Perhaps the mild November air, which harmonizes all things,—sad, soft and sweet,—helped harmonize the diverse elements at that wedding feast. There were the Vicar and the Roman priest peacefully grazing as one; the Vicaress was affably chatting with mine host and hostess as on equal terms; one of my county ladies was entertaining the little dressmaker who cannot sew. I did my best in inviting them to outrage as many conventions as possible; they submitted to the necessities of the occasion, and still the House of Lords stands, or sits, King George is on his throne, and the kingdom has not fallen.
I hope it never will!
It had been hard to induce the Vicar to come, but I reminded him that our Church had been a Roman Catholic Church before Queen Elizabeth's day, and that, in the holy ground of the churchyard, Roman Catholic dust was mingled with Church of England dust. How, at this cruel moment in the world's history, the truth cries out that there should be no struggle between Christian and Christian, only between Christian and Pagan! He came; high and low alike nibbled our little cakes and consumed our ices, and drank the simple beverage made of lemons and other ingredients served from a wonderful old blue punch bowl. Ay, we were all allies that day!
So they were married and fêted, and when it was all over, mine host drove them to the railway station, and I followed with Puck and the pony cart, Don sitting beside me, and the gingerbread baby with two of its brothers sitting on the other side. The village windows and doorways were crowded with friendly faces, for the story of the two re-united lovers had spread far, and many a kindly good-bye was spoken by people who had never met them. I had determined that Puck, who had found Marie, and to whom the happy outcome of the story was due, should have a place of honour at the parting moment, but Marie's last glimpse of him showed him indignantly shaking off the white rosettes that had been fastened to his headstall.
They waved back quite a merry farewell, and then they disappeared, vanishing behind the great cloud of tragedy that hangs so close. I can see only suffering ahead of them. They consented to take a loan from me, not to be repaid until their country is free, and they promised again and again to let me know if they came to want.
It is lonely to-night, belovèd, under my roof.
December 27. Winter is gentler here than at home, bringing at times enfolding grey mist and hours of rain; yet we have had many days of clear and sunny cold, and snow has fallen on the roof of the little red house. My royal family of fowls lives a subdued but happy life in the house of Peter's making; Puck has taken up his residence at the Inn, for cold has come, and Peter is far away. The English robin stays with us evidently throughout the winter; the rooks have not deserted; and we are visited daily by silver-winged gulls which come all the way from the sea for the food we put out.
My home with the little "h" is seldom empty; for two of these winter weeks we had here two small Belgian boys, eight and ten years old, very red of cheek and black of hair, and very much boy. What a two weeks! The Atom immediately retreated to the loft over the kitchen, coming down only for its meals. It found a warm corner by the chimney where it cuddled in safety.
Don clung close to my side; he would not make friends. His dictum was that he would associate with either the aristocracy or the peasantry, but that the lower middle class he would not tolerate. Those boys, who had tried to tie a tin can to his tail, his tail, that organ of fine expressiveness, equal to English prose style at its best, were not gentlemen, and he would have nothing to do with them.