Actions and Reactions. Rudyard Kipling

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 one day and dee-stroy the next, like that nigger Sangres.”

      “SHE's the one that knows her own mind,” said Pinky, brother to Skim Winsh, and a Napoleon among carters who had helped to bring the grand piano across the fields in the autumn rains.

      “She had ought to,” said Iggulden. “Whoa, Buller! She's a Lashmar. They never was double-thinking.”

      “Oh, you found that? Has the answer come from your uncle?” said Skim, doubtful whether so remote a land as America had posts.

      The others looked at him scornfully. Skim was always a day behind the fair. Iggulden rested from his labours. “She's a Lashmar right enough. I started up to write to my uncle—at once—the month after she said her folks came from Veering Holler.”

      “Where there ain't any roads?” Skim interrupted, but none laughed.

      “My uncle he married an American woman for his second, and she took it up like a like the coroner. She's a Lashmar out of the old Lashmar place, 'fore they sold to Conants. She ain't no Toot Hill Lashmar, nor any o' the Crayford lot. Her folk come out of the ground here, neither chalk nor forest, but wildishers. They sailed over to America—I've got it all writ down by my uncle's woman—in eighteen hundred an' nothing. My uncle says they're all slow begetters like.”

      “Would they be gentry yonder now?” Skim asked.

      “Nah—there's no gentry in America, no matter how long you're there. It's against their law. There's only rich and poor allowed. They've been lawyers and such like over yonder for a hundred years but she's a Lashmar for all that.”

      “Lord! What's a hundred years?” said Whybarne, who had seen seventy-eight of them.

      “An' they write too, from yonder—my uncle's woman writes—that you can still tell 'em by headmark. Their hair's foxy-red still—an' they throw out when they walk. He's in-toed-treads like a gipsy; but you watch, an' you'll see 'er throw, out—like a colt.”

      “Your trace wants taking up.” Pinky's large ears had caught the sound of voices, and as the two broke through the laurels the men were hard at work, their eyes on Sophie's feet.

      She had been less fortunate in her inquiries than Iggulden, for her Aunt Sydney of Meriden (a badged and certificated Daughter of the Revolution to boot) answered her inquiries with a two-paged discourse on patriotism, the leaflets of a Village Improvement Society, of which she was president, and a demand for an overdue subscription to a Factory Girls' Reading Circle. Sophie burned it all in the Orpheus and Eurydice grate, and kept her own counsel.

      “What I want to know,” said George, when Spring was coming, and the gardens needed thought, “is who will ever pay me for my labour? I've put in at least half a million dollars' worth already.”

      “Sure you're not taking too much out of yourself?” his wife asked.

      “Oh, no; I haven't been conscious of myself all winter.” He looked at his brown English gaiters and smiled. “It's all behind me now. I believe I could sit down and think of all that—those months before we sailed.”

      “Don't—ah, don't!” she cried.

      “But I must go back one day. You don't want to keep me out of business always—or do you?” He ended with a nervous laugh.

      Sophie sighed as she drew her own ground-ash (of old Iggulden's cutting) from the hall rack.

      “Aren't you overdoing it too? You look a little tired,” he said.

      “You make me tired. I'm going to Rocketts to see Mrs. Cloke about Mary.” (This was the sister of the telegraphist, promoted to be sewing-maid at Pardons.) “Coming?”

      “I'm due at Burnt House to see about the new well. By the way, there's a sore throat at Gale Anstey—”

      “That's my province. Don't interfere. The Whybarne children always have sore throats. They do it for jujubes.”

      “Keep away from Gale Anstey till I make sure, honey. Cloke ought to have told me.”

      “These people don't tell. Haven't you learnt that yet? But I'll obey, me lord. See you later!”

      She set off afoot, for within the three main roads