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.