The dinner was a simple one—Miss de Lisle had reserved her finest inspirations for the evening meal, regarding Christmas dinner as a mere affair of turkey and blazing plum-pudding, which, except in the matter of sauces, might be managed by any one. “It needs no soul!” she said. But no one found any fault, and at the end Colonel Aikman made a little speech of thanks to their hosts. “We all know they hate speeches made at them,” he finished. “But Homewood is a blessed word to-day to fighting men.”
“And their wives,” said Mrs. Aikman.
“Yes—to people who came to it tired beyond expression; and went back forgetting weariness. In their names—in the names of all of us—we want to say ‘Thank you.’”
David Linton stood up, looking down the long room, and last, at his son.
“We, who are the most thankful people in the world, I think, to-day,” he said, “do not feel that you owe us any gratitude. Rather we owe it to all our Tired People—who helped us through our own share of what war can mean. And, apart from that, we never feel that the work is ours. We carry on for the sake of a dead man—a man who loved his country so keenly that to die for it was his highest happiness. We are only tools, glad of war-work so easy and pleasant as our guests make our job. But the work is John O’Neill’s. So far as we can, we mean to make it live to his memory.”
He paused. Norah, looking up at him, saw him through misty eyes.
“So—we know you’ll think of us kindly after we have gone back to Australia,” the deep voice went on. “There will be a welcome there, too, for any of you who come to see us. But when you remember Homewood, please do not think of it as ours. If that brave soul can look back—as he said he would, and as we are sure he does—then he is happy over every tired fighter who goes, rested, from his house. His only grief was that he could not fight himself. But his work in the war goes on; and as for us, we simply consider ourselves very lucky to be his instruments.”
Again he paused.
“I don’t think this is a day for drinking toasts,” he said. “When we have won we can do that—but we have not won yet. But I will ask you all to drink to a brave man’s memory—to John O’Neill.”
The short afternoon drew quickly to dusk, and lights flashed out—to be discreetly veiled, lest wandering German aircraft should wish to drop bombs as Christmas presents. Norah and the boys had disappeared mysteriously after dinner, vanishing into the study. Presently Geoffrey came flying to his mother, with eager eyes.