened room that Zella instinctively ceased sobbing. At the foot of the bed was a light oak coffin placed upon trestles. It was closed.
In the gloom Zella could make out the familiar shapes of the dressing-table and the big bed and the old armchair she had always known in the bow-window.
Her aunt moved gently forward, fumbling for her handkerchief as she went.
"Wouldn't you like to kneel down and say a little prayer?" she whispered to Zella, who stood as though stupefied.
Zella's mother had taught her to pray as a baby, but for- the last three years she had dropped the custom, which was meaningless to her. But, thus prompted, she fell upon her knees beside the strange hard coffin, and leant her aching head against the wood. She felt too sick and bewildered to cry any more.
But what was there to pray for, if God would not bring mother back to life again?
Zella looked across at her aunt, whose head was dropped upon her hands.
Suddenly Zella felt that it must all be a nightmare, and that she would presently wake up and find that mother was here and this dreadful dream gone. It couldn't be true. A horrible sort of impatient fury seized her—the fury of the undisciplined soul against pain. She clenched her hands to prevent herself from screaming aloud, and suddenly found that she wanted to go away from this darkened room as she had never wanted anything before. She looked across at her Aunt Marianne with a kind of suppressed rage, and began to pray wildly and half unconsciously:
"O God, let us go—let Aunt Marianne get up and go— I can't bear it—make her get up—make us go away from here—oh, make her get up and go!"
It seemed to her that she had been calling so, madly and agonizedly, upon an unheeding God for hours, when her aunt rose at last and laid a hand upon her shoulder. Zella's little tense form relaxed suddenly, and she felt curiously weak and spent.
Aunt Marianne stooped solemnly and pressed her lips upon the lid of the coffin. Then she paused a moment, and Zella, rising trembling to her feet, bent also and passionately kissed the senseless wood.
"It is good-bye to mother," she thought desperately; but she did not really feel that the hard wood of the coffin and this cold, darkened room had any connection with the sweet, laughing mother whom she had last seen leaning back against her pillows, and saying gaily:
"I shall be quite well again to-morrow."
When they had left the room, Aunt Marianne had said, as she seemed to have said so very often since she came:
"Now, if I were you, I should go and lie down for a little while upon your bed, Zella dear. It will do you good. Let Aunt Marianne come and arrange you comfortably."
Zella mechanically followed Mrs. Lloyd-Evans, and passively allowed herself to be divested of her shoes, helped on to her bed, and covered with a quilt. Mrs. Lloyd-Evans kissed her very kindly, said, " Try and have a little sleep now, darling, just till five o'clock," and rustled softly away.
Zella lay still. She had gone to bed very early the evening before, and had slept all night with the heavy slumber of a child exhausted from crying, and she felt no inclination to sleep again now.
She traced the pattern of the wall-paper idly with her finger. When the funeral was over, would things be as dreadful as they were now? Zella felt that, somehow, it would be terrible to be left alone with her father, who must be so very, very unhappy, poor papa! although he had not cried and did not talk about mother like Aunt Marianne did. Would he never talk about her any more? Some people did not ever talk of their relations who were dead.
Mother was dead.
Zella came back to that thought with an aching wonder that it should bring no greater pang of realization with it. Perhaps that was what people meant by being stunned with grief. Perhaps one only realized later, when one had got used to being without—No, no!it would be impossible ever to get accustomed to it, ever to be happy again, all one's life long. ... "And I'm only fourteen, and perhaps I may live to be very old," thought Zella, and tears of self-pity welled into her eyes.
She cried a little, but her swollen eyelids burnt and smarted so that presently she stopped.
She had been here a long while; it must be five o'clock, and tea would break the miserable monotony of the day. Zella looked at her watch, and thought, as so often during those unspeakably wretched days of inaction, that it must have stopped. It was not yet a quarter 'past four. She held the watch despairingly to her ear, but it was still going.
It seemed unbearable.
Zella tried to make herself cry again by thinking of all the early recollections of her mother that had made her sob so unrestrainedly when she and Aunt Marianne had talked of them yesterday. But the tears would not come.
She turned over and buried her face in the pillow, unspeakably wretched. Only the third day since her mother's death, and she felt as though this life of strained misery had lasted for years. Would nothing ever bring it to an end?
It must be at least ten minutes since she had looked at: her watch. It couldn't be less than twenty-five minutes past four now, thought Zella, half expecting to see that it was even later. She looked at her watch again, and held it to her ear.
Four minutes had passed.
Her eyes fell upon a half-read copy of "Treasure Island" on her bookshelf. She had looked at it that morning and remembered how much excited she had been over reading it only three days ago, and then turned away her eyes with a feeling of shame that she should be capable of such a thought at such a time.
Now she felt that, if only she might read, it would make the time ' less unbearably long. Confusedly she craved any relaxation of the emotional tension to which her mind had been strung during the last three days.
