ALVMNVS BOOK FVND 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 

 You must steal in and not wake anybody" 
 
 (Page 270) 
 
THE 
 BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 BY 
 MAEY E. WILKINS FREEMAN 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 "A Humble Romance," "A New England Nun," 
 "The Winning Lady," etc. 
 
 WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY 
 PAUL JULIEN MEYLAN 
 
 NEW YORK 
 DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY 
 
 1912 
 
COPYRIGHT, 1911-1912, BY 
 
 The Crowell Publishing Company 
 
 (as THE POOR LADY) 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1912, 
 BY DODD, MEAD & COMPANY 
 
 Published, February, 1912 
 
ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 You must steal in and not wake 
 anybody Frontispiece 
 
 Facing page 
 
 He was doomed by his own lack of 
 thought to sit through an espec 
 ially long session 34 
 
 I almost wish you had not found 
 it 118 
 
 They leaned together over the yel 
 low cat and kissed each other . 240 
 
 393797 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
CHAPTER I 
 
 FAIRBBIDGE, the little New Jersey village, or 
 rather city (for it had won municipal govern 
 ment some years before, in spite of the protest 
 of far-seeing citizens who descried in the dis 
 tance bonded debts out of proportion to the 
 tiny shoulders of the place), was a misnomer. 
 Often a person, being in Fairbridge for the first 
 time, and being driven by way of entertainment 
 about the rural streets, would inquire, "Why 
 Fairbridge 1" 
 
 Bridges there were none, except those over 
 which the trains thundered to and from New 
 York, and the adjective, except to old inhabi 
 tants who had a curious fierce loyalty for the 
 place, did not seemingly apply. Fairbridge 
 could hardly, by an unbiassed person who did 
 not dwell in the little village and view its fea 
 tures through the rosy glamour of home life, 
 be called "fair." There were a few pretty 
 streets, with well-kept sidewalks, and ambi 
 tious, although small houses, and there were 
 
.& i Ivl I :THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 many lovely bits of views to be obtained, espe 
 cially in the green flush of spring, and the red 
 glow of autumn over the softly swelling New 
 Jersey landscape with its warm red soil to the 
 distant rise of low blue hills ; but it was not fair 
 enough in a general way to justify its name. 
 Yet Fairbridge it was, without bridge, or nat 
 ural beauty, and no mortal knew why. The 
 origin of the name was lost in the petty mist of 
 a petty past. 
 
 Fairbridge was tragically petty, inasmuch as 
 it saw itself great. In Fairbridge narrowness 
 reigned, nay, tyrannised, and was not recog 
 nised as such. There was something fairly un 
 canny about Fairbridge s influence upon peo 
 ple after they had lived there even a few years. 
 The influence held good, too, in the cases of 
 men who daily went to business or professions 
 in New York. Even Wall Street was no sine 
 cure. Back they would come at night, and the 
 terrible, narrow maelstrom of pettiness sucked 
 them in. All outside interest was as naught. 
 International affairs seemed insignificant when 
 once one was really in Fairbridge. 
 
 Fairbridge, although rampant when local 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 3 
 
 politics were concerned, had no regard what 
 ever for those of the nation at large, except as 
 they involved Fairbridge. Fairbridge, to its 
 own understanding, was a nucleus, an ultima 
 tum. It was an example of the triumph of the 
 infinitesimal. It saw itself through a micro 
 scope and loomed up gigantic. Fairbridge was 
 like an insect, born with the conviction that it 
 was an elephant. There was at once something 
 ludicrous, and magnificent, and terrible about 
 it. It had the impressiveness of the abnormal 
 and prehistoric. In one sense, it was prehis 
 toric. It was as a giant survivor of a degen 
 erate species. 
 
