It is impossible to believe that he does not now know of and appreciate all the beautiful tributes that have come to him since his "passing"—from the perfect wreath of immortelles weaved by Mr. Strachey to the sweet pansy of thought dropped by a little fellow V.A.D. of mine who said beautifully and courageously—though knowing him solely through his book—"We feel since he gave us his thought that he belongs a tiny bit to us, too," thus voicing the feeling of many.
I believe the paper entitled "My Home" to have been written at Oxford, and "School" not so very long after. In any case, I have definite proof of their both belonging to Donald's pre-"Renaissance" period, for the friendship with F——, that began at "the Shop" and went under a cloud for a time, was renewed with fresh vigour in 1914, and has burned brightly ever since. Only last July was I sent by him a letter of F——'s from the trenches, with the injunction, "Please put this among my treasures," and there is an allusion to a story told in this letter in the article entitled "Romance" of the present volume.
To return to "My Home," I question whether the love and devotion of "Hilda" and "Ma" for Hugh was so entirely unselfish. For my mother I fully believe, as for "Hilda," Hugh was the epitome of all that was fine, splendid and joyous in life. He was the glorious knight, the "preux chevalier" "sans peur et sans reproche," who rode forth at dawn with clean sword and shining armour, and all the world before him, yet keeping his heart for ever in his home. He was the child of her youth as Donald was the child of her maturity. Deep down in her wonderfully varied nature there were certain bottomless springs of courage, daring and enterprise which she herself had little chance of expressing and of which Hugh alone was the personification.
As long as I can remember Hugh had been my ideal and made all the interest and joy of life for me. Whether he were at home or abroad I never had a thought I did not share with him. When he died, the best part of me died too, or was paralysed rather, and Heaven knows what sort of a "substitute" I should have been for "Ma" to Donald, had not the baby Hugh come, just in time, with healing in his wings to restore life to the best part of me!
I am glad to think that Donald's "Autobiography" was written before 1914, for I know that even before that I was becoming more to him than a "substitute." I too have my memories and pictures!
It is May, 1915. I am in the country-house—cleaning is going on at home.
I get a letter to say that the Rifle Brigade may leave for France at any time, and that Donald may get some "leave" on Saturday or Sunday.
I make a dash for town.
There I find a telegram of reckless and unconscionable length, running into two pages. He cannot come up—they may leave at any moment. It seems hardly worth while my bothering to come to Aldershot on the chance—he may be unable to leave barracks.