For a few moments Zella battled against the suggestion. It was wicked and heartless to want to read a story-book when mother
How dreadful Aunt Marianne would think it!
But, then, Aunt Marianne needn't know—no one would ever know—and to read for a little while would help her to forget her misery. . . .
Zella crept to the bookshelf in her stockinged feet, casting terrified glances at the door, and pulled down the brightly bound blue and gold book. Then she fled back on to the bed with it.
At first she could understand nothing of what she read, and was only conscious of a sickening sense of guilt and the heavy pounding of her own heart as she strained her ears for the sound of Aunt Marianne's possible approach. But presently the excitement of the story revived, and Zella read eagerly, dimly conscious that unhappiness was waiting in the background to seize upon her, but knowing it to be kept at bay for so long as she should be held absorbed by her book.
When at last she heard the unmistakable rustle of Mrs. Lloyd-Evans's new mourning at the door, Zella, a patch of colour blazing in each pale cheek, thrust "Treasure Island" beneath her pillow.
After that she read eagerly and furtively whenever she could. It was the only means of forgetting for a little while the dull pervading sense of grief which was making life so strange and unbearable.
When Thursday morning dawned serene and cloudless, Zella woke early, and lay in bed reading intently until she remembered, with a sickening pang, that on this day was to take place her mother's funeral.
Then she pushed the book away and began to sob, with a dreary sense of shame and degradation added to her unhappiness.
After the silent breakfast, at which Mrs. Lloyd-Evans, with all the first shock of her grief apparently renewed, had refused everything but a cup of tea, Louis de Kervoyou said abruptly:
"They will be here at two o'clock, Marianne, to fetch"
"I know—I know," she interrupted hurriedly.
"It will take quite an hour to walk down there; they will have to go slowly."
The coffin of Esmée de Kervoyou was to be borne down the hill to the village churchyard by some of the tenants on the estate.
"Will anyone be coming back here afterwards?" asked Mrs. Lloyd-Evans.
"Only old Mr. Oliver and his daughter, who will have a long way to drive," said Louis, with his fixed composure; "and Henry, of course," he added.
Mrs. Lloyd-Evans's husband was arriving that day.
"Will you be kind enough to see about some refreshment, Marianne?" said Louis. "They will be back here by four o'cloak."
"I will see to it all. These duties are so dreadful, but one must be brave. Don't think of it, Louis; I will do it all."
Zella listened as though she were in a dream. Presently she turned to her aunt, and whispered: "Am I going to—to—it?"
"Oh yes, darling; you will walk with poor papa," said Mrs. Lloyd-Evans aloud.
"What is that?"Louis looked round, and was struck with compassion at the sight of Zella's colourless face and the great stains round her eyes.
"Why don't you go out into the garden? It is a lovely day," he said gently.
Zella shrank back a little, looking at her aunt, whom she felt to be shocked at the suggestion, and Mrs. Lloyd-Evans interposed tactfully:
"It will be beautifully fine for this afternoon. 'Zella will walk down to the church with you, Louis, I suppose."
He looked at her as though he scarcely understood.
"I had never thought of her coming at all," he said at last. "Why should she? You don't wish to- come, do you, Zella?"
Zella hesitated, thinking that her father wanted her to say no, and that her aunt would think her heartless if she did.
"Whichever you like," she faltered.
"Zella is quite old enough to come to her own
mother's "Mrs. Lloyd-Evans again choked over
the word and left it unspoken. "Indeed, Louis, I think we must consider what people would say, dreadful though it seems to think of these things at such a time; but people would wonder"
"There is nothing to wonder about. She shall do as she wishes. Why should she want to go?"
Mrs. Lloyd-Evans interposed quickly:
"Zella, my poor child, you want to see your dear, dear mother laid to rest, don't you? near the little church
where "Mrs. Lloyd-Evans stopped rather abruptly,
as she discovered that she could not recall any possible connection between the little church and Esmée's memory.
"Her mother is dead," cried Louis, low and vehemently. "What they are taking to the churchyard is not her. I will not have any false sentiment introduced into the child's mind. Zella, you can decide for yourself. Do you wish to go or not?"
"No," murmured Zella, who was frightened at a tone which she had never heard before from her merry, kindly father.
Louis de Kervoyou, as he left the room, made a gesture of acquiesence that was supremely un-English, and served to remind Mrs. Lloyd-Evans that one must make allowances for a brother-in-law who was practically a Frenchman.
"Poor papa is very much overwrought, darling, and no wonder," she murmured. "Besides, gentlemen do not always think quite as we do about these things."
Mrs. Lloyd-Evans always spoke of "gentlemen," never of " men," unless they definitely belonged to the lower classes of the social scale.