 Withal, it was puzzling. People if pinned 
 down could not say why, in Fairbridge, the lit 
 tle was so monstrous, whether it depended 
 upon local conditions, upon the general popula 
 tion, or upon a few who had an undue estima 
 tion of themselves and all connected with them. 
 Was Fairbridge great because of its inhabi 
 tants, or were the inhabitants great because of 
 Fairbridge? Who could say? And why was 
 Fairbridge so important that its very smallness 
 overwhelmed that which, by the nature of 
 
4 THE BUTTEEFLY HOUSE 
 
 things, seemed overwhelming? Nobody knew, 
 or rather, so tremendous was the power of the 
 small in the village, that nobody inquired. 
 
 It is entirely possible that had there been 
 any delicate gauge of mentality, the actual 
 swelling of the individual in his own estimation 
 as he neared Fairbridge after a few hours ab 
 sence, might have been apparent. Take a 
 broker on Wall Street, for instance, or a lawyer 
 who had threaded his painful way to the dim 
 light of understanding through the intricate 
 mazes of the law all day, as his train neared 
 his loved village. From an atom that went to 
 make up the motive power of a great metrop 
 olis, he himself became an entirety. He was 
 It with a capital letter. No wonder that under 
 the circumstances Fairbridge had charms that 
 allured, that people chose it for suburban resi 
 dences, that the small, ornate, new houses with 
 their perky little towers and aesthetic diamond- 
 paned windows, multiplied. 
 
 Fairbridge was in reality very artistically 
 planned as to the sites of its houses. Instead 
 of the regulation Main Street of the country 
 village, with its centre given up to shops and 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 5 
 
 post-office, side streets wound here and there, 
 and houses were placed with a view to effect. 
 
 The Main Street of Fairbridge was as 
 naught from a social point of view. Nohody 
 of any social importance lived there. Even 
 the physicians had their residences and offices 
 in a more aristocratic locality. Upon the 
 Main Street proper, that which formed the 
 centre of the village, there were only shops and 
 a schoolhouse and one or two mean public 
 buildings. For a village of the self-impor 
 tance of Fairbridge, the public buildings were 
 very few and very mean. There was no city 
 hall worthy of the name of this little city which 
 held its head so high. The City Hall, so desig 
 nated by ornate gilt letters upon the glass 
 panel of a very small door, occupied part of 
 the building in which was the post-office. It 
 was a tiny building, two stories high. On the 
 second floor was the millinery shop of Mrs. 
 Creevy, and behind it the two rooms in which 
 she kept house with her daughter Jessy. 
 
 On the lower floor was the post-office on the 
 right, filthy with the foot tracks of the Fair- 
 bridge children who crowded it in a noisy rab- 
 
6 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 ble twice a day, and perpetually red-stained 
 with the shale of New Jersey, brought in upon 
 the boots of New Jersey farmers, who always 
 bore about with them a goodly portion of their 
 native soil. On the left, was the City Hall. 
 This was vacant except upon the first Monday 
 of every month, when the janitor of the Dutch 
 Eeformed Church, who eked out a scanty salary 
 with divers other tasks, got himself to work, 
 and slopped pails of water over the floor, then 
 swept, and built a fire, if in winter. 
 
 Upon the evenings of these first Mondays the 
 Mayor and city officials met and made great 
 talk over small matters, and with the labouring 
 of a mountain, brought forth mice. The City 
 Hall was closed upon other occasions, unless 
 the village talent gave a play for some local 
 benefit. Fairbridge was intensely dramatic, 
 and it was popularly considered that great, 
 natural, histrionic gifts were squandered upon 
 the Fairbridge audiences, appreciative though 
 they were. Outside talent was never in evi 
 dence in Fairbridge. No theatrical company 
 Lad ever essayed to rent that City Hall. Peo 
 ple in Fairbridge put that somewhat humili- 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 7 
 
 ating fact from their minds. Nothing would 
 have induced a loyal citizen to admit that Fair- 
 bridge was too small game for such purposes. 
 There was a tiny theatre in the neighbouring 
 city of Administer, which had really some 
 claims to being called a city, from tradition 
 and usage, aside from size. Axminister was 
 an ancient Dutch city, horribly uncomfortable, 
 but exceedingly picturesque. Fairbridge looked 
 down upon it, and seldom patronised the shows 
 (they never said " plays") staged in its min 
 iature theatre. When they did not resort to 
 their own City Hall for entertainment by local 
 talent, they arrayed themselves in their best 
 and patronised New York itself. 
 
