Actions and Reactions. Rudyard Kipling
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to him once. She spoke likewise to her daughter Mary, sewing maid at Pardons, and to Mary’s best new friend, the five-foot-seven imported London house-maid, who taught Mary to trim hats, and found the country dullish.
But there was no noise – at no time was there any noise – and when Sophie walked abroad she met no one in her path unless she had signified a wish that way. Then they appeared to protest that all was well with them and their children, their chickens, their roofs, their water-supply, and their sons in the police or the railway service.
“But don’t you find it dull, dear?” said George, loyally doing his best not to worry as the months went by.
“I’ve been so busy putting my house in order I haven’t had time to think,” said she. “Do you?”
“No – no. If I could only be sure of you.”
She turned on the green drawing-room’s couch (it was Empire, not Heppelwhite after all), and laid aside a list of linen and blankets.
“It has changed everything, hasn’t it?” she whispered.
“Oh, Lord, yes. But I still think if we went back to Baltimore – ”
“And missed our first real summer together. No thank you, me lord.”
“But we’re absolutely alone.”
“Isn’t that what I’m doing my best to remedy? Don’t you worry. I like it – like it to the marrow of my little bones. You don’t realize what her house means to a woman. We thought we were living in it last year, but we hadn’t begun to. Don’t you rejoice in your study, George?”
“I prefer being here with you.” He sat down on the floor by the couch and took her hand.
“Seven,” she said, as the French clock struck. “Year before last you’d just be coming back from business.”
He winced at the recollection, then laughed. “Business! I’ve been at work ten solid hours to-day.”
“Where did you lunch? With the Conants?”
“No; at Dutton Shaw, sitting on a log, with my feet in a swamp. But we’ve found out where the old spring is, and we’re going to pipe it down to Gale Anstey next year.”
“I’ll come and see to-morrow. Oh, please open the door, dear. I want to look down the passage. Isn’t that corner by the stair-head lovely where the sun strikes in?” She looked through half-closed eyes at the vista of ivory-white and pale green all steeped in liquid gold.
“There’s a step out of Jane Elphick’s bedroom,” she went on – “and his first step in the world ought to be up. I shouldn’t wonder if those people hadn’t put it there on purpose. George, will it make any odds to you if he’s a girl?”
He answered, as he had many times before, that his interest was his wife, not the child.
“Then you’re the only person who thinks so.” She laughed. “Don’t be silly, dear. It’s expected. I know. It’s my duty. I shan’t be able to look our people in the face if I fail.”
“What concern is it of theirs, confound ‘em!”
“You’ll see. Luckily the tradition of the house is boys, Mrs. Cloke says, so I’m provided for. Shall you ever begin to understand these people? I shan’t.”
“And we bought it for fun – for fun!” he groaned. “And here we are held up for goodness knows how long!”
“Why? Were you thinking of selling it?” He did not answer. “Do you remember the second Mrs. Chapin?” she demanded.
This was a bold, brazen little black-browed woman – a widow for choice – who on Sophie’s death was guilefully to marry George for his wealth and ruin him in a year. George being busy, Sophie had invented her some two years after her marriage, and conceived she was alone among wives in so doing.
“You aren’t going to bring her up again?” he asked anxiously.
“I only want to say that I should hate any one who bought Pardons ten times worse than I used to hate the second Mrs. Chapin. Think what we’ve put into it of our two selves.”
“At least a couple of million dollars. I know I could have made – ” He broke off.
“The beasts!” she went on. “They’d be sure to build a red-brick lodge at the gates, and cut the lawn up for bedding out. You must leave instructions in your will that he’s never to do that, George, won’t you?”
He laughed and took her hand again but said nothing till it was time to dress. Then he muttered “What the devil use is a man’s country to him when he can’t do business in it?”
Friars Pardon stood faithful to its tradition. At the appointed time was born, not that third in their party to whom Sophie meant to be so kind, but a godling; in beauty, it was manifest, excelling Eros, as in wisdom Confucius; an enhancer of delights, a renewer of companionships and an interpreter of Destiny. This last George did not realise till he met Lady Conant striding through Dutton Shaw a few days after the event.
“My dear fellow,” she cried, and slapped him heartily on the back, “I can’t tell you how glad we all are. Oh, she’ll be all right. (There’s never been any trouble over the birth of an heir at Pardons.) Now where the dooce is it?” She felt largely in her leather-boundskirt and drew out a small silver mug. “I sent a note to your wife about it, but my silly ass of a groom forgot to take this. You can save me a tramp. Give her my love.” She marched off amid her guard of grave Airedales.
The mug was worn and dented: above the twined initials, G.L., was the crest of a footless bird and the motto: “Wayte awhyle – wayte awhyle.”
“That’s the other end of the riddle,” Sophie whispered, when he saw her that evening. “Read her note. The English write beautiful notes.”
The warmest of welcomes to your little man. I hope he will appreciate his native land now he has come to it. Though you have said nothing we cannot, of course, look on him as a little stranger, and so I am sending him the old Lashmar christening mug. It has been with us since Gregory Lashmar, your great-grandmother’s brother —
George stared at his wife.
“Go on,” she twinkled, from the pillows.
– mother’s brother, sold his place to Walter’s family. We seem to have acquired some of your household gods at that time, but nothing survives except the mug and the old cradle, which I found in the potting-shed and am having put in order for you. I hope little George – Lashmar, he will be too, won’t he? – will live to see his grandchildren cut their teeth on his mug.
Affectionately yours,
ALICE CONANT.
P.S. – How quiet you’ve kept about it all!
“Well, I’m – ”
“Don’t swear,” said Sophie. “Bad for the infant mind.”
“But how in the world did she get at it? Have you ever said a word about the Lashmars?”
“You know the only time – to young Iggulden at Rocketts – when Iggulden died.”
“Your great-grandmother’s brother! She’s traced the whole connection – more than your Aunt Sydney could do. What does she mean about our keeping quiet?”
Sophie’s eyes sparkled. “I’ve thought that out too. We’ve got back at the English at last. Can’t you see that she thought that we thought my mother’s being a Lashmar was one of those things we’d expect the English to find out for themselves, and that’s impressed her?” She turned the mug in her white hands, and sighed happily. “‘Wayte awhyle – wayte awhyle.’ That’s not a bad motto, George. It’s been worth it.”
“But still I don’t quite see – ”
“I shouldn’t wonder if they don’t think our coming here was part of a deep-laid scheme to be near our ancestors. They’d understand that. And look how they’ve accepted