While May was still stepping about the fields loath to leave her business of violets and ladywort, Madame Sally Chartres sent pleasant word from Long Island that a dozen or more of her friends were to spend a day with her, and no one would willingly disregard the summons. The Chartres’ lived on the edge of an orchard and another edge of field. I dare say they lived in a house although what I chiefly remember is a colonnade of white pillars, a library shelved to the ceiling, and a sprinkling of mighty cushioned window seats whereon the sun forever streamed through lattices. Perhaps Madame Sally and Wilfred had assembled these things near an orchard and considered that to be house enough. At all events there could have been no fairer place for a Spring holiday.
Pelleas and I went down by train, and the morning was so golden that I wholly expected to divine a procession of nymphs defiling faintly across the fields in a cloud of blossoms rooted in air. I have often wondered why goblins, dryads and the like do not more frequently appear to folk on railway trains. These shy ones would be quite safe, for by the time the bell rope should have been pulled and the conductor told why the train must be stopped and the engine and cars brought effectually to a standstill, the little shadowy things could have vanished safely against the blue. Perhaps they do not understand how sadly long it takes a spirit to influence the wheels of civilization.
The others coached down to the Chartres’ with Hobart Eddy, although there must be made one important exception: Madame Sally had insisted that Enid bring the baby; and Enid and her husband, who since the christening were lingering on in town, had given the baby and his new nurse to the charge of Pelleas and me. We arrived ahead of the coach and stood on the veranda to welcome the others.
Lisa was among these, with Eric at her side; and Madame Polly and Horace Cleatam and Miss Lillieblade, all three in spite of their white hair and anxiety about draughts stoutly refusing to ride inside. There were four or five others, and from the box seat beside Hobart Eddy I saw descending with what I am bound to call picturesque deliberation a figure whom I did not remember.
“Pray who is that?” there was time for me to ask Madame Sally.
“My dear,” she answered hurriedly, “she is a Mrs. Trempleau. I used to love her mother. And Hobart wanted her here.”
“Hobart!” I exclaimed. “That Mrs. Trempleau?” I comprehended. “You don’t think ...” I intimated.
Madame Sally’s eyebrows were more expressive than the eyes of many.
“Who knows?” she said only, and made of her eyebrows a positive welcome to our friends.