"Gentlemen do not always quite understand," was one of her favourite generalizations, and she told Zella gently that gentlemen did not always quite understand the comfort that was to be found in the Church.
Zella thought that her aunt would be shocked if she said that she had-very seldom been to church, and had not liked it when she had gone, so she answered tearfully:
"Poor papa! he is dreadfully unhappy."
"You must try and comfort him, dear child."
Mrs. Lloyd-Evans, not in general prodigal of endearments, now seemed unable to address her niece without some such expression. Zella felt vaguely that it must be appropriate to her new black frock and bereaved condition.
"Why not go to him in the study, darling, and tell him that dear mother is in heaven and happy, and he must try and not grieve for her, and that you mean to be his little comfort?"
Zella, at this suggestion, mechanically saw her own slender black-garbed figure kneeling beside her father's chair in the study, and heard her own clear, unfaltering voice uttering tender sentiments of faith and consolation. It seemed appropriate enough, and Aunt Marianne evidently thought it so. A certain subtle discomfort at the back of her mind, however, warned her that the project, for some reason which she could not quite analyze, might prove difficult to execute.
"Perhaps afterwards," she faltered, " not now."
"No, darling, now is best," said Mrs. Lloyd-Evans, with the soft-voiced inflexibility, totally unfounded on reason, characteristic of her where her own opinions were concerned. "Papa is all alone in the study; it is your place to comfort him."
It must be the right thing to do, then.
Zella left the room slowly, and as she crossed the hall she discovered that a little pulse was throbbing in her throat and that her hands had suddenly become cold. She clasped them nervously together, and told herself that papa, who had never been angry with her in her life, could not be anything but comforted if she came to him now. She was his only child—all that he had left to him; it was right that she should try and be a comfort.
She did not know why she felt so frightened.
Suddenly she turned the door handle.
"Come in," said her father's familiar tones, with the weary sound that was new to them.
He was sitting at the writing-table, much as Zella had pictured him in her mental rehearsal, and the fact suddenly gave her courage to carry out her own roje.
Crossing the room swiftly, she knelt down besidenim, and repeated faithfully, though with a nervous catch in her voice, the sentiments deemed appropriate to the occasion by Aunt Marianne.
"Darling papa, please don't be so dreadfully unhappy. Darling mother is in heaven now, and she is happy, and— and I will try and be a comfort to you always, as she would have wished."
The hurried, gasping accents, which were all that Zella's thumping heart allowed her to produce, died away into silence, and she felt that the performance had been absurdly inadequate. She had not even dared to raise her eyes to his, with a beautiful look of trust and tenderness; on the contrary, they were cast down as though from shame.
Still the appalling silence continued. Her father had not moved. At last he spoke, but it was in a tone that Zella had never heard from him before:
"I don't want any play-acting now, Zella. You can go back to your Aunt Marianne."
The words cut her like a knife, few though they were and quietly spoken. In such an agony of pain and humiliation as she had never known in all her short life before, Zella sprang to her feet and rushed to her own room.
Mrs. Lloyd-Evans found her there half an hour later, crying convulsively, and soothed her very affectionately, supposing that it was the thought of her mother's funeral which had renewed her tears. But the tears were bitterer and more painful than all those Zella had shed from grief, for they came from her passionate and deeply wounded self-esteem.
That afternoon the body of Esméede Kervoyou was laid in the grave, while her only child, crouching upon the floor in her room, pressed her fingers into her ears that she might not hear the tolling of the bell.
Mrs. Lloyd-Evans had said rather half-heartedly,
"My poor child, you cannot stay here alone. Shall Aunt Marianne stay with you?" but Zella had begged to be left alone, and, as Mrs. Lloyd-Evans afterwards said to her husband:
"I was torn in two, Henry. I couldn't have borne not to follow my poor Esméeto her last resting-place, and, besides, it would have looked so very odd if I, her only sister, had not been there."
So she had tenderly told Zella to lie down upon her bed and rest a little, and had left a Prayer-Book, with the Burial Service carefully marked, and a Bible, beside her.
While the sound of heavy, careful feet, staggering downstairs under the weight of an awkward burden, was still audible, Zella lay with clenched hands, wishing that she could cry or pray, and feeling utterly unable to do either.
When all the sounds had died away, she took up the Bible and Prayer-Book desperately, but both were unfamiliar to her and she could not command her attention. She had had very little orthodox religious teaching, and had never known the need of a definite creed. She always supposed that her father and mother were Protestants, just as she knew that her grandmother and aunt in France were Catholics, but of the devout practice of either religion Zella knew nothing. In fact, Mrs. Lloyd-Evans, who called herself a Catholic and was a member of the Church of England, had given Zella a greater insight into the orthodox practices of religion during the last few days than any she had as yet received. But in her present overwrought condition Zella found the Bible incomprehensible and the Prayer-Book intolerable.
