But there was one subject near to Yvonne’s heart on which the Canon was inflexible--Joyce. Often Yvonne had sought to soften him toward the black sheep, but in his gentlest moods the mention of his cousin’s name turned him to adamant. He even resented Yvonne’s helpful friendship before her marriage. On the afternoon that he had passed Joyce on the stairs, he had spoken as strongly to Yvonne as good taste permitted. Now that he had authority over her, he forbade her to hold further communication with the man who had disgraced his name. Finally she abandoned her attempts at conciliation, but pity prevailing over wifely obedience, she kept up her correspondence with Joyce, unknown to the Canon. That is to say, she wrote cheery, gossipy letters now and then to the address she had received from Cape Town, trusting to luck for their ultimate delivery, but receiving very few in return, for Joyce had often not the heart to write.
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.