"I don't want science," she said. "I just want to be loved, and there isn't time for that at home. Besides," she added, looking out of the window, "it would be desertion."George was forced to soothe himself with linking Friars Pardon to the telegraph system of Great Britain by telephone--three-quarters of a mile of poles, put in by Whybarne and a few friends. One of these was a foreigner from the next parish. Said he when the line was being run: "There's an old ellum right in our road. Shall us throw her?""Toot Hill parish folk, neither grace nor good luck, God help 'em." Old Whybarne shouted the local proverb from three poles down the line. "We ain't goin' to lay any axe-iron to coffin-wood here not till we know where we are yet awhile. Swing round 'er, swing round!"To this day, then, that sudden kink in the straight line across the upper pasture remains a mystery to Sophie and George. Nor can they tell why Skim Winsh, who came to his cottage under Dutton Shaw most musically drunk at 10.45 P.M of every Saturday night, as his father had done before him, sang no more at the bottom of the garden steps, where Sophie always feared he would break his neck. The path was undoubtedly an ancient right of way, and at 10.45 P.M. on Saturdays Skim remembered it was his duty to posterity to keep it open--till Mrs. Cloke spoke 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. Ilike 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. Iwant 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 bow 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.
