Cousin Delia never scolded, and never disapproved. It seems to
me, when I think of that time now, that there were no rules at
Yearsly, no forbidden places, nothing we might not do. It seems
now, as though we had done just what we liked all the day long,
only somehow we did not want to do naughty things. To begin with
we did not quarrel. I cannot remember any quarrel between Guy
and Hugo except once, over a dead robin—when Guy called the cat
who killed it cruel, and Hugo insisted that it was not cruel,
because it did not understand.
Even then they had not fought, but their voices had been angry,
and that was very rare.
We did not want to annoy each other or other people, as my children
so often do; we did not want to disobey, but then there were
no rules to disobey. Sometimes I have thought that it was easy
for Cousin Delia, because Guy and Hugo were so little trouble
and so easy to manage, and that I could manage my own children
that way, if they had been like them; but this explanation is
not enough. Guy and Hugo would not have been so good with another
mother. They were not very good at school, and I know that I
was often naughty when I was not at Yearsly. I know that it was
something in Cousin Delia herself that made the atmosphere; a
kind of active peace and contentment that affected us, as it
affected the animals and the flowers she had.
She did not play with us often, she seldom took us for walks;
she left us much more alone, to ourselves, than I was ever left
at my grandmother’s in London, but she was always there when
we wanted her, always in the background, doing her own ploys,
and because she took pleasure in so many different things in
the day, we took pleasure in them also; pigeons and tame birds,
that came to her when she went out, and her big dogs and her
flowers, and her beautiful embroidery of bright butterflies and
flowers. Everything she touched or came in contact with became
alive, even the chairs and the curtains, and the little china
bowls. There was one chair in the drawing-room that was called
the ‘Little Chair.’ It was a little old chair of white-painted
wood with a high back and very low seat, and she had covered
it herself with an old piece of Mary Geraldine’s gold brocade.
This chair was not one of Mary Geraldine’s; it had lain forgotten
in a box room till Cousin Delia found it, but now it was a friend.
So many things at Yearsly were like that.
Another thing about Cousin Delia was the way she took us as we
were, and did not seem to want us different and better all the
time, as I do with my children, except perhaps John. We were
never afraid to say anything to her, for she was never shocked
or disappointed with us. I wonder sometimes if she did disapprove
of anything, or merely never thought of what she disliked.
I did not realize this so much until I married Walter, and found
that he and his mother disapproved of so many things; and of
course my mother did also, though differently.
She would read to us in the evenings, when it was too dark to
be outside; sitting by the fire in the long drawing-room, with
the lamp beside her. I can see her now, distinctly, if I shut
my eyes. In the high-backed arm-chair, her chin resting on her
hand, and her elbow on the arm of the chair. The lamplight would
fall across her hair and shine redly through her fingers on to
the book; and the ends of the room would be dark. Guy and Hugo
would be lying on the floor, Hugo almost always on the hearthrug,
with his chin in his hands, Guy more sideways, nearer the lamp,
and I would be on a footstool beside the fender.
The crackling of a wood fire, wet sap spurting in the logs, the
slight warm smell of an oil lamp brings those evening ‘reads’
back to me so vividly, even now, that I could cry to know how
long ago they are, and how hopelessly past.
The books she read to us were very varied—_Burnt Njal_, the _Morte
d’Arthur_, _Treasure Island_, _Ivanhoe_, are some I remember particularly,
and sometimes poetry; but Guy did not care for poetry so much.
My mother used to say that Cousin Delia was a stupid woman. ‘I
have no patience with these beautiful cows,’ she said once. But
I do not believe that at all. She could not have read to us as
she did, and made us understand and enjoy the books so much,
if she had been stupid. I am not clever, I know, and it might
not have mattered to me, but it would to Hugo, and I know he
never felt her so. He loved her as much as I did, and admired
her as much; and Hugo understood people almost always, I think.
