"My dear fellow," she cried, and slapped him heartily on the back, "I can't tell you how glad we all are. Oh, she'll be all right. (There's never been any trouble over the birth of an heir at Pardons.) Now where the dooce is it?" She felt largely in her leather-boundskirt and drew out a small silver mug. "I sent a note to your wife about it, but my silly ass of a groom forgot to take this. You can save me a tramp. Give her my love." She marched off amid her guard of grave Airedales.
The mug was worn and dented: above the twined initials, G.L., was the crest of a footless bird and the motto: " Wayte awhyle--wayte awhyle.""That's the other end of the riddle," Sophie whispered, when he saw her that evening. "Read her note. The English write beautiful notes."The warmest of welcomes to your little man. I hope he will appreciate his native land now he has come to it. Though you have said nothing we cannot, of course, look on him as a little stranger, and so I am sending him the old Lashmar christening mug. It has been with us since Gregory Lashmar, your great-grandmother's brother--George stared at his wife.
"Go on," she twinkled, from the pillows.
--mother's brother, sold his place to Walter's family. We seem to have acquired some of your household gods at that time, but nothing survives except the mug and the old cradle, which I found in the potting-shed and am having put in order for you. I hope little George--Lashmar, he will be too, won't he?--will live to see his grandchildren cut their teeth on his mug.
Affectionately yours, ALICE CONANT.
P.S.--How quiet you've kept about it all!
"Well, I'm--"
"Don't swear," said Sophie. "Bad for the infant mind.""But how in the world did she get at it? Have you ever said a word about the Lashmars?""You know the only time--to young Iggulden at Rocketts--when Iggulden died.""Your great-grandmother's brother! She's traced the whole connection--more than your Aunt Sydney could do. What does she mean about our keeping quiet?"Sophie's eyes sparkled. "I've thought that out too. We've got back at the English at last. Can't you see that she thought that we thought my mother's being a Lashmar was one of those things we'd expect the English to find out for themselves, and that's impressed her?" She turned the mug in her white hands, and sighed happily. "'Wayte awhyle--wayte awhyle.' That's not a bad motto, George. It's been worth it.""But still I don't quite see--"
"I shouldn't wonder if they don't think our coming here was part of a deep-laid scheme to be near our ancestors. They'd understand that. And look how they've accepted us, all of them.""Are we so undesirable in ourselves?" George grunted.
"Be just, me lord. That wretched Sangres man has twice our money.
Can you see Marm Conant slapping him between the shoulders? Not by a jugful! The poor beast doesn't exist!""Do you think it's that then?" He looked toward the cot by the fire where the godling snorted.
