“Yes,” said Annie-Laurie.
Malony let out a deep sigh of relief and helped himself to the last mince pie.
The clock struck a very late hour. “Those children should be in bed,” said Lucilla, regarding the twins. “And so should I. I’ve finished my sherry. My dears, this has been a very perfect Christmas Day. A sort of heavenly day. A gift to us, I think. Whatever happens to us all we’ll never forget it. Hilary, dear, where did you put my coat? Sally, darling, you’re coming back for the night, aren’t you? Nadine, my dear, good night. This is a wonderful home, this Herb of Grace, and to be the mistress of it will be the crown and glory of your life, I shouldn’t wonder. Good night, George, my dear boy. It’s very sweet of you, Margaret, to be winding me up in this nice scarf, but it’s not mine. Good night, my darling Ben. Good night, Tommy. Good night, Caroline. Jill, what a blessing you are. And you too, Auntie Rose. Annie-Laurie, I’m glad I’ve lived to see you dance. . . . Good night. . . . Good night. . . .”
She talked on at random as the Damerosehay party got under way, trying to ease for them all the hard parting from this perfect day. . . . Good night, good night, parting is such sweet sorrow. . . . She kissed the flushed, happy faces of her younger grandchildren and went out into the night with the two elder ones, David and Sally, one on each side of her to help her down the steps. Sighing with thankfulness she was tucked up in the back of David’s car, with her faithful Hilary and Margaret one on each side of her, and David and Sally in front, where she could gloat upon the sight of them there.
Yet as they drove away under the Christmas stars it was of the two old houses that she was thinking, Damerosehay and the Herb of Grace. Their village helper and her daughter were spending the evening at Damerosehay to look after Pooh-Bah and the Bastard. When they got home they would find the drawing-room fire burning brightly and the lamps lit, with the two old dogs dozing on the hearth. The house would welcome them and gather them in, and when they had talked a little in front of the fire they would go to bed, and, the spell of this happy day still upon them, sleep deeply and happily, wrapped in its peace. And in the Herb of Grace too the lights would go out one by one in the windows and the sleepers would be at rest. But the houses would not sleep. Lucilla fancied that they would greet each other across the quiet fields and through the night. Each had its long and living history, sap rising in the wood of the old tree to nourish the new branches. And tomorrow would be a new day, and a hard one. But the sap rose from inexhaustible depths, and the spring would come again.
Elizabeth Goudge, Pilgrim's Inn
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