Guy has asked me to go oftener, and Diana is kind and friendly,
but I do not think she would like it if I were to go there often.
That is quite natural; I should not fit in with her friends.
But, she says:
‘Come when you like . . . just send a P.C. and turn up!’
And I say:
‘Thank you, Dinah, that’s awfully good of you!’
But I know she wouldn’t like it if I did, and I think she knows
that I know, and anyhow, apart from that, I should not want to
go often.
It is all so different now, and I loved it as it was. I suppose
it is growing old that makes one dislike changes. Diana has changed
a great many things, just as she said she would.
The house looks smarter now; there is new paint and new wall-paper.
It is not exactly ugly, for Diana has a taste of her own, and
I think she has taken trouble to make it just as she likes. The
old brocade has gone, but the curtains are not striped; they
are of a brilliant cretonne, with very big, pink flowers, and
the paint inside, is yellow, bright yellow like mustard. Diana
says it is the latest thing, pink-curtains and yellow paint;
she says that every one is having that now.
She has put chairs in the hall, big leather chairs and tables;
she calls it a lounge hall, and they sit in there a great deal,
and smoke. Diana is always smoking, and all her friends smoke
too. They sit on the little tables, as a rule, instead of the
chairs. And there is a very big gramophone; I think it is the
biggest gramophone I have seen. Diana’s friends are all very
well dressed, and most of them paint their faces; Diana does
not paint; her own colour is too lovely to need it; I think she
grows more lovely every time I see her.
She has five children now; three girls and two boys. She is nicest
with her children; she romps with them like a big tiger with
cubs.
The eldest boy is called Hugo. He is not at all like our Hugo.
Diana thinks he is, but she never saw him. She says that the
people round all say that he is; they would say that, of course,
because he has the same name. He has dark eyes, that is true,
but not the least like Hugo’s. He is just like Diana, and his
eyes are like her eyes. He is a splendid child, big and strong
and merry. He laughs and fights his brother and sisters, and
he is always running. He breaks things and does not mind, he
hurts people and isn’t sorry. It sounds strange to me to hear
them call him Hugo.
They are all fine children, all strong and well and cheerful.
The house is full of noise, laughing and screaming and scuffling.
I am glad there are children at Yearsly. There are five of them,
and there were only three of us. I am glad they are there and
yet it is almost more different than if they were not. They live
so differently from the way we used to live, and they never play
in the wood at all. But I think sometimes, that they are better
fitted for life than we were. I think they are tougher than we
were, and less illusioned.
One of the children, the second girl, is unlike the others; she
is only five now, hardly more than a baby, but she is much gentler
than the rest and more devoted to Guy. I think that she will
be a help to Guy some day, and he, perhaps, to her, when she
grows up, and I sometimes wish that I could see more of that
little girl.
They have put in central heating, and electric light. It is more
like an hotel now, and less like a loved house, but it is very
comfortable, and there are two new bathrooms, white-tiled, like
the bathroom I used to want.
Old Joseph is still there, I think Guy has insisted on keeping
him, but Mathew is pensioned off, for there are no more horses
now. There are two motor-cars, one big, and one smaller, and
a very smart chauffeur, called Septimus Ward. Jayne, the butler,
died soon after Cousin John, and there is a smart new butler,
quite different from Jayne.
There are lots of little dogs, Pekingese, with bows, but no big
dogs. Diana plays games a good deal, but she never goes for walks.
She has her own car, the smaller of the two. It is a ‘Sports
model Lancia,’ painted red, like a pillar-box, and she does speed
tests, and hill trials, in a fur cap with long ear-pieces. She
has a red leather coat, with fur up round her throat, and very
big fur gauntlets, right up to her elbows. She always goes about
in her car, even into the village. There is only room for two,
and she sometimes takes one of the children. She has a very loud
horn, and she blows it a great deal.
I think she enjoys her life; she is often laughing. When she
is annoyed, she is cross and sulks, like a child. She makes scenes
with Guy, in public, and doesn’t mind who hears. At first, I
minded that very much, I was so sorry for Guy, but it doesn’t
seem to matter, it is just like a child in a temper; she forgets
all she has said, and every one has to forget, and they do, apparently,
and it all goes on as before.
They have made a racquets court out of part of the old stable.
Diana plays racquets well, and Guy can still play a bit.
Guy is still in business. He goes up to the city every morning,
and comes back in the evening. I think he must be quite rich;
they seem rich, when one is there.
I think Guy is happy; it is very hard to know. He walks about
with a stick, and his hair is quite grey; he looks older than
he is, and he is now forty-four. I wonder very often what he
thinks about it all; but of course he does not tell me, and of
course I do not ask.
The trees have been thinned out, and many have been cut down.
There are none close up to the wall of the house now, as there
used to be, and the branches would not tap now on the window-pane
of my window if I slept in my old room; but Diana’s maid sleeps
there now, and I dare say she likes it better without the trees.
The first time I went back, they had not touched the wood, but
the last time that I went, the Happy Tree had gone. I went up
in the wood as soon as I got there, and looked for the Happy
Tree, and I could not believe it had gone. It gave me an odd
feeling, as though I must be asleep, and I walked all about,
to try and find where it was, and there was the place where it
used to be, and just a big stump was there.
And I found Guy walking about, with his stick, in front of the
house.
And I said:
‘Oh Guy . . . the tree . . . you know, the Happy Tree. . . .’
And Guy looked at me so queerly, for a moment, with his face
screwed up, and I was not sure at first, if he was angry. . . .
And then he said:
‘Yes. It was cut down while I was away, last autumn. Dinah had
it done. She did not know, of course, that it was a special tree.’
And I said:
‘No, of course not . . . she could not have known.’
And I thought:
‘He had not told her that!’
We did not talk about it. We just walked up and down, and Guy
talked about his children, and I talked about mine.
The seats in front of the house were all painted bright green.
They were painted every year, and the paths were always raked.
It is right to rake gravel paths, and to keep the edges trimmed.
It ought to look much nicer, but I don’t think it does, somehow.