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Page 47
But her mother was ambitious, more so than her father, who was
rather pugnaciously satisfied with what he had, and not easily
disposed to change. However, he yielded to his wife and consented
to sell out his business and purchase a house in Boston and move
there.
David Townsend was curiously unlike the line of ancestors from whom
he had come. He had either retrograded or advanced, as one might
look at it. His moral character was certainly better, but he had
not the fiery spirit and eager grasp at advantage which had
distinguished them. Indeed, the old Townsends, though prominent
and respected as men of property and influence, had reputations not
above suspicions. There was more than one dark whisper regarding
them handed down from mother to son in the village, and especially
was this true of the first Townsend, he who built the tavern
bearing the Sign of the Blue Leopard. His portrait, a hideous
effort of contemporary art, hung in the garret of David Townsend's
home. There was many a tale of wild roistering, if no worse, in
that old roadhouse, and high stakes, and quarreling in cups, and
blows, and money gotten in evil fashion, and the matter hushed up
with a high hand for inquirers by the imperious Townsends who
terrorized everybody. David Townsend terrorized nobody. He had
gotten his little competence from his store by honest methods--the
exchanging of sterling goods and true weights for country produce
and country shillings. He was sober and reliable, with intense
self-respect and a decided talent for the management of money. It
was principally for this reason that he took great delight in his
sudden wealth by legacy. He had thereby greater opportunities for
the exercise of his native shrewdness in a bargain. This he
evinced in his purchase of a house in Boston.
One day in spring the old Townsend house was shut up, the Blue
Leopard was taken carefully down from his lair over the front door,
the family chattels were loaded on the train, and the Townsends
departed. It was a sad and eventful day for Townsend Centre. A
man from Barre had rented the store--David had decided at the last
not to sell--and the old familiars congregated in melancholy
fashion and talked over the situation. An enormous pride over
their departed townsman became evident. They paraded him,
flaunting him like a banner in the eyes of the new man. "David is
awful smart," they said; "there won't nobody get the better of him
in the city if he has lived in Townsend Centre all his life. He's
got his eyes open. Know what he paid for his house in Boston?
Well, sir, that house cost twenty-five thousand dollars, and David
he bought it for five. Yes, sir, he did."
"Must have been some out about it," remarked the new man, scowling
over his counter. He was beginning to feel his disparaging
situation.
"Not an out, sir. David he made sure on't. Catch him gettin' bit.
Everythin' was in apple-pie order, hot an' cold water and all, and
in one of the best locations of the city--real high-up street.
David he said the rent in that street was never under a thousand.
Yes, sir, David he got a bargain--five thousand dollars for a
twenty-five-thousand-dollar house."
"Some out about it!" growled the new man over the counter.
However, as his fellow townsmen and allies stated, there seemed to
be no doubt about the desirableness of the city house which David
Townsend had purchased and the fact that he had secured it for an
absurdly low price. The whole family were at first suspicious. It
was ascertained that the house had cost a round sum only a few
years ago; it was in perfect repair; nothing whatever was amiss
with plumbing, furnace, anything. There was not even a soap
factory within smelling distance, as Mrs. Townsend had vaguely
surmised. She was sure that she had heard of houses being
undesirable for such reasons, but there was no soap factory. They
all sniffed and peeked; when the first rainfall came they looked at
the ceiling, confidently expecting to see dark spots where the
leaks had commenced, but there were none. They were forced to
confess that their suspicions were allayed, that the house was
perfect, even overshadowed with the mystery of a lower price than
it was worth. That, however, was an additional perfection in the
opinion of the Townsends, who had their share of New England
thrift. They had lived just one month in their new house, and were
happy, although at times somewhat lonely from missing the society
of Townsend Centre, when the trouble began. The Townsends,
although they lived in a fine house in a genteel, almost
fashionable, part of the city, were true to their antecedents and
kept, as they had been accustomed, only one maid. She was the
daughter of a farmer on the outskirts of their native village, was
middle-aged, and had lived with them for the last ten years. One
pleasant Monday morning she rose early and did the family washing
before breakfast, which had been prepared by Mrs. Townsend and
Adrianna, as was their habit on washing-days. The family were
seated at the breakfast table in their basement dining-room, and
this maid, whose name was Cordelia, was hanging out the clothes in
the vacant lot. This vacant lot seemed a valuable one, being on a
corner. It was rather singular that it had not been built upon.
The Townsends had wondered at it and agreed that they would have
preferred their own house to be there. They had, however, utilized
it as far as possible with their innocent, rural disregard of
property rights in unoccupied land.
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