Four
Corners, or watering the ivies that were replacing the gnarled
woodbines. Mrs. Ellwell had never kept improper books from her
daughters--it seemed so hopeless--and she read what her father read,
accepting the lurid picture of life presented in the novels
plentifully scattered about the house as probably correct, yet with
an indifference and weariness. Some cool twilight at the Four Corners,
when the little tasks of the day had been done, before the carriage
arrived from the station with the unaccountable male element of life,
she might sit for a reflective half hour wondering why it had all been
made so; why passion was recklessly rampant in life; why the world
creaked in its action, groaning over the follies so thickly spread in
its course. In the daring of dreams, provoked by the long shadows and
the deep quiet, other forms, strange possibilities, might flicker in
her mind; but she was a woman! And soon it was time to dress for the
long dinner.

There were evenings when the carriage returned empty, merely a
telegram at the most, to account for the broker's absence; and these
nights, sad for the neglected wife, were a relief to the daughter. The
sweet monotonous day could go on (the country day she secretly loved
when there were only women about the house) even down to night with
rest, the shrieking world banished. There were other evenings when
Ellwell drove up alone, morose, biting his iron-gray mustache in
sullen disgust and ennui at some failure, perhaps in self-discontent
and fear. Leonora met him at the veranda with a kiss, and a bubbling,
clever greeting that dragged out a smile. Dinner was then a pleasant
place for talk, the elder daughter taking the lead and holding it
until she had roused the others. And there were other evenings when
the broker brought with him friends, anyone he happened upon, when he
was excited and loud, and the daughter had fears of the end. If the
talk grew too boisterous, the women would hurry the courses and then
withdraw to a side of the veranda, to sit sadly by themselves. If a
quieter man, or some young fellow from Camberton, slipped away from
the dining-room and joined them, they would talk gayly, simulating
ease and naturalness.

For all this tolerance Mrs. Ellwell had the reputation with the broker
and his companions, of being "a good woman" and a "good wife." And
Ellwell considered that he had redeemed his note to propriety in
marrying and having children, who become h