Actions and Reactions. Rudyard Kipling

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      “I'm only glad I happened to be there,” she answered, and from the bottom of her heart she meant it.

      “We heard he spoke a lot o' you—one time an' another since you came. We thank you kindly,” the man added.

      “Are you the son that was in America?” she asked.

      “Yes, ma'am. On my uncle's farm, in Connecticut. He was what they call rood-master there.”

      “Whereabouts in Connecticut?” asked George over her shoulder.

      “Veering Holler was the name. I was there six year with my uncle.”

      “How small the world is!” Sophie cried. “Why, all my mother's people come from Veering Hollow. There must be some there still—the Lashmars. Did you ever hear of them?”

      “I remember hearing that name, seems to me,” he answered, but his face was blank as the back of a spade.

      A little before dusk a woman in grey, striding like a foot-soldier, and bearing on her arm a long pole, crashed through the orchard calling for food. George, upon whom the unannounced English worked mysteriously, fled to the parlour; but Mrs. Cloke came forward beaming. Sophie could not escape.

      “We've only just heard of it;” said the stranger, turning on her. “I've been out with the otter-hounds all day. It was a splendidly sportin' thing—”

      “Did you—er—kill?” said Sophie. She knew from books she could not go far wrong here.

      “Yes, a dry bitch—seventeen pounds,” was the answer. “A splendidly sportin' thing of you to do. Poor old Iggulden—”

      “Oh—that!” said Sophie, enlightened.

      “If there had been any people at Pardons it would never have happened. He'd have been looked after. But what can you expect from a parcel of London solicitors?”

      Mrs. Cloke murmured something.

      “No. I'm soaked from the knees down. If I hang about I shall get chilled. A cup of tea, Mrs. Cloke, and I can eat one of your sandwiches as I go.” She wiped her weather-worn face with a green and yellow silk handkerchief.

      “Yes, my lady!” Mrs. Cloke ran and returned swiftly.

      “Our land marches with Pardons for a mile on the south,” she explained, waving the full cup, “but one has quite enough to do with one's own people without poachin'. Still, if I'd known, I'd have sent Dora, of course. Have you seen her this afternoon, Mrs. Cloke? No? I wonder whether that girl did sprain her ankle. Thank you.” It was a formidable hunk of bread and bacon that Mrs. Cloke presented. “As I was sayin', Pardons is a scandal! Lettin' people die like dogs. There ought to be people there who do their duty. You've done yours, though there wasn't the faintest call upon you. Good night. Tell Dora, if she comes, I've gone on.”

      She strode away, munching her crust, and Sophie reeled breathless into the parlour, to shake the shaking George.

      “Why did you 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 СКАЧАТЬ