I did not look far ahead, I did not make plans for the future, the present was enough in itself, with Hugo’s letters as points of light to look for, and mine to him, as the expression of a week’s fighting.
I could give much more to Walter now, and I gave it, and I felt him turn more and more to me for strength.
When I was in bed at night, I could see Hugo so clearly sometimes, that I could hardly believe it was not true. It was as if the war was between us, noise and confusion, and horror . . . and I could get through that, and somewhere behind it, I found Hugo . . . and there were shell holes, and barbed wire, and all that sort of thing about, but it didn’t matter . . . Hugo was there, and it was all happy, and wonderful, and I knew that he was alive.
My son was born on the 15th of July, the same day that the German advance was held. In the strange serenity and confidence of these last months, I had felt sure that it would be a son this time. He was called John, after Walter’s father, but I counted it partly for Cousin John as well.
It seemed to me that this son was a symbol of victory . . . not of Foch over Ludendorf, nor the Entente over Germany; these things were again remote to me, and unreal, but of peace over war, strength over weakness, light over darkness. I was filled with a sense of fulfilment and triumph, and of peace.
I thought:
‘This is what they mean by the “Peace of God.” ’ And I wrote all I felt to Hugo, and I told him about my son.
XXXI
In August, Guy was wounded and sent home. He was badly wounded this time. Cousin Delia wrote to me; he was sent to a hospital for officers in Park Lane. Cousin Delia came up to be near him; she stayed with Grandmother, in Campden Hill Square.
They would not let me see Guy at first; they said he was too ill. I saw Cousin Delia, and I saw in her face that she did not think he would live.