 New York did not know that it was patron 
 ised, but Fairbridge knew. When Mr. and 
 Mrs. George B. Slade boarded the seven 
 o clock train, Mrs. Slade, tall, and majestically 
 handsome, arrayed most elegantly, and! 
 crowned with a white hat (Mrs. Slade always 
 affected white hats with long drooping plumes 
 upon such occasions), and George B., natty in 
 his light top coat, standing well back upon the 
 heels of his shiny shoes, with the air of the 
 
8 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 wealthy and well-assured, holding a beltect 
 cigar in the tips of his grey-gloved fingers, 
 New York was most distinctly patronised, al 
 though without knowing it. 
 
 It was also patronised, and to a greater ex 
 tent, by little Mrs. Wilbur Edes, very little in 
 deed, so little as to be almost symbolic of Fair- 
 bridge itself, but elegant in every detail, so ele 
 gant as to arrest the eye of everybody as she 
 entered the train, holding up the tail of her 
 black lace gown. Mrs. Edes doted on black 
 lage. Her small, fair face peered with a curi 
 ous calm alertness from under the black 
 plumes of her great picture hat, perched side- 
 wise upon a carefully waved pale gold pompa 
 dour, which was perfection and would have done 
 credit to the best hairdresser or the best French 
 maid in New York, but which was achieved 
 solely by Mrs. Wilbur Edes own native wit 
 and skilful fingers. 
 
 Mrs. Wilbur Edes, although small, was mas 
 terly in everything, from waving a pompadour 
 to conducting theatricals. She herself was the 
 star dramatic performer of Fairbridge. 
 ffhere was a strong feeling in Fairbridge that 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 9 
 
 in reality she might, if she chose, rival Bern- 
 hardt. Mrs. Emerston Strong, who had been 
 abroad and had seen Bernhardt on her native 
 soil, had often said that Mrs. Edes reminded 
 her of the great French actress, although she 
 was much handsomer, and so moral! Mrs. 
 Wilbur Edes was masterly in morals, as in 
 everything else. She was much admired by the 
 opposite sex, but she was a model wife and 
 mother. 
 Mr. Wilbur Edes was an a dmired accessory 
 
 of his wife. He was so very tall and slender 
 
 4 
 
 as to suggest forcible elongation. He carried 
 his head with a deprecatory, sidewise air as if 
 in accordance with his wife s picture hat, and 
 yet Mr. Wilbur Edes, out of Fairbridge and in 
 his law office on Broadway, was a man among 
 men. He was an exception to the personal 
 esteem which usually expanded a male citizen 
 of Fairbridge, but he was the one and only hus 
 band of Mrs. Wilbur Edes, and there was not 
 room at such an apex as she occupied for more 
 than one. Tall as Wilbur Edes was, he was 
 overshadowed by that immaculate blond 
 pompadour and that plumed picture hat. He 
 
10 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 was a prime favourite in Fairbridge society; 
 he was liked and admired, but his radiance was 
 reflected, and he was satisfied that it should be 
 so. He adored his wife. The shadow of her 
 black picture hat was his place of perfect con 
 tent. He watched the admiring glances of 
 other men at his wonderful possession with a 
 triumph and pride which made him really 
 rather a noble sort. He was also so fond and 
 proud of his little twin daughters, Maida and 
 Adelaide, that the fondness and pride fairly 
 illuminated his inner self. Wilbur Edes was a 
 clever lawyer, but love made him something 
 bigger. It caused him to immolate self, which 
 is spiritually enlarging self. 
 
