§ 15
That night Peter wrote to Stella:—
My own dear—
I’ve been thinking about you all today—I’ve been thinking about you terribly. I took my gun out this morning after duck, but I had a rotten day because I was thinking of you all the time. I had lunch down by the Mocksteeple, and Stella, I wanted you so that I could have cried. Then afterwards when I was at home I wanted you. I went in to Lambard and we cut some pales, but all the time I was thinking of you. And now I can think no longer—I must write and tell you what I’ve thought.
Child, I want to marry you. You’ve known that for a long time, haven’t you? But I wanted to wait till the end of the war. I don’t believe in marrying a girl and then going out and getting killed, though that is what a lot of chaps did. Well, anyhow the war’s over. So will you marry me, Stella child? But I must tell you this. My people will be dead against it, because they’re looking to me to save the family by making a rich marriage. It sounds dreadful, but it’s not really so bad as it sounds, because if we don’t pick up somehow we shall probably go smash and lose almost everything, including Starvecrow. But I don’t care. I love you better than anything in the world. Only I must prepare you for having to marry me quietly somewhere and living with me in London for a bit. My father won’t have me as agent, I’m quite sure, if I do this, but perhaps he’ll come round after a time. Anyhow Stella, darling, if we have each other, the rest won’t matter, will it? What does it matter even if we have to sell our land and go out of Conster? They’ve got no real claim on me. Let Jenny marry somebody rich, or Doris—it’s not too late. But I don’t see why I should sacrifice my life to the family, and yours too, darling child. For I couldn’t do this if I didn’t believe that you love me as much as I love you.
I think this is the longest letter than I have ever written to you, but then it is so important. Dearest, we must meet and talk things over. The Greenings are going into Hastings on Tuesday to look at a house, so will you come to me at Starvecrow?
My kisses, you sweet, and all my love. Peter.
It was nearly midnight when he had finished writing at the table in his bedroom. He folded up the letter and slipped it under the blotting paper, before getting into bed and sleeping soundly.
But the next morning he tore it to pieces.