‘It just is . . .’
‘All right,’ Guy answered, ‘too happy, if you like. . .’
And afterwards we always called it the ‘Happy Tree.’
Below the trees the hillside was smooth and green. A grass path had been cut in it, many years ago when the house was newly built. In those days all the hillside had been kept closely mown, but in our time the grass grew long and was made into hay. Only the path was kept still a little shorter than the rest; we used to race along it . . . there was room for two abreast, but it was not wide enough for three.
The path ended in a little stone pavilion which we called the ‘Temple’—why we called it so, no one could remember . . . it had four glass doors and steps all round; inside there was a mosaic table and four statues in the niches between the doors. The doors were always locked, for the roof was unsafe, and nobody ever went inside; only Guy could remember going inside once, with Cousin John, when an architect or expert of some sort came to look at it.
At the other end of the house, to the west, was the walled garden, and in the sunny corner between the end wall of the house and the garden wall was the rose garden that Cousin Delia had made.
In that there was a sundial and some little stone ‘putti,’ and there most often we would find her. When I think of Yearsly in those long ago days, I think very often of her in the rose garden, with her long gardening gloves, and shady hat, and the half smile with which she would look up when one of us called to her, and her quiet grey eyes in the shadow of her hat.
She was never in a hurry, and never too busy to answer questions; if we wanted her she was always there. I used to wonder, even then, how it was that she had so much time, for my own mother was always busy . . . I wonder even more now.
Cousin Delia was very quiet, but she never repressed us nor made it seem wrong to make a noise, as so many quiet people do. I think it was partly that she was not quiet on purpose, or with an effort, but simply from a kind of serenity. She was happy, I am sure, and people round her were happy.
My mother once said that it surprised her that a woman of Delia’s intelligence should be contented with such an ‘idle stagnant life.’ I felt very angry, even then, and tried to defend her, though I don’t think I managed to explain what I meant.