She was reading, one day, his last letter, many pages closely filled. It had come that morning, under Miss Vicary’s cover, according to her request. The envelope lay on the table in the centre of the room; but she had taken the letter to the broad, cushioned window-seat, her favourite place in summer, where she could see the old abbey, and enjoy the scent of the mignonette and syringa from the beds below. It was the quiet afternoon hour, before tea, when she generally read or idled or sang to herself. She was at peace with all the world, and her heart was full of pity for Joyce.
Yet it was the most hopeful of the four letters she had received from him. The previous ones had told of struggles and privations innumerable; the aimless tramp from one town to another in the search for more than starvation wages; the hopeless attempts to live in mining camps, where unskilled labour was a drug in the market; sickness, and the dwindling of his little capital. This one took up the tale broken off some months before. Noakes and himself had left the mines, had wandered, sometimes alone, sometimes with other adventurers, into Bechuanaland, where he had purchased with his last remaining pounds a share in a small farm. It was a haven of rest. But the country was unhealthy. The work was hard. Noakes lay ill in bed; medical advice was a hundred and fifty miles away. To cheer the invalid, he had schemed out a novel on the life they had recently passed through, and was writing it at nights for Noakes to read during the day. He was writing it on a bundle of yellow package-paper which had remained over from the stock of a small “store” once run by the chief owner of the farm.
He spoke of the comfort of her letters. Four of them had just come to his hands at once. He had read them aloud to Noakes, who was even more friendless than himself. Yvonne’s heart was touched at the thought of the poor man who never got a letter, and had to extract vicarious comfort from his friend’s. She knew him quite well through Joyce’s description, and loved him for the quaint lovableness that appeared in the narrative of their joint fortunes.
“He shall have a letter all to himself,” said Yvonne aloud; and she rose to put her idea into execution.
But just as she was bringing her writing materials to the window-seat, which was strewn with the sheets of Joyce’s letter, the Canon came into the room.
“Can you give me some tea quickly, dear?” he said, ringing the bell. “I am called away to Bickerton.”
He sank into a chair with a sigh of relief. It had been a busy day and the weather was hot.
“Would you like me to drive you over?” asked Yvonne.
“Dearly,” said the Canon. He leaned back, and stretched out his hand in a gesture of contented invitation.
“It won’t be taking you from your correspondence? You seem up to your eyes in it.”