 In one respect Wilbur Edes was the biggest 
 man in Fairbridge; in another, Doctor Sturte- 
 vant was. Doctor Sturtevant depended upon 
 no other person for his glory. He shone as a 
 fixed star, with his own lustre. He was es 
 teemed a very great physician indeed, and it 
 was considered that Mrs. Sturtevant, who was 
 good, and honest, and portly with a tight, mid 
 dle-aged portliness, hardly lived up to her hus- 
 band. It was admitted that she tried, poor 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 11 
 
 soul, but her limitations were held to be impos 
 sible, even by her faithful straining following 
 of love. 
 
 When the splendid, florid Doctor, with his 
 majestically curving expanse of waistcoat and 
 his inscrutable face, whirred through the 
 streets of Fairbridge in his motor car, with 
 that meek bulk of womanhood beside him, 
 many said quite openly how unfortunate it was 
 that Doctor Sturtevant had married, when so 
 young, a woman so manifestly his inferior. 
 They never failed to confer that faint praise, 
 which is worse than none at all, upon the poor 
 soul. 
 
 " She is a good woman," they said. "She 
 means well, and she is a good housekeeper, 
 but she is no companion for a man like that." 
 
 Poor Mrs. Sturtevant was aware of her 
 status in Fairbridge, and she was not without 
 a steady, plodding ambition of her own. That 
 utterly commonplace, middle-aged face had 
 some lines of strength. Mrs. Sturtevant was 
 a member of the women s club of Fairbridge, 
 which was poetically and cleverly called the 
 Zenith Club. 
 
12 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 She wrote, whenever it was her turn to do 
 so, papers upon every imaginable subject. 
 She balked at nothing whatever. She ranged 
 from household discussions to the Orient. 
 Then she stood up in the midst of the women, 
 sunk her double chin in her lace collar, and 
 read her paper in a voice like the whisper of a 
 blade of grass. Doctor Sturtevant had a very- 
 low voice. His wife had naturally a strident 
 one, but she essayed to follow him in the mat 
 ter of voice, as in all other things. The poor 
 hen bird tried to voice her thoughts like her 
 mate, and the result was a strange and weird 
 note. However, Mrs. Sturtevant herself was 
 not aware of the result. When she sat down 
 after finishing her papers her face was always 
 becomingly flushed with pleasure. 
 
 Nothing, not even pleasure, was becoming to 
 Mrs. Sturtevant. Life itself was unbecoming 
 to her, and the worst of it was nobody knew 
 it, and everybody said it was due to Mrs. Stur 
 tevant s lack of taste, and then they pitied the 
 great doctor anew. It was very fortunate that 
 it never occurred to Mrs. Sturtevant to pity 
 the doctor on her account, for she was so fond 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 13 
 
 of him, poor soul, that it might have led to a 
 tragedy. 
 
 The Zenith Club of Fairbridge always met 
 on Friday afternoons. It was a cherished aim 
 of the Club to uproot foolish superstitions, 
 hence Friday. It did not seem in the least 
 risky to the ordinary person for a woman to 
 attend a meeting of the Zenith Club on a Fri 
 day, in preference to any other day lin the 
 week ; but many a member had a covert feeling 
 that she was somewhat heroic, especially if the 
 meeting was held at the home of some distant 
 member on an icy day in winter, and she was 
 obliged to make use of a livery carriage. 
 
 There were in Fairbridge three keepers of 
 livery stables, and curiously enough, no rivalry 
 between them. All three were natives of the 
 soil, and somewhat sluggish in nature, like its 
 sticky red shale. They did not move with 
 much enthusiasm, neither were they to be easily 
 removed. When the New York trains came in, 
 they, with their equally indifferent drivers, sat 
 comfortably ensconced in their carriages, and 
 never waylaid the possible passengers alight 
 ing from the train. Sometimes they did not 
 
14 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 even open the carriage doors, but they, how 
 ever, saw to it that they were closed when once 
 the passenger was within, and that was some 
 thing. All three drove indifferent horses, 
 somewhat uncertain as to footing. When a 
 woman sat behind these weak-kneed, badly 
 shod steeds and realised that Stumps, or Fitz 
 gerald, or Witless was driving with an utter 
 indifference to the tightening of lines at dan 
 gerous places, and also realised that it was 
 Friday, some strength of character was doubt 
 less required. 
 