After the reading we would go up to bed—running and chasing each
other across the high, shadowy hall and up the wide stairs. We
had candles with glass shades, so the grease did not drip when
we ran. Sometimes I was frightened, when I was the first to run,
and Guy and Hugo came after me round the great bends of the staircase;
and Hugo was sometimes frightened, but never Guy.
We would separate at the top of the stairs and call ‘Good night’
to each other across the echoing space of the hall. Guy and Hugo
slept together at the south side of the house. My room was at
the opposite corner, looking out eastward to the beech trees,
and at night I could hear the owls in the High Wood calling to
the owls in the ivy—till the world seemed full of owls.
On the north side of the house was a small stretch of park, with
a drive meandering through it. Once there had been deer in the
park, and it was still surrounded by a high iron deer fence,
but there were only cows grazing in it now, among the trees.
They were Jersey cows, for Cousin John had a prize herd and took
great interest in them. They would stand about the house, close
up under the dining-room windows, and the soft munching sound
they made could be heard distinctly during the pauses in the
talk at meals. The dining-room was a panelled room, painted a
pale green, with two windows to the north. Our schoolroom led
out of it, with one window on to the rose garden and one to the
north.
The nursery had been upstairs, where Guy and Hugo now slept,
when they were very little, but I can hardly remember the earliest
time, when I first came to stay at Yearsly, and afterwards, in
the time I think of mostly, we were downstairs in that schoolroom,
when we were not out of doors. We made things there; cardboard
theatres, and plays and clay statues, and illustrated stories;
and we would look out of the window into the garden and show
Cousin Delia what we had done.
We used to have tea there too with our governess, Miss Bateson.
She was kind to us and we were fond of her, but she was not very
important—not nearly so important as Nunky, who had been Guy
and Hugo’s nurse, and mine too when I first went to Yearsly,
and who looked after us always, in a way, and said good night
to us and unpacked for us and saw that our feet were dry. She
stayed there always, long after Miss Bateson went away.
There was a round white teapot with bright flowers, raised up
a little, on it, and a bright blue bird on each side. It never
got broken till Hugo was at Oxford and his scout dropped it—but
Hugo had it riveted, and I have got it now. We thought it lovely,
and I still do, but Eleanor thinks it absurd, and ‘funny,’ so
we don’t use it now. I keep it in a cupboard, and I think I shall
give it to John when he marries, if his wife likes it; but perhaps
she won’t.
We had very nice brown bread for tea, rather a light brown, and
spongy—Mrs. Jeyes made it, the Yearsly cook, who had been there
always and stayed always—the servants never changed at Yearsly—and
milk and butter from Cousin John’s Jersey cows, specially nice
butter. Sometimes one of the cows would look in at the window,
the north window, on to the park. Once Guy got out of the window
on to a cow’s back, and rode off on it—but the cow kicked him
off very soon, and we watched him chasing it and laughing, but
he could not get on again.
We had ponies, too, that grazed in the park with the cows. We
used to catch them ourselves and ride about bareback on them.
When we were older we rode out properly with the coachman, Mathew,
and Guy became a great rider. I loved it too, but Hugo did not
ride so much when he grew older. I was sorry he didn’t, for I
always did the same as he did, when I could.
The dogs were deerhounds. There were always two of them and sometimes
three, and Cousin John had black spaniels as well. The dogs lived
outside in kennels, or at the stables, but they played with us
and were very much part of our life.
It is hard for me now when I think of those years at Yearsly
to see them clearly and critically at all. It seems to me now
that the life we led was a perfect life, as happy and complete
as any children could possibly have. I know that it is unlikely
to have been quite perfect, for nothing is; perhaps we were too
idle; perhaps we should have been made to work harder and take
lessons more seriously. I know Walter thinks we were all spoiled,
that the realities of life were not brought before us, and that
Guy and Hugo suffered afterwards for this. There may be something
in what he says. I don’t know. I only know that it was the happiest
part of my life and I believe of theirs too, and that it has
helped me afterwards, when things were bad and difficult, to
look back to those times and live them over again; and as for
Guy and Hugo, they were and are to me all I could wish for anyone
to be, and I cannot wish anything at all different about them.