but presently, the shadow passed in a pure wonder and bewilderment that made her reel. She leaned against one of their new gates and looked over their lands for some other stay.
“Well,” she said resignedly, half aloud, “we must try to make him feel that he isn't a third in our party,” and turned the corner that looked over Friars Pardon, giddy, sick, and faint.
Of a sudden the house they had bought for a whim stood up as she had never seen it before, low-fronted, broad-winged, ample, prepared by course of generations for all such things. As it had steadied her when it lay desolate, so now that it had meaning from their few months of life within, it soothed and promised good. She went alone and quickly into the hall, and kissed either door-post, whispering: “Be good to me. You know! You've never failed in your duty yet.”
When the matter was explained to George, he would have sailed at once to their own land, but this Sophie forbade.
“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. 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.
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