went wrong with the cottage we must expect to shoulder the expense. She had done her share in turning it over in good condition.
“What an afternoon!” said Jack, after we had escaped and started the car around the hill road home. “Thank God, my dear, I didn’t marry you for your ancestors. Thank God my own were honest shoe clerks.”
“You didn’t like Mrs. Coatesnash?” I said innocently.
“‘Didn’t like’ is much too mild! Of all the snobbish, disagreeable, money-hungry old harridans I’ve ever met, she’s undisputed tops. Did you notice how she grabbed the rent? I’ll bet that money never sees the light of day again.”
“What do you think of Annabelle Bayne?”
“She,” said Jack with a sly grin at me, “was better looking. And she’s a very smart girl—if you like that type. But Annabelle’s no problem of ours, and Mrs. Coatesnash is. That woman—mark my words—is going to be a sweetheart as a landlady.”
“How can she bother us if we never see her?”
I soon discovered. Luella Coatesnash seemed to be one of those women who never do anything for themselves which they can persuade, bully or coerce others into doing for them. Within a week and without our catching a glimpse of her, she managed to become a pretty definite part of the Storm regimen. We had hardly installed ourselves in the cottage before she began to entrust us with the commission of various small, profitless, troublesome chores. When we drove into the village to do our daily shopping, we were requested to buy for Hilltop House ten pounds of sugar or five gallons of oil—thus saving our land-lady the slight expense of getting out her own car. If we planned a day in New Haven there was invariably a letter to be posted for Mrs. Coatesnash—a letter which must make a particular train. Twice, when the old lady went to New York to consult with her lawyers. Laura Twining appeared to ask that we feed and exercise Ivan.
“Luella thought you wouldn’t mind for a couple of days. We’ll be back Wednesday noon.”
We did mind At best. Ivan and I regarded each other with a sort of armed neutrality, and I never quite persuaded myself that he remembered his mistress’s injunction to treat us as friends. Moreover, the dog required a special type of food, which we bought. Nothing was ever said about repayment.
Recalling those days. I find myself wondering how it happened that Jack and I never rebelled. Probably because it is usually easier to say yes than to say no. Anyway, we never got around to refusing.
This situation is recorded in detail because it became highly important later on. It explains why we were not surprised by the telephone call, a point on which we found it difficult to convince the police.
In February we heard from Silas that our neighbors were going abroad. He had been hired to care for Mrs. Coatesnash’s three blooded cows, to do the gardening during her absence and to keep an eye on Hilltop House. He was to occupy a dingy servant’s lodge in the rear of the main dwelling, which had been opened, swept and sketchily furnished for his use.
“Then you won’t be working for us,” Jack said.
Silas shuffled his feet. “If it’s all the same. I figure on keeping my job with you.”
“Won’t the work be too heavy?”
“There’s only the cows and the gardening at the other place. I can get done by noon.”
Jack had a sudden flicker of insight. “Silas, how much is Mrs. Coatesnash paying you?”
Plainly the hired man didn’t wish to answer, but after the question was repeated, he said reluctantly, “Free use of the lodge and half the profits from the milk.”
Jack was indignant.
“Mrs. Coatesnash may be a little close,” Silas said defensively, “but she’s fair. She’s got too much sense to throw her money to the birds, which is more than you can say for some. In lots of ways she’s been awful good to me.”
Since the matter wasn’t our concern, Jack shrugged and said nothing further.
The day before Hilltop House was closed, Laura Twining dropped in to drink a final cup of tea. She wore a new dress, gray poplin trimmed with lace. It was chosen with her instinctive bad taste and she wanted reassurance as to its appropriateness for shipboard. Though talkative as ever, I thought she seemed depressed.
“The packing has been a trial.” She aimlessly smoothed her lace. “I’m going to miss you two young people.”
Somewhat conscience-stricken, we tried to cheer her up. Jack offered her a cigarette. She always declined, but she liked the gesture. I poured fresh tea and passed a homemade cake.
“Aren’t you excited by your trip?”
“I don’t care for Paris.”
“Then you’ve been there before?”
“Nine times.” Naturally we were surprised. Laura explained. It appeared that Mrs. Coatesnash’s long-dead daughter had been born in Paris in the month of February. Every February the bereft mother traveled across the ocean to spend a few sad weeks in the now unfashionable neighborhood where her only child had come into the world. “The neighborhood’s run down terribly, but Luella doesn’t seem to notice. I guess she thinks of the place as it used to be.”
Jack disliked Mrs. Coatesnash too heartily to be sentimentally impressed. “Anyhow it’s a swell break for you,” he said. “You must know Paris like a book.”
“The Paris I see is pretty much like Crockford. Luella hates sightseeing, so we never take in the museums or galleries. We go almost nowhere. We eat in the same restaurants every year, walk the same streets, play the same games of solitaire. It’s funny how I used to hope to get to a Paris theater.”
This was Laura’s first admission that her life with Mrs. Coatesnash was not perfection. She was abashed by the little confidence and earnestly sought to temper her words. “There’s no denying Luella is difficult at times, but then I’m difficult too. Luella tells me I’m a dreadful bore. I’ve probably often been a trial to you.” Our denials weren’t quite quick enough. A small horrid pause occurred. Laura’s eyes filled. “I’m sorry if I’ve bothered you. I seem to bother everybody. Never mind—please don’t get up. It’s time for me to leave.”
That was Tuesday. On Wednesday, as we set forth on our daily walk the Coatesnash car, a decrepit limousine, laden with baggage, swept upward at the bend and passed us on the road. A stern-faced important Silas sat behind the wheel. Luella Coatesnash, Ivan, Laura Twining and assorted suitcases crowded the tonneau. We waved: Mrs. Coatesnash nodded formally; Ivan barked, and the car sped off toward New Haven. I have never been certain whether or not Laura Twining actually saw us. She made no sign of recognition. At eight that evening the S. S. Burgoyne left New York for Cherbourg.
“Shall we wire flowers?” I asked.
“Flowers! Over my dead body we send flowers. Now if you suggested arsenic…”
“I thought for Laura.”
“I would rather,” Jack said, “buy myself a bottle of brandy.” I smiled and agreed with him. The two women had meant nothing to us. I was glad that they were gone. I had no way of knowing that the time was soon to come when I would vainly wish them back in the big white house on the hill.
CHAPTER TWO
Tall, Thin, And Ungracious
Within a fortnight we were happily adjusted to the absence of our neighbors. It was pleasant to have no errands to run for Mrs. Coatesnash delightful to anticipate no little visits from Laura. Jack sang at his easel and I worked with a carefree mind. Silas proved to be the single flaw. Burdened with milking, planting, gardening, he became more inefficient than ever and harder to locate in times of domestic stress. However, as Jack put it, the gain undoubtedly offset the loss.
We had not expected to hear from the travelers, nor did we, although some of the especially favored villagers had