When she went home, a few minutes later, she resolved to padlock the
wicket gate--to secure it with hammer and nails, if need be. She
would not have her family subjected to such an influence. Eileen was
completely bewitched. It was “Mrs. Ascott this” and “Lady Judith that”
from morning till night. Theo was even worse. David was getting to
look like a boy, since he had been chatting across the wall with
that designing woman. And Larimore! He was already in her clutches.
How could a mother have been so blind? If the gate were closed, with
obvious intent, Mrs. Ascott would take the hint, and move away.
Then she remembered the months that Vine Cottage had stood idle. It
was a poor time to rent a furnished cottage, with vacation coming on,
and ever so many of the faculty houses eager to be leased for the
summer months. Besides ... Mrs. Ascott had her redeeming points. She
was never at a loss which forks to put on the table, and how to add
that chic effect to a costume. If Eileen were to shine as Mrs. Henry
Marksley, Junior, she would need much coaching. And, after all, what
had Mrs. Ascott done? She might have gone to Italy in a yacht. A flight
in a motor car--pursuit--a broken axle--capture! There had never been
anything like that in Lavinia Trench’s life. Then, too, her husband had
deserted her ... had run away with another woman. It was always, in
these cases, “running.” One could not conceive of a leisurely departure
from the confines of the moral code. No doubt Mr. Ascott had abused
her. Men usually did, when they were casting amorous eyes at some one
else. That made a different case of it. Her father had taken her back.
It could not have resulted in a public scandal. Probably the facts
never leaked out. Mrs. Ascott had certainly been received by the best
society in New York and Pelham before coming to Springdale.
Moreover ... this thing of nailing up gates did not always turn out
the way one expected. She had nailed up one gate in her life that
she would have given the whole world to open. And this was such a
friendly little gate. Who could tell but that some day she, Vine--the
self-sufficient--might need a friend? Mrs. Ascott was--potent
phrase--“a woman of the world.” She made the women of Springdale look
pitifully gauche. It was not a bad idea to have such a woman as a
neighbour. Not too much intimacy. She would look to that. She might
mention.... But what was there to tell? Mrs. Ascott had not sinned, as
Adelaide Marksley had. Herein lay the crux of the whole matter. Still
... she was a dangerous woman. Larimore must be watched.