Valentine, still weak, was lying on the sofa in the parlour when Jane entered. He got up, all excitement at seeing her, and they sat down together.
“I brought this for Clementina,” she said, placing a paper parcel on the table. “It is a pattern which she asked me for. Are you growing stronger?”
“Clementina is about somewhere,” he observed; “the others are out. Yes, I am growing stronger; but it seems to me that I am a long while about it.”
They sat on in silence, side by side, neither speaking. Valentine took Jane’s hand and held it within his own, which rested on his knee. It seemed that they had lost their tongues—as we say to the children.
“Is it all decided?” asked Jane presently. “Quite decided?”
“Quite, Jane. Nothing else is left for me.”
She caught her breath with one of those long sighs that tell of inward tribulation.
“I should have been over to see you before this, Jane, but that my legs would not carry me to Duck Brook and back again without sitting down by the wayside. And you—you hardly ever come here now.”
A deep flush passed swiftly over Jane’s face. She had not liked to call at the troubled house. And she very rarely came so far as Crabb now: there seemed to be no plea for it.