said Mrs. Van Dorn.
“A thousand!” repeated Mrs. Morris. “Mr. Morris said horses like those were never bought under twenty-five hundred, and Mr. Morris is a pretty good judge of horse-flesh.”
“Mr. Van Dorn said Dr. Jerrolds told him that Captain Carroll told him he expected to keep an automobile, and was afraid the Ranger stable wouldn't be large enough,” said Mrs. Van Dorn.
“So I heard,” said Mrs. Lee.
“I hear he pays a very large rent to Mr. Ranger—the largest rent he has ever got for that house,” said Mrs. Morris.
“Well, I hear he pays fifty dollars a month.”
“Why, he never got more than forty before!” said Mrs. Lee. “That is, I don't believe he ever did.”
“I know he didn't,” said Mrs. Morris, positively.
“Well, it is a handsome place,” said Mrs. Lee.
“Yes, it is, but these new people aren't satisfied. They must have been used to pretty grand things where they came from. They want the stable enlarged, as I said before, and a box-stall. Mr. Carroll owns a famous trotter that he hasn't brought here yet, because he is afraid the stable isn't warm enough. I heard he wanted steam-heat out there, and a room finished for the coachman, and hard-wood floors all over the house. They say he has two five-thousand-dollar rugs.”
“The house is let furnished, I thought,” said Mrs. Van Dorn.
“Yes, it is, and the furniture is still there. The Carrolls don't want to bring on many of their own things till they are sure the house is in better order. I heard they talk of buying it.”
“Do you know how much—” inquired Mrs. Van Dorn, breathlessly, while Mrs. Lee leaned nearer, her eyes protruding, her small thin mouth open, and her white kid fingers interlacing.
“Well, I heard fifteen thousand.”
Both callers gasped.
“Well, it is a great thing for Banbridge to have such people come here and buy real estate and settle, if they are the right sort,” said Mrs. Van Dorn, rising to go; and Mrs. Lee followed her example, with a murmur of assent to the remark.
“Must you go?” said Mrs. Morris, with an undertone of joy, thinking of her carpet up-stairs, and rising with thinly veiled alacrity.
“Have you called?” asked Mrs. Van Dorn, moving towards the door, and gathering up her skirts delicately with her white kid fingers, preparatory to going down the steps. Mrs. Lee followed, also gathering up her skirts.
“No, I have not yet,” replied Mrs. Morris, preceding them to the door and opening it for them, “but I intend to do so very soon. I have been pretty busy house-cleaning since they came, and that is only two weeks ago, but I am going to call.”
“I think it is one's duty to call on new-comers, with a view to their church-going, if nothing else,” said Mrs. Van Dorn, with a virtuous air.
“So do I,” said Mrs. Lee.
“Good-afternoon,” said Mrs. Van Dorn. “What a beautiful day it is!”
Both ladies bade Mrs. Morris good-afternoon and she returned the salutation with unction. Both ladies looked fascinatedly to the last at the black smooch on her cheek as they backed out.
“I thought I should burst right out laughing every time I looked at her, in spite of myself,” whispered Mrs. Lee, as they passed down the walk.
“So did I.”
“And no collar on!”
“Yes. She must have been house-cleaning.”
“Yes. Well, I don't want to say disagreeable things, but really it doesn't seem to me that I would have been house-cleaning such an afternoon as this, when people were likely to be out calling.”
“Well, I know I would not,” said Mrs. Van Dorn, decidedly. “I should have done what I could in the morning, and left what I couldn't do till next day.”
“So should I.”
Samson Rawdy stood at the coach-door, and both ladies stepped in. Then he stood waiting expectantly for orders. The ladies looked at each other.
“Where shall we go next?” asked Mrs. Lee.
“Well, I don't know,” said Mrs. Van Dorn, hesitatingly. “We were going to Mrs. Fairfield's next, but I am afraid there won't be time if—”
“It really seems to me that we ought to go to call on those new people,” said Mrs. Lee.
“Well, I think so too. I suppose there would be time if Mrs. Fairfield wasn't at home, and it is such a lovely day I doubt if she is, and it is on the way to the Carrolls'.” She spoke with sudden decision to Samson Rawdy. “Drive to Mr. Andrew Fairfield's, and as fast as you can, please.” Then she and Mrs. Lee leaned back as the coach whirled out of the Morris grounds.
It was only a short time before they wound swiftly around the small curve of drive before the Fairfield house. “There is no need of both of us getting out,” said Mrs. Van Dorn.
Mrs. Van Dorn alighted and went swiftly with a tiptoeing effect upon the piazza-steps. She was seen to touch the bell. She waited a short space, and then she did not touch it again. She tucked the cards under the door-step, and hurried back to the carriage.
“I knew she wasn't at home,” said she, in a whisper, “it is such a lovely day.” She turned to Samson Rawdy, who stood holding open the coach-door. “Now you may drive to those new people who have moved into the Ranger place,” said she, “Mrs. Carroll's.”
Chapter II
There are days in spring wherein advance seems as passive as is the progress of a log down the race of a spring freshet. Then there are other days wherein it seems that every mote must feel to the full its sentient life, and its swelling towards development or fulfilment. On a day like the latter, everything and everybody bestirs. The dust motes spin in whirling columns, the gnats dance for their lives their dance of death before the wayfarer. The gardeners and the grave-diggers turn up the earth with energy, making the clods fly like water. The rich play, or work that they may play, as do the poor. Everybody is up and wide awake and doing. The earth and the habitations thereof are rubbed, cleaned, and swept, or skylarked over; the boy plays with his marbles on the sidewalk or whoops over the fields; the housewives fling wide open their house windows, and the dust of the winter flies out like smoke; the tradesmen set out their new wares to public view, the bees make honey, the birds repeat their world-old nesting songs, the cocks crow straight through the day; nothing stops till the sun sets, and even then it is hard for such an ardent clock of life to quite run down.
It was that spirit of unrest which had sent the two ladies out making calls. There was not one where, if the womenkind were at home at all and not afield, but they had been possessed of the spring activity, until they reached the Ranger place, where the new-comers to Banbridge lived. The Ranger place was, in some respects the most imposing house in Banbridge. It stood well back from the road, in grounds which deserved the name. They were extensive, dotted with stately groups of spruces and pines, and there was in the rear of the house a pond with a rustic bridge, fringed with willows, which gave the place its name, “Willow Lake.” The house had formerly been owned by two maiden women with much sentiment, the sisters of the present owner. The place was “Willow Lake.” The pond was the “Willow Mere,” in defiance of the name of the place. The little rustic bridge was the “Bridge of Sighs,” for some obscure reason, perhaps buried in the sentimental past of the sisters. And the little hollow which was profusely sprinkled with violets in the spring was “Idlewild.” It was in “Idlewild” that the new family, perverse to the spirit of the day, idled when the callers drove up the road in the best coach.
There was in the little violet-sprinkled hollow a small building with many peaks