Actions and Reactions. Rudyard Kipling
keep catching my eye behind the blind? Why didn't you come out and do your duty?”
“Because I should have burst. Did you see the mud on its cheek?” he said.
“Once. I daren't look again. Who is she?”
“God—a local deity then. Anyway, she's another of the things you're expected to know by instinct.”
Mrs. Cloke, shocked at their levity, told them that it was Lady Conant, wife of Sir Walter Conant, Baronet, a large landholder in the neighbourhood; and if not God; at least His visible Providence. George made her talk of that family for an hour.
“Laughter,” said Sophie afterward in their own room, “is the mark of the savage. Why couldn't you control your emotions? It's all real to her.”
“It's all real to me. That's my trouble,” he answered in an altered tone. “Anyway, it's real enough to mark time with. Don't you think so?”
“What d'you mean?” she asked quickly, though she knew his voice.
“That I'm better. I'm well enough to kick.”
“What at?”
“This!” He waved his hand round the one room. “I must have something to play with till I'm fit for work again.”
“Ah!” She sat on the bed and leaned forward, her hands clasped. “I wonder if it's good for you.”
“We've been better here than anywhere,” he went on slowly. “One could always sell it again.”
She nodded gravely, but her eyes sparkled.
“The only thing that worries me is what happened this morning. I want to know how you feel about it. If it's on your nerves in the least we can have the old farm at the back of the house pulled down, or perhaps it has spoiled the notion for you?”
“Pull it down?” she cried. “You've no business faculty. Why, that's where we could live while we're putting the big house in order. It's almost under the same roof. No! What happened this morning seemed to be more of a—of a leading than anything else. There ought to be people at Pardons. Lady Conant's quite right.”
“I was thinking more of the woods and the roads. I could double the value of the place in six months.”
“What do they want for it?” She shook her head, and her loosened hair fell glowingly about her cheeks.
“Seventy-five thousand dollars. They'll take sixty-eight.”
“Less than half what we paid for our old yacht when we married. And we didn't have a good time in her. You were—”
“Well, I discovered I was too much of an American to be content to be a rich man's son. You aren't blaming me for that?”
“Oh, no. Only it was a very businesslike honeymoon. How far are you along with the deal, George?”
“I can mail the deposit on the purchase money to-morrow morning, and we can have the thing completed in a fortnight or three weeks—if you say so.”
“Friars Pardon—Friars Pardon!” Sophie chanted rapturously, her dark gray eyes big with delight. “All the farms? Gale Anstey, Burnt House, Rocketts, the Home Farm, and Griffons? Sure you've got 'em all?”
“Sure.” He smiled.
“And the woods? High Pardons Wood, Lower Pardons, Suttons, Dutton's Shaw, Reuben's Ghyll, Maxey's Ghyll, and both the Oak Hangers? Sure you've got 'em all?”
“Every last stick. Why, you know them as well as I do.” He laughed. “They say there's five thousand—a thousand pounds' worth of lumber—timber they call it—in the Hangers alone.”
“Mrs. Cloke's oven must be mended first thing, and the kitchen roof. I think I'll have all this whitewashed,” Sophie broke in, pointing to the ceiling. “The whole place is a scandal. Lady Conant is quite right. George, when did you begin to fall in love with the house? In the greenroom that first day? I did.”
“I'm not in love with it. One must do something to mark time till one's fit for work.”
“Or when we stood under the oaks, and the door opened? Oh! Ought I to go to poor Iggulden's funeral?” She sighed with utter happiness.
“Wouldn't they call it a liberty now?” said he.
“But I liked him.”
“But you didn't own him at the date of his death.”
“That wouldn't keep me away. Only, they made such a fuss about the watching”—she caught her breath—“it might be ostentatious from that point of view, too. Oh, George”—she reached for his hand—“we're two little orphans moving in worlds not realized, and we shall make some bad breaks. But we're going to have the time of our lives.”
“We'll run up to London to-morrow, and see if we can hurry those English law solicitors. I want to get to work.”
They went. They suffered many things ere they returned across the fields in a fly one Saturday night, nursing a two by two-and-a-half box of deeds and maps—lawful owners of Friars Pardon and the five decayed farms therewith.
“I do most sincerely 'ope and trust you'll be 'appy, Madam,” Mrs. Cloke gasped, when she was told the news by the kitchen fire.
“Goodness! It isn't a marriage!” Sophie exclaimed, a little awed; for to them the joke, which to an American means work, was only just beginning.
“If it's took in a proper spirit”—Mrs. Cloke's eye turned toward her oven.
“Send and have that mended to-morrow,” Sophie whispered.
“We couldn't 'elp noticing,” said Cloke slowly, “from the times you walked there, that you an' your lady was drawn to it, but—but I don't know as we ever precisely thought—” His wife's glance checked him.
“That we were that sort of people,” said George. “We aren't sure of it ourselves yet.”
“Perhaps,” said Cloke, rubbing his knees, “just for the sake of saying something, perhaps you'll park it?”
“What's that?” said George.
“Turn it all into a fine park like Violet Hill”—he jerked a thumb to westward—“that Mr. Sangres bought. It was four farms, and Mr. Sangres made a fine park of them, with a herd of faller deer.”
“Then it wouldn't be Friars Pardon,” said Sophie. “Would it?”
“I don't know as I've ever heard Pardons was ever anything but wheat an' wool. Only some gentlemen say that parks are less trouble than tenants.” He laughed nervously. “But the gentry, o' course, they keep on pretty much as they was used to.”
“I see,” said Sophie. “How did Mr. Sangres make his money?”
“I never rightly heard. It was pepper an' spices, or it may ha' been gloves. No. Gloves was Sir Reginald Liss at Marley End. Spices was Mr. Sangres. He's a Brazilian gentleman—very sunburnt like.”
“Be sure o' one thing. You won't 'ave any trouble,” said Mrs. Cloke, just before they went to bed.
Now the news of the purchase was told to Mr. and Mrs. Cloke alone at 8 P.m. of a Saturday. None left the farm till they set out for church next morning. Yet when they reached the church and were about to slip aside into their usual seats, a little beyond the font, where they could see the red-furred tails of the bellropes waggle and twist at ringing time, they were swept forward irresistibly, a Cloke on either flank (and yet they had not walked with the Clokes), upon the ever-retiring bosom of a black-gowned verger, who ushered them into a room of a pew at the head of the left aisle, under the pulpit.
“This,” he sighed reproachfully, “is the Pardons' Pew,” and shut them in.
They