hating herself because her lip trembled.
“My dear,” the compelling tone dropped to a soothing gurgle, “d’you suppose I don’t know how it feels to come to a strange county – country I should say – away from one’s own people? When I first left the Shires – I’m Shropshire, you know – I cried for a day and a night. But fretting doesn’t make loneliness any better. Oh, here’s Dora. She did sprain her leg that day.”
“I’m as lame as a tree still,” said the tall maiden frankly. “You ought to go out with the otter-hounds, Mrs. Chapin. I believe they’re drawing your water next week.”
Sir Walter had already led off George, and the vicar came up on the other side of Sophie. There was no escaping the swift procession or the leisurely lunch, where talk came and went in low-voiced eddies that had the village for their centre. Sophie heard the vicar and Sir Walter address her husband lightly as Chapin! (She also remembered many women known in a previous life who habitually addressed their husbands as Mr. Such-an-one.) After lunch Lady Conant talked to her explicitly of maternity as that is achieved in cottages and farm-houses remote from aid, and of the duty thereto of the mistress of Pardons.
A gate in a beech hedge, reached across triple lawns, let them out before tea-time into the unkempt south side of their land.
“I want your hand, please,” said Sophie as soon as they were safe among the beech boles and the lawless hollies. “D’you remember the old maid in ‘Providence and the Guitar’ who heard the Commissary swear, and hardly reckoned herself a maiden lady afterward? Because I’m a relative of hers. Lady Conant is – ”
“Did you find out anything about the Lashmars?” he interrupted.
“I didn’t ask. I’m going to write to Aunt Sydney about it first. Oh, Lady Conant said something at lunch about their having bought some land from some Lashmars a few years ago. I found it was at the beginning of last century.”
“What did you say?”
“I said, ‘Really, how interesting!’ Like that. I’m not going to push myself forward. I’ve been hearing about Mr. Sangres’s efforts in that direction. And you? I couldn’t see you behind the flowers. Was it very deep water, dear?”
George mopped a brow already browned by outdoor exposures.
“Oh no – dead easy,” he answered. “I’ve bought Friars Pardon to prevent Sir Walter’s birds straying.”
A cock pheasant scuttered through the dry leaves and exploded almost under their feet. Sophie jumped.
“That’s one of ‘em,” said George calmly.
“Well, your nerves are better, at any rate,” said she. “Did you tell ‘em you’d bought the thing to play with?”
“No. That was where my nerve broke down. I only made one bad break – I think. I said I couldn’t see why hiring land to men to farm wasn’t as much a business proposition as anything else.”
“And what did they say?”
“They smiled. I shall know what that smile means some day. They don’t waste their smiles. D’you see that track by Gale Anstey?”
They looked down from the edge of the hanger over a cup-like hollow. People by twos and threes in their Sunday best filed slowly along the paths that connected farm to farm.
“I’ve never seen so many on our land before,” said Sophie. “Why is it?”
“To show us we mustn’t shut up their rights of way.”
“Those cow-tracks we’ve been using cross lots?” said Sophie forcibly.
“Yes. Any one of ‘em would cost us two thousand pounds each in legal expenses to close.”
“But we don’t want to,” she said.
“The whole community would fight if we did.”
“But it’s our land. We can do what we like.”
“It’s not our land. We’ve only paid for it. We belong to it, and it belongs to the people – our people they call ‘em. I’ve been to lunch with the English too.”
They passed slowly from one bracken-dotted field to the next – flushed with pride of ownership, plotting alterations and restorations at each turn; halting in their tracks to argue, spreading apart to embrace two views at once, or closing in to consider one. Couples moved out of their way, but smiling covertly.
“We shall make some bad breaks,” he said at last.
“Together, though. You won’t let anyone else in, will you?”
“Except the contractors. This syndicate handles, this proposition by its little lone.”
“But you might feel the want of some one,” she insisted.
“I shall – but it will be you. It’s business, Sophie, but it’s going to be good fun.”
“Please God,” she answered flushing, and cried to herself as they went back to tea. “It’s worth it. Oh, it’s worth it.”
The repairing and moving into Friars Pardon was business of the most varied and searching, but all done English fashion, without friction. Time and money alone were asked. The rest lay in the hands of beneficent advisers from London, or spirits, male and female, called up by Mr. and Mrs. Cloke from the wastes of the farms. In the centre stood George and Sophie, a little aghast, their interests reaching out on every side.
“I ain’t sayin’ anything against Londoners,” said Cloke, self-appointed clerk of the outer works, consulting engineer, head of the immigration bureau, and superintendent of woods and forests; “but your own people won’t go about to make more than a fair profit out of you.”
“How is one to know?” said George.
“Five years from now, or so on, maybe, you’ll be lookin’ over your first year’s accounts, and, knowin’ what you’ll know then, you’ll say: ‘Well, Billy Beartup’ – or Old Cloke as it might be – ‘did me proper when I was new.’ No man likes to have that sort of thing laid up against him.”
“I think I see,” said George. “But five years is a long time to look ahead.”
“I doubt if that oak Billy Beartup throwed in Reuben’s Ghyll will be fit for her drawin-room floor in less than seven,” Cloke drawled.
“Yes, that’s my work,” said Sophie. (Billy Beartup of Griffons, a woodman by training and birth, a tenant farmer by misfortune of marriage, had laid his broad axe at her feet a month before.) “Sorry if I’ve committed you to another eternity.”
“And we shan’t even know where we’ve gone wrong with your new carriage drive before that time either,” said Cloke, ever anxious to keep the balance true with an ounce or two in Sophie’s favour. The past four months had taught George better than to reply. The carriage road winding up the hill was his present keen interest. They set off to look at it, and the imported American scraper which had blighted the none too sunny soul of “Skim” Winsh, the carter.
But young Iggulden was in charge now, and under his guidance, Buller and Roberts, the great horses, moved mountains.
“You lif’ her like that, an’ you tip her like that,” he explained to the gang. “My uncle he was roadmaster in Connecticut.”
“Are they roads yonder?” said Skim, sitting under the laurels.
“No better than accommodation roads. Dirt, they call ‘em. They’d suit you, Skim.”
“Why?” said the incautious Skim.
“Cause you’d take no hurt when you fall out of your cart drunk on a Saturday,” was the answer.
“I didn’t last time neither,” Skim roared.
After the loud laugh, old Whybarne of Gale Anstey piped feebly, “Well, dirt or no dirt, there’s no denyin’ Chapin knows a good job when he sees it. ‘E don’t build