behind a pair of fast horses—had admired the look of a little white church steeple, set down among the green trees, and the gentle rocking of the
boats upon the summer water.
"I should like to live in a place like this some time," she had said to Lester, and he had made the comment that it was a little too peaceful for him. "I can imagine getting to the place where I might like this, but not now. It's too withdrawn."
Jennie thought of that expression afterward. It came to her when she
thought that the world was trying. If she had to be alone ever and could
afford it she would like to live in a place like Sandwood. There she would have a little garden, some chickens, perhaps, a tall pole with a pretty bird-house on it, and flowers and trees and green grass everywhere about. If
she could have a little cottage in a place like this which commanded a
view of the lake she could sit of a summer evening and sew. Vesta could
play about or come home from school. She might have a few friends, or
not any. She was beginning to think that she could do very well living
alone if it were not for Vesta's social needs. Books were pleasant things—
she was finding that out—books like Irving's Sketch Book, Lamb's Elia,
and Hawthorne's Twice Told Tales. Vesta was coming to be quite a
musician in her way, having a keen sense of the delicate and refined in
musical composition. She had a natural sense of harmony and a love for
those songs and instrumental compositions which reflect sentimental and
passionate moods, and she could sing and play quite well. Her voice was,
of course, quite untrained—she was only fourteen—but it was pleasant to
listen to. She was beginning to show the combined traits of her mother
and father—Jennie's gentle, speculative turn of mind, combined with
Brander's vivacity of spirit and innate executive capacity. She could talk to her mother in a sensible way about things, nature, books, dress, love, and from her developing tendencies Jennie caught keen glimpses of the
new worlds which Vesta was to explore. The nature of modern school life,
its consideration of various divisions of knowledge, music, science, all
came to Jennie watching her daughter take up new themes. Vesta was
evidently going to be a woman of considerable ability—not irritably
aggressive, but self-constructive. She would be able to take care of
herself. All this pleased Jennie and gave her great hopes for Vesta's future.
The cottage which was finally secured at Sandwood was only a storey
and a half in height, but it was raised upon red brick piers between which were set green lattices and about which ran a veranda. The house was
long and narrow, its full length—some five rooms in a row—facing the
lake. There was a dining-room with windows opening even with the floor,
a large library with built-in shelves for books, and a parlour whose three large windows afforded air and sunshine at all times. The plot of ground
in which this cottage stood was one hundred feet square and ornamented
with a few trees. The former owner had laid out flower-beds, and
arranged green hardwood tubs for the reception of various hardy plants
and vines. The house was painted white, with green shutters and green
shingles.
It had been Lester's idea, since this thing must be, that Jennie might keep the house in Hyde Park just as it was, but she did not want to do that. She could not think of living there alone. The place was too full of memories.
At first, she did not think she would take anything much with her, but she finally saw that it was advisable to do as Lester suggested—to fit out the new place with a selection of silverware, hangings, and furniture from the Hyde Park house.
"You have no idea what you will or may want," he said. "Take everything.
I certainly don't want any of it."
A lease of the cottage was taken for two years, together with an option for an additional five years, including the privilege of purchase. So long as he was letting her go, Lester wanted to be generous. He could not think of
her as wanting for anything, and he did not propose that she should. His
one troublesome thought was, what explanation was to be made to Vesta.
He liked her very much and wanted her life kept free of complications.
"Why not send her off to a boarding-school until spring?" he suggested once; but owing to the lateness of the season this was abandoned as
inadvisable. Later they agreed that business affairs made it necessary for him to travel and for Jennie to move. Later Vesta could be told that Jennie had left him for any reason she chose to give. It was a trying situation, all the more bitter to Jennie because she realised that in spite of the wisdom of it indifference to her was involved. He really did not care ENOUGH,
as much as he cared.
The relationship of man and woman which we study so passionately in
the hope of finding heaven knows what key to the mystery of existence
holds no more difficult or trying situation than this of mutual
compatibility broken or disrupted by untoward conditions which in
themselves have so little to do with the real force and beauty of the
relationship itself. These days of final dissolution in which this
household, so charmingly arranged, the scene of so many pleasant
activities, was literally going to pieces was a period of great trial to both Jennie and Lester. On her part it was one of intense suffering, for she was of that stable nature that rejoices to fix itself in a serviceable and
harmonious relationship, and then stay so. For her life was made up of
those mystic chords of sympathy and memory which bind up the transient
elements of nature into a harmonious and enduring scene. One of those
chords—this home was her home, united and made beautiful by her
affection and consideration for each person and every object. Now the
time had come when it must cease.
If she had ever had anything before in her life which had been like this it might have been easier to part with it now, though, as she had proved,
Jennie's affections were not based in any way upon material
considerations. Her love of life and of personality were free from the taint of selfishness. She went about among these various rooms selecting this
rug, that set of furniture, this and that ornament, wishing all the time with all her heart and soul that it need not be. Just to think, in a little while Lester would not come any more of an evening! She would not need to
get up first of a morning and see that coffee was made for her lord, that the table in the dining-room looked just so. It had been a habit of hers to arrange a bouquet for the table out of the richest blooming flowers of the conservatory, and she had always felt in doing it that it was particularly for him. Now it would not be necessary any more—not for him. When
one is accustomed to wait for the sound of a certain carriage-wheel of an evening grating upon your carriage drive, when one is used to listen at
eleven, twelve, and one, waking naturally and joyfully to the echo of a
certain step on the stair, the separation, the ending of these things, is keen with pain. These were the thoughts that were running through Jennie's
brain hour after hour and day after day.
Lester on his part was suffering in another fashion. His was not the
sorrow of lacerated affection, of discarded and despised love, but of that painful sense of unfairness which comes to one who knows that he is