Zella was aware with what feelings Mrs. Lloyd-Evans would view a declaration that her niece read a deeper and truer meaning into the Scriptures than had originally been infused there, and was thankful to Lady St. Craye for sparing her the necessity of a reply.
"Have you seen that very charming play of Maeterlinck's, I wonder? I am sure that is what Alison was thinking of—' The Blue Bird.' And there is a pretty idea running through it that"
"My dear mother," Alison ruthlessly interrupted, "Maeterlinck's children's play was pretty enough— though I consider it no compliment to use such an adjective, since personally I abhor prettiness—but do not suppose for an instant that he has done more than voice the theory which all serious thinkers of the present generation must hold: there is no such thing as death."
Mrs. Lloyd-Evans fixed Alison with a calmly hostile eye.
"Young people nowadays very often say that sort of thing, which sounds clever, and are attracted by that sort of free-thinking idea; but when you have entered into the realities of life it will all seem very different. I remember quite well, when I was a child, actually thinking that I should like to experience a great sorrow—
little knowing how in after-life I dare say I was an
original child—I know I used to think a great deal; and I dare say that is why I understand young people so well now, since I remember the queer ideas in my own little brain . Young people never realize what sorrow till they have experienced it, and that is why I always say that experience is the best teacher. Don't you think, Lady St. Craye, that when these girls are a little older, and really know what life is, it will all seem quite different to them?"
Lady St. Craye, who justly surmised that only her daughter's stupefaction at the impeachment of youthfulness, and hearing her theories compared to the queer ideas of Mrs. Lloyd-Evans's own little brain in the days of her childhood, kept her silent, rose hurriedly before the storm should have time to burst verbally.
"Let us have coffee upstairs; it is so much cooler in the drawing-room."
As she passed Alison's chair, where the outraged Miss St. Craye still sat as though turned to stone, she whispered beseechingly:
"Don't smoke, dearest, please; I am sure it would shock her dreadfully."
"Nothing shall induce me to come into the drawing-room at all," said Alison through her teeth, "until that woman has left it."
Lady St. Craye meekly followed her unpopular visitor upstairs. In the drawing-room a telegram was brought to Zella.
"Not again," murmured Mrs. Lloyd-Evans, one hand making a vague movement towards the region of her heart.
It not being clear whether the aspiration expressed a protest at the idea of a second demise on the part of the Baronne, and the contingency appearing, to say the least of it, a remote one, Lady St. Craye wisely remained silent while Zella tore open the yellow envelope.
She flushed as with a sudden emotion while reading it, but merely said, "There is no answer, thank you."
An expression of such mild determination came over Mrs. Lloyd-Evans's face as the servant left the room that Lady St. Craye hastily rose and glided downstairs with a murmur about looking for Alison.
Upon which Mrs. Lloyd-Evans laid her hand on Zella's, and said tenderly:
"Darling, I know very well I need not tell you that Aunt Marianne has no wish to pry, and no one has less curiosity about other people. But one thing you must tell me. There is no bad news about poor papa? I am so much afraid of his breaking down."
"Oh no; he had a very good journey, and arrived last night in Paris."
"Then, your telegram is from him, dear?"
"Yes," said Zella reluctantly.
"Very well, Zella dear. I am glad you have heard; I have been very, very anxious for news myself," said Mrs. Lloyd-Evans, with a shade of reserve in her manner, and withdrawing the hand laid upon Zella's. "You would know better, I am quite certain, than to make petty mysteries without reason if you had any real news."
She smiled so resignedly that Zella, always dominated by Aunt Marianne's kindness, handed over the telegram, murmuring weakly:
"Of course it is not private from you, Aunt Marianne."
"I felt sure it could not be, dear; your father and I have no secrets from one another. But, remember, I do not ask to see this, dear child," said her aunt, putting on her glasses and unfolding the telegram. "It must be exactly as you like. Just pull up the blind a little, dear; it is so dark I can hardly see to read."
She perused the message, which was a long one.
"Shall he ask your Aunt Stéphanie to make her home at Villetswood!" she murmured. "Why telegraph to you about that, dear? Surely a letter would have done as well; indeed, it seems to me very soon to be thinking about that sort of arrangement at all. But I see the answer is prepaid."
"Yes," said Zella unwillingly. "I must send it this afternoon, but there is no hurry."
She was far from sure of her own wishes, and had no desire to hear Aunt Marianne's advice.
But she was not to escape.
"Well, dear, since poor papa has telegraphed like this, I think you must send back a nice affectionate answer to say how glad you will be. Of course he must have settled it already, but I dare say he thought a kind message from you would be a comfort just now. So often a little thing is a comfort, in grief. People don't always realize that. I think you could get quite a nice little message into a few words. Let us see. . . . The address takes up six words, so that only leaves us five, and one for your name at the end. How would it do:' Delighted to see dear Aunt Stéphanie Villetswood '? Only, that's one word too many, and yet one doesn't quite like to take out the ' dear.'"
"Aunt Marianne," said Zella rather desperately, "I am not sure that I do want Tante Stéphanie to live with us."
"Then, darling, it is very selfish of you. Besides, it is probably all settled."
I think papa really meant me to decide."
"No, dear; you are too young to decide such a thing," said her aunt with immutable firmness. "There is no question of deciding, but I feel sure that poor papa hopes you will send a cordial, affectionate message to poor Aunt Stéphanie in her sorrow. One does not think of oneself at a time of mourning like this."
Zella, in spite of what she had supposed to be an iron resolution against impressionability, began to feel herself justly rebuked.
"Besides, Zella dear, it would really be just what you want at Villetswood. I have often felt that the want of a lady at the head of a household is such a terrible thing, and especially now that you are at home and beginning to grow up. You see, dear, Tante Stéphanie will be able to look after the servants, arid order the meals, and see to the housekeeping, and all those things which you could not manage. And, then, there will be somebody to sit at the head of the table later on, if poor papa should wish to entertain a little, which he very likely will, now that you are come out."
Zella's conviction that she did not want Tante Stéphanie to come and live at Villetswood increased by leaps and bounds, but she went on listening to Mrs. Lloyd-Evans's gentle volubility in a sort of
