When Last I Died

I have written to Tessa, care of the last address I have (although I know she moved from it just over three years ago) to tell her the news. Poor old Eliza is quite stricken with grief, and says that she shall never get another situation at her age, and that she had "looked to go before the mistress." I believe she is turned seventy, so I do hope that Aunt has done something handsome for her, as she has been in service here, she tells me, since she was sixteen and a half.

It is very useful and nice to have Tom here. He has undertaken all the funeral arrangements, and these are so much more easily done by a man than by a woman. Muriel and I walk about the house and look at the very simple, old-fashioned furniture and effects, and speculate upon Aunt, who has always been, to me, of a most forbidding and incomprehensible age, because, after all, she was forty-three years old when I was born! Muriel knows nothing much about her, except from Tom's descriptions.

February 3

My wreath is to be of white hyacinths and dark crimson carnations. As William has not seen fit to send me on my cheque, I am now very short of ready money, and may have to borrow off Tom for the funeral bakemeats, for which, presumably, I am liable to pay, as there is nothing much in the house or ordered.

February 4

The funeral went off quite well, and a surprising number of people attended; surprising to me, that is, for Tom said he believed that Aunt was greatly respected in the place. The flowers were really good, and the hearse looked quite a picture. It was a fine day, too, which is a great blessing on these occasions. I think a fine day is almost as important at a funeral as at a wedding. In fact, from the point of view of the general health, it is more so. I have heard of more than one person developing a fatal illness from standing at a graveside in the wet.

Eliza had everything ready for us on our return, and Tom and Muriel said that as they had no interest under the will they would not stay to hear it read, and as it was Eliza's afternoon out I sent her off to see her sister who lives in the next town, a fourpenny bus ride, and said that I would tell her any news on her return. The selfless old creature did not give the slightest indication that she thought Aunt might have remembered her in the will, and I said nothing about it, in case my surmises should be wrong. I could not bear to disappoint Eliza. She did say, just before she went (and when I was in a fever lest the lawyer should arrive and she feel bound to stay at home to see to things), that she supposed I would not be keeping the house on. I replied, very gently, that I did not think so, and positively pushed her out. She turned at the last, even then, and asked me whether it looked heartless, her taking her afternoon just as though the mistress had not died. I replied firmly to this, and at last got rid of her.

February 7

I have had no time to write up this diary for the past two days. Now I am back at the Institution, which I cannot leave suddenly without breaking the terms of my engagement. Besides, William asked me as a personal favour to stay at least until the end of the month. Fortunately the news of Aunt was so grave on the thirtieth that I gave provisional notice then, and I am determined not to stay beyond the twenty-eighth of February to please or oblige anybody.

I told Vera to-day all about my good fortune. Aunt's house is in the hands of the agent, and they trust to be able to make a good and quick sale, as the house is small, convenient and easily worked, and is within nice distance of the sea.

Vera was particularly interested to hear of poor old Eliza's fifty pounds a year, and said that she thought she should take a situation in private service. She was very raw and untrained when she was first appointed here, but I have done my best, and I think now that she might get a very good place.

The staff congratulated me on my inheritance, and we had quite a jolly evening with some port (provided by me) and a bottle of whisky. William, however, is very worried, as there is still no news of the missing boys.

Cyril, who cannot take very much to drink, asked me, after his third glass, whether I had sued the Daily Pennon yet. I did not know what he meant, and the others seemed so anxious to shut him up that I must make the opportunity to find out what he was talking about.

February 8

I tackled Cyril before supper this evening and he apologised and said he had meant nothing—it was simply a stupid joke. He seemed so anxious to reassure me that I became anxious, in my turn, to find out what the stupid joke is. Perhaps I would be better advised to let the subject drop, however, as, no doubt, plenty of people have been making spiteful remarks since they heard of my good fortune.

February 10