Nov. 20.
15, Mortimer Street,
Birmingham.
Dearest Father,
Thank you so much for writing to me the way you did, because in spite of what I said at Grasmere I think it would have been rather a shock if I’d seen it in the paper. Of course I have “got over” Peter in a way, but, oh, dear, it always gives one rather a pang to see one’s old love marrying—you remember all the lovely things he said to you, and you wonder if he’s now saying just the same to the other girl. I’m afraid this sounds rather cynical and sad, and a bit selfish, because I had definitely broken off with Peter, and since he can’t have really and truly loved me I ought to be glad he’s found someone he can really and truly love. Oh, I do hope he really and truly loves her, but one’s always afraid in a case like this when there’s money. It may have influenced him unconsciously, though I’m quite sure he wouldn’t have married her if he hadn’t been fond of her as well. Still “fond of” isn’t enough—oh, it would be dreadful to think he’d given me up and then married another woman whom he didn’t love even as much as he loved me. But do believe me, Father dear, I’m being sensible. Yesterday I went to confession and this morning I went to the Altar, and I feel ever so much better than I did at first. Of course, after what I said it seems ridiculous to mind so much, but it’s only when a thing is utterly finished that one realises how one has been stupidly hoping against hope the whole time.
I had a letter from Gervase yesterday, telling me a lot about Vera Lorna Isabel. I think she sounds nice, though rather brainy for old Peter. She and Dolly Hurst were both in a sort of literary set up in London and have met lots of authors and authoresses. Gervase says she has read them some of her book, and it’s frightfully clever, but he doesn’t think she’ll finish it now she’s engaged. I still hear regularly from Gervase; he writes once a week and I write once a fortnight, which sounds unfair, but you know how busy I am—though, for the matter of that, so is he. I think he’s an awfully nice boy, and I admire him for breaking free from the family tradition and striking out a line of his own.
Really Miss Gregory’s an awful ass if she can’t crank up the car—I never knew a car start easier, even on a cold morning. Father, when Peter’s safely married I think I’ll come home. I can’t bear being away from you, and I know nobody looks after you as well as I do (said she modestly). It’ll be quite all right—I came away partly for Peter’s sake as well as my own—I thought it would help the thing to die easier—but really I’d be a hopeless fool if I could never bear to meet him again, and whatever would become of you without me? How good of you to hear Mass for me. How is Father Luce? Please give him my love, though I don’t suppose he wants it. Does he talk any more now? I wish he’d be a more entertaining companion for you on Sunday evenings.
Lots of love and kisses and thanks and bless-yous from
Stella.