I
The cottage had been vacant almost four months, an economic waste that
cut deeply into Lavinia Trench’s pin-money. Not that David stinted her
in the matter of funds. The purse strings had always lain loosely in
David’s hands. But her penurious soul, bent on making the best possible
showing of whatever resources came within her reach, rebelled at the
insolent idleness of invested capital. Vine Cottage had been hers,
to do with as she pleased, since the completion of the big Colonial
mansion that housed the remnant of the Trench family. There were not
half-a-dozen furnished residences to let in Springdale, and that this
one should have been unoccupied since the middle of November was
inexplicable.
“You haven’t half way tried to rent it,” the woman charged, her eyes
shifting from her husband’s face to the cottage beyond the low stone
wall, with its sullenly drawn blinds and its air of insensate content.
Her glance rested appraisingly on the broad veranda, now banked with
wet February snow; the little glass-enclosed breakfast room that had
been her own conservatory, in the years gone by; the sturdy-throated
chimney, that would never draw--but that none the less served as one of
the important talking points of the cottage. An attractive set of gas
logs did away with the danger of stale wood smoke in the library; but
the chimney remained--moss-covered at the corners, near the ground, a
hardy ampelopsis tracing a pattern of brown lace against its dull red
bricks. There were eight rooms and a capacious attic. The furniture
was excellent. There was a garage, too, with living quarters for the
servants. In the year of grace, nineteen hundred and nine, there were
not many residences in Springdale with garages.
“I heard at church, Sunday, that Mrs. Marksley is looking for a house.
You know, Vine, their place on Grant Drive is for sale--against the
building of the new house in Marksley’s Addition. Do you want me to--”
“Mrs. Marksley! Humph!” Lavinia’s black eyes snapped. It would be to
her liking to have the wife of the richest man in town as her tenant.
Still ... the situation had its disadvantages, not the least of which
was that they would be moving out again in a few months, and the same
old problem to be faced afresh.
“Do as you like about speaking to Mr. Marksley. But remember, David, I
don’t recommend it.”
“It’s your house, my dear. You blamed me for offering the place to
Sylvia when she was married. I told you, last fall, I’d have nothing
more to do with it.”
He bent to kiss her, a kiss that was part of the compulsory daily
routine, and hurriedly left the house. Lavinia turned his words over
in her mind, and her gorge rose. David was always that way. You could
never make him shoulder responsibility. True, she had wanted Sylvia
next door, where she could watch over her daughter’s blundering
beginnings at housekeeping. And anyone would say it was an honour
to have Professor Penrose in the family--even if his salary was
small. But another lessee--with the boon of a commercial position
in Detroit at four times the amount he received from the little
denominational college in Springdale--would have been held to the
strict interpretation of the lease. David would not hear of Oliver
and Sylvia paying rent for a house they did not occupy, a sentiment
promptly seconded by his daughter. Sylvia never failed to perceive her
own advantage--a fact at once gratifying and maddening to her mother.
What if David had been like that? What if.... She always put David
aside. Why bother about the inevitable?