May 29, 1919.
Conster Manor,
Leasan,
Sussex.
My dear Stella,
I hope you won’t think it awful cheek of me to write to you, but I’ve been thinking of doing so for a long time—ever since you left, in fact. I felt so very sorry that just after I’d begun to know you again you should go away. You see I’m rather odd-man-out in the family, for though Jenny and I have always been pals, she’s frightfully preoccupied with things just now, and I get back so late and start off again so early next morning that I see very little of people at home. The same fact makes it difficult for me to keep up with the people I knew at school—I can’t have them at Conster, anyway. And at the works—oh, Gee! I can’t think where they come from. Either they’re of quite a bit different class, which I can get on with, though I don’t think I could ever make a friend of it, or else they’re a type of man I’ve never struck before, the kind that’s always talking of horses and girls, and the way he talks it’s rather difficult to tell ’tother from which. So may I—now it’s coming out!—may I write to you now and then? It would make such a difference to me, and you needn’t answer—at least, not so often as I write. I’d never dare ask you this to your face, but I can write things I can’t say. So please let me—it would be such a relief, and I’d be so grateful. I don’t pretend for a minute that it’ll be entertaining for you—I’ll simply be getting things off my chest. You see, I do such a frightful lot of thinking on the way to and from Ashford and you’ve done a lot of thinking too—I’m sure of it—so perhaps you’ll understand my thoughts, though I can tell you some of ’em are precious silly. This letter is a pretty fair specimen of what you’d have to expect, so if you don’t like it, squash me at once, for I’d hate to be a nuisance to you.
I hope you’re still liking the clinic. Your father told us about it last Sunday. I expect he’s given you all the Leasan and Vinehall news. He’ll have told you about Dolly Hurst’s wedding, anyhow. It was a simply terrible affair. I had to go, because they heartlessly chose a Saturday afternoon, and I was nearly stifled with the show. The church reeked of flowers and money and Israelites. In spite of my decided views on the filthiness of lucre, I can’t help thinking it a waste that a rich Gentile should marry a rich Jew when there are plenty of poor Gentiles in the neighbourhood. However, the bridegroom looks a decent fellow, and not so violently a son of Abraham. He had three sisters who were bridesmaids, and all treats, as we say at the shop. Forgive these vulgar musings on a solemn subject, but the occasion provokes them—and anyhow write and tell me if I may write again.
Yours in hope and fear,
GERVASE ALARD.
June 3.
15, Mortimer Street,
Birmingham.
My dear Gervase,
Very many thanks for your letter. Of course go on writing—I shall love hearing from you, though please don’t think I’m clever and “do a lot of thinking”—because I don’t. And I’m glad you say you won’t be exacting in the way of answers for I’m frightfully busy here. I have to be at the clinic at nine every morning, and often don’t get away till after six. I do all the dispensary work, weigh babies, etc.—it’s all most amusing, and I love it, and would be ever so happy if I felt Father was getting on all right without me. Now you might help me here and tell me what you think of Miss Gregory. Father of course makes out that he’s perfectly satisfied, but I feel that may be only because he doesn’t want me to worry or think I ought to come back. So you tell me if you think she’s a dud, though of course I don’t expect you’ll have much opportunity for finding out.
Yes, Father told me about the Hurst wedding, and I had a letter too from Mrs. George Alard. It seems to have been a regular Durbar. I’m rather surprised they found it possible to get married in church, the bridegroom not being a Christian. But perhaps he’s Jewish only by race. I hope so, because Mrs. George said Peter seemed very much smitten with his sister, who was chief bridesmaid. Of course this may be only her imagination. I wonder if you noticed anything. I suppose Peter’s living at Starvecrow now. I hope so much he’ll be able to do all he wanted for the estate.
Excuse more, but I’m frightfully busy this week, as there are one or two cases of smallpox in the city and a lot of vaccination being done.
Yours,
STELLA MOUNT.
Nov. 16.
Hollingrove,
Vinehall,
Sussex.
My dear Little Girl,
When we were together in the summer you told me you had quite “got over” Peter Alard, and I was so glad. All the same I want to send you the enclosed newspaper cutting before you have a chance of hearing the news from any other source—I feel it might still be a shock. I wish I had been less of a dull fellow and had my suspicions beforehand—then I might have prepared you—but I assure you I never thought of it. He met her for the first time at her brother’s wedding to Miss Hurst in May—she was one of the bridesmaids—and I’m told now that she stayed at Conster for a fortnight while we were away in August. She was down again this last week and I met her once or twice—she seems a very nice girl, quiet and well-bred and decidedly above the average in brains, I should think. Lady Alard told me she is writing a book. I was asked up to dinner last night, and Sir John announced the engagement, and this morning it was in the Times, so I’m writing off to you at once. My darling, you know how sorry I am that things did not turn out as we had both so fondly hoped. But I think that what has happened may be a comfort to you in many ways, as you were so afraid he would marry Dolly Hurst to please his family and we both agreed she could never make him happy. Miss Asher seems much more likely to be the kind of wife he wants—she is not so cold and intellectual, but seems warm-hearted and friendly, though as I’ve told you she’s decidedly clever. Peter seemed extremely happy when I congratulated him—it’s so nice to think that I can tell you this, and that your love was always of a kind which wanted his happiness more than its own. But I’m afraid this will be a blow to you, dear; in spite of what you have told me, and I heard Mass this morning with a special intention for you. I will write again in a day or two and tell you how the Elphicks are getting on and the rest of the news, but I must stop now as I hear Miss Gregory trying to crank up the car. It’s funny how she never seems able to manage it when the engine’s cold, while a little bit of a thing like you never failed to get it started. Goodbye, my darling, and God bless you.
Your loving father,
HORACE J. MOUNT.
Cutting from the Times of Nov. 16, 1919:
Mr. P. J. Alard and Miss V. L. I. Asher.
A marriage has been arranged and will shortly take place between Peter John Alard, eldest son of Sir John and Lady Alard of Conster Manor, Leasan, Sussex, and Vera Lorna Isabel, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Lewis Asher of 91, Orme Square, Bayswater.
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.