R. H.
LXI
Verena Raby to Her Brother Walter in Texas
My Dear Walter,—It is far too long since I wrote to you, but now I have only too much time for letters, as an accident hurt my back and I have to lie up with too little to do.
I wonder so often how you are, and you never send a line, nor does Sally. You are the only one of our family of whom no one ever hears. Do make a great effort and answer this and tell me all about yourself and your life on the ranch. It must be so very different from ours. If you have a camera, couldn’t you send some photographs? Remember I have never seen Sally. I don’t even know if there are any children.
The garden to-day looks lovely from my window. The old place has not changed much since our childish days, but the trees are higher. I have done very little to it beyond keeping it in repair and installing electric light, which is made by an oil engine, and a few modern things like that. There are more bath-rooms, for instance. One of them has been made out of that funny little bedroom where the rat came down the chimney and you brought up one of your young terriers to kill it and the dog was afraid and it nearly broke your heart. You haven’t forgotten that?
The big playroom at the top I have not touched. It has the same wall-paper. Whenever any of the others—I mean the girls—come to see me and we go up there we always have a good cry. The screen with the Punch drawings, the big doll’s house, the rocking horse: they are still there. Little Lobbie, Nesta’s second child (Nesta is Lucilla’s daughter, who married an artist), plays there now. Nesta is staying here to keep me company while I am ill. I don’t have any pain; I merely have to lie still and give the spine a chance.
Kington has grown very little. There are new houses near the station and we have a municipal park! That is about all. But it isn’t what it was—probably no English town is since the motor car came into being. Some may be better, but I think that Kington has deteriorated and very few of our friends remain. Mr. and Mrs. Grace are still living at the Tower, but alone and very old; all the family has dispersed. One thing that has not changed is the temperature of the church; which is still cold. But there is a long—too long—Roll of Honour in the porch. How you must have regretted that lameness of yours when the War broke out!
I manage to keep in touch with most of us, chiefly through their children. Letitia I never see. I should like to, but she is not strong, and Tunbridge Wells is a long way off, and it is impossible to detach her from her husband, whom we rather avoid. I am afraid she is not happy, but I can do very little to help. Clara’s son and daughter—Roy and Hazel—are very lively correspondents, and Evangeline, their youngest, seems a thoughtful child; but I fear that Hector Barrance can be rather difficult at times. Theodore’s only girl is just eighteen. Anna’s boy Horace is a rather serious young man at the Bar. Lionel is still unmarried; he was made a C.B.E. in the War. Ronald is also unmarried and I hear from him now and then, but his duties keep him very close in Edinburgh. Every one is very kind to me in my illness, Richard Haven—you remember him?—writing every day. He is fixed in London. Nellie Sandley, whom you were so sweet upon that summer at Lyme Regis, died last week, poor girl, of pneumonia.
I wonder if all this interests you in the least, or if your new life in your new country is all-absorbing. It would be delightful to see you again. But at any rate do write and send some photographs if you can. Write directly you get this and then a longer letter later.—Your loving sister,