When the sound of the church bell came, faint and distant from the valley, Zella, shuddering, rose and locked her door, then snatched the copy of "Treasure Island" from the bookshelf, and, crouching against the bed, with her hands over her ears, read furiously.
III
"HENRY, if we walk up and down the drive, no one need see us from the village; though, after all, now that it's all over . . . one must take up one's ordinary life again sooner or later, and dear Esmée herself would wish one to be brave. Besides, I want to talk to you, and since poor Louis is again shut up in the study, and I have persuaded Zella to lie down, we may as well get some fresh air before it grows dark."
"Come along," said Henry Lloyd-Evans thankfully.
He was a tall, melancholy-looking man, who had been depressed and uncomfortable all day, and was heartily relieved to get out of the house of mourning.
"First of all," said Mrs. Lloyd-Evans, taking her husband's arm, "how did you leave the children?"
"All right. They were going to bicycle to Redhill this afternoon, and have tea in the woods."
"Henry dear, I don't think you should have allowed that. The servants will think it so odd. You may be sure they know perfectly well that the funeral was to-day. If Miss Vincent had been there, she would not have allowed such a thing, and the children must have known that perfectly well. It was very naughty and artful of them."
Mrs. Lloyd-Evans often suspected other people of artfulness, and it was a continual distress to her that she so frequently discovered traces of it in her own children.
"Muriel asked me if it would be all right, and I said yes; it really didn't seem to matter, so far away, and you couldn't expect the poor kids to stick indoors on a fine day like this," said her husband apologetically.
"Of course not, Henry—I am not so unreasonable as to expect anything of the kind; but they could quite well have stayed in the garden, and I think it showed great callousness to have gone tearing about the country on bicycles while their aunt, my only sister: "Mrs.Lloyd-Evans showed a tendency to become tearful.
"My dear," protested Henry, "I don't suppose they can even remember your poor sister."
"Nonsense! James was eight and Muriel nearly seven last time they stayed here. And little Zella has always been like a sister to them."
A sister with whom they had quarrelled so violently that Zella's last visit to the Lloyd-Evans's, two years ago, had been brought to an untimely end at her own request. Henry remembered the occurrence grimly, and how quietly voluble his wife had been upon the subject of Zella's deplorable upbringing, which she had stigmatized in one breath as foreign, pagan, and new-fangled.
But he had long ago learnt the futility of arguing against his Marianne's discursive inconsequence and gentle obstinacy, and he was at all times a man who preferred silence to speech.
"I wanted to ask you about Zella," continued Mrs. Lloyd-Evans—" whether it wouldn't be a good idea to take the poor little thing back with us on Saturday. It will cheer her up to be with companions of her own age, and the change will do her good. I don't know what poor Louis is going to do with her, I'm sure."
"To do with her?" echoed Henry uncomprehendingly.
"Yes. I don't suppose he'll keep a girl of fourteen alone with him, in this great lonely place. She has had no proper education—only what poor Louis himself has taught her, instead of engaging a good sensible governess —and the best thing he could do would be to send her to some first-rate school."
"He may—eventually—-marry again."
"Henry," said his wife with gentle impressiveness, "do not say things that sound unfeeling."
Henry became silent.
"For my poor Esmée's sake," continued Mrs. Lloyd-Evans, after a suitable pause, " I want to be a mother to her child. And I can't help feeling, Henry, how dreadful it would be if Zella got into the hands of her father's French relations."
"I didn't know he had any."
"Henry! I have spoken of them to you myself times out of number. You can't have forgotten. There is that dreadful old Baronne, as she calls herself—though I always think those foreign titles sound very fishy—who pretends to be Zella's grandmother."
"How can she pretend to be? Either she is or she isn't," Henry, not unnaturally, remarked.
"She is Louis's stepmother, don't you remember? and consequently no relation whatever to Zella," explained Mrs. Lloyd-Evans resentfully. "And I must say, Henry, it seems to me very extraordinary that neither she nor her daughter should have taken the trouble just to cross the Channel, when they heard of this dreadful tragedy. Dearest Esmée was always perfectly sweet to the artful old thing, and Zella was taught to call her Granny and everything; and now this is the result."
This logical summing up of the situation was received by Mr. Lloyd-Evans in silence. Presently, however, he said tentatively:
"I suppose they are Roman Catholics?"
"Indeed they are, and I always think it is a most special mercy of Providence that poor Louis was not brought up to be one too. Luckily, his father made some wise stipulation or other before he died, that his son must be brought up in a good old-fashioned Huguenot religion; and the Baronne could not get out of it, although she and her Jesuits must have had a good try."
"Perhaps," said Henry, wisely avoiding the burning topics of the Baronne de Kervoyou and her hypothetical Jesuits—" perhaps Louis will want to keep Zella with him for the time being."
