IV
Guy’s first baby was born that Spring. It was a girl, and it was called Delia. Guy and Diana lived in London now. Guy had gone into business; Diana said he must make money, and there was no money in the Bar, at least, not for years and years. She said that she knew very well what it was like to be poor; she said that her ‘Pater’ was poor, ‘poor as a barn-door rat, and that’s no fun, you bet!’
So Guy gave up the Bar; he said that he did not mind about it, and he went into business. I don’t know what he did in his business, but it seemed that he made more money in that way, though Diana said that it was still not enough.
And then, Cousin John died too. He was hardly ill at all, only a few days.
I thought:
‘Every one is dying. Who will be left alive? Young people died in the War, and old people now it is over.’
And there was another funeral in the little Yearsly church, and a tablet for Cousin John, on the wall, near the tablet for Hugo.
Now Guy and Diana were to move to Yearsly. Cousin Delia would not stay there, though Guy had asked her to.
She said:
‘It would not do, it would not do for Diana.’
And so she packed her things, and I went and stayed with her, and helped her pack. I took John with me; he was three years old then, and he played in the fields at Yearsly, as Hugo used to play. We went through all the things, Cousin Delia and I. We sorted out the cupboards, and the drawers, and the boxes of letters. It had all to be left in order for Diana to take it over.
‘I hope she will care for the place,’ Cousin Delia said. ‘I hope she will get to love it, in time, as I have loved it.’
We were both thinking of Hugo, and how she had not known him, and how to us he was there in every place and thing.
I was with her there, for a week. It was in October, and the trees in the High Wood were red and bright, like flames. I have never seen the trees so bright as they were then.
I went and walked in the wood, the last day I was there. I went and sat down on the leaves, beside the Happy Tree. The tree trunks stood out clear in the spaces of the wood, grey and distinct against the flaming leaves, and the sun was shining down through the brilliant leaves and underfoot as well, the ground was red, and shining, and I felt, suddenly, that beauty was still alive. It was like a flare of trumpets or a shout of triumph.
And I thought:
‘Is this “A lightening before death”?’
And I thought:
‘Death does not matter—death and life are one!’
And I thought:
‘This is truth, this glory of flaming trees!’
And I felt a burst of joy.
I felt:
‘This still goes on.’
I felt:
‘What do I matter, or all that matters to me?’
And I felt that it was for Hugo, this chorus of his trees.
I felt:
‘This is his wood. The trees are singing for him.’
And I felt:
‘I have understood . . . I have understood at last!’
And I went down from the wood, after a long time. And I met Cousin Delia coming out of the walled garden. Her arms were full of flowers, dahlias, and chrysanthemums. Smoke was rising up, very blue, from behind the garden wall, and she looked happy too.
I went up to her and said:
‘I was in the wood. The trees were like trumpets blowing. . . “And he went over, and the trumpets sounded for him, on the other side.” . . . It was like that to-day!’
And she said:
‘I know. I was in the wood, this morning.’
And I went indoors with her, and we put the flowers in water. And the next day, I went back to Oxford, with John.
Cousin Delia went away to a little house, near Bath. Nunky went with her, and Mrs. Jeyes, the cook. She took the deerhounds with her, and she made a garden. I go to see her sometimes, and sometimes I take John.