I
THE days that followed were confused and anxious, as the days
before had been. There was no sudden change in life because the
war had stopped. The change from war to peace was as hard to
believe as the change from peace to war had been, and less complete.
Christmas came, and we had a Christmas tree. We had crackers
and cakes, and we danced round it in a ring.
‘It is the first peace Christmas,’ we said. ‘It ought to be gay.’
And I think the children enjoyed it, though Eleanor did not care
much for things that were not useful.
Early in the New Year we had influenza again; everybody had influenza
about then. Eleanor and Rachel had it first, then Walter and
the maids, and last of all, John. He was the most ill, and I
thought he would die; but in the end he got better, and our life
went on as before.
Guy was married in February. He was married at Portsmouth where
Diana’s father was stationed; in a red-brick church on a hill.
I went to the wedding, but Walter did not go.
Before that there was a party at Yearsly, to welcome Diana. It
was not a real party, because of Hugo; a dinner to the tenants,
but no dancing in the hall as there would have been. There were
presents for Guy and Diana; a silver tray, and a tea-pot; and
they all came to see Diana.
She stood with Guy in the hall; he could stand with crutches
now, and they all came and shook hands with them. Old Joseph
came, and Mathew, both their sons had been killed, and the Elliots
from the farm, whose son was missing, like Hugo. The young men
were not back, those who were still alive, and the girls were
mostly away, in factories and shops, but all the old people came,
and I thought how old they looked.
I thought they liked Diana, and for the same reason that Guy
did. She stood very straight and tall, in a white, shimmering
dress. She wore a string of pearls that Cousin John had given
her; she had chosen that as a present.
‘I adore pearls!’ she said.
Cousin Delia too had given her a necklace of old paste, little
old pieces of paste set into flowers; it had belonged to Mary
Geraldine, and Cousin Delia used to wear it, now she gave it
to Diana, and she did not care for it.
She called me into her room—that was the evening before. . . .
‘Oh, my dear!’ she said, ‘just look what she has given me! It’s
quite too marvellous, and awfully quaint, of course, but I simply
couldn’t wear it, could I? Will the old duck mind, do you think,
if I don’t? I wouldn’t hurt her for worlds!’
She clasped it round her neck, and made a face in the glass.
‘I should look too awfully odd, shouldn’t I, now, like that?
Belonged to some old grandmother, she says. . . . I’m no good
at the antique stunt!’ She flashed round at me, with her laughing,
dancing eyes. ‘Not my line, you know, is it? Don’t you agree?’
And I didn’t know what to say, for what she said was true; it
didn’t look right on her; it made her look loud and crude; she
made it look weak and poor. But I loved that necklace so, on
Cousin Delia. She had worn it when we were children, and Hugo
had loved it too.