 One Friday in January, two young women, 
 one married, one single, one very pretty, and 
 both well-dressed (most of the women who be 
 longed to the Fairbridge social set dressed 
 well) were being driven by Jim Fitzgerald a 
 distance of a mile or more, up a long hill. The 
 slope was gentle and languid, like nearly every 
 slope in that part of the state, but that day it 
 was menacing with ice. It was one smooth 
 glaze over the macadam. Jim Fitzgerald, a 
 descendant of a fine old family whose type had 
 degenerated, sat hunched upon the driver s 
 seat, his loose jaw hanging, his eyes absent, 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 15 
 
 his mouth open, chewing with slow enjoyment 
 his beloved quid, while the reins lay slackly on 
 the rusty black robe tucked over his knees. 
 Even a corner of that dragged dangerously 
 near the right wheels of the coupe. Jim had 
 not sufficient energy to tuck it in firmly, al 
 though the wind was sharp from the northwest. 
 
 Alice Mendon paid no attention to it, but her 
 companion, Daisy Shaw, otherwise Mrs. Sum- 
 ner Shaw, who was of the tense, nervous type, 
 had remarked it uneasily when they first 
 started. She had rapped vigorously upon the 
 front window, and a misty, rather beautiful 
 blue eye had rolled interrogatively over Jim s 
 shoulder. 
 
 1 Your robe is dragging," shrieked in shrill 
 staccato Daisy Shaw ; and there had been a dull 
 nod of the head, a feeble pull at the dragging 
 robe, then it had dragged again. 
 
 "Oh, don t mind, dear," said Alice Mendon. 
 "It is his own lookout if he loses the robe." 
 
 "It isn t that," responded Daisy queru 
 lously. "It isn t that. I don t care, since he 
 is so careless, if he does lose it, but I must say 
 that I don t think it is safe. Suppose it got 
 
16 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 caught in the wheel, and I know this horse 
 stumbles." 
 
 " Don t worry, dear," said Alice Mendon. 
 " Fitzgerald s robe always drags, and nothing 
 ever happens." 
 
 Alice Mendon was a young woman, not a 
 young girl (she had left young girlhood behind 
 several years since) and she was distinctly 
 beautiful after a fashion that is not easily af 
 fected by the passing years. She had had 
 rather an eventful life, but not an event, pleas 
 ant or otherwise, had left its mark upon the 
 smooth oval of her face. There was not a side 
 nor retrospective glance to disturb the seren 
 ity of her large blue eyes. Although her eyes 
 were blue, her hair was almost chestnut black, 
 except in certain lights, when it gave out 
 gleams as of dark gold. Her features were 
 full, her figure large, but not too large. She 
 wore a dark red tailored gown ; and sumptuous 
 sable furs shaded with dusky softness and shot, 
 in the sun, with prismatic gleams, set off her 
 handsome, not exactly smiling, but serenely 
 beaming face. Two great black ostrich plumea 
 and one red one curled down toward the soft 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 17 
 
 spikes of the fur. Between, the two great blue 
 eyes, the soft oval of the cheeks, and the pleas 
 ant red fulness of the lips appeared. 
 
 Poor Daisy Shaw, who was poor in two 
 senses, strength of nerve and money, looked 
 blue and cold in her little black suit, and her 
 pale blue liberty scarf was horribly inadequate 
 and unbecoming. Daisy was really painful to 
 see as she gazed out apprehensively at the 
 dragging robe, and the glistening slant over 
 which they were moving. Alice regarded her 
 not so much with pity as with a calm, shelter 
 ing sense of superiority and strength. She 
 pulled the inner robe of the coupe up and 
 tucked it firmly around Daisy s thin knees. 
 
 "You look half frozen," said Alice. 
 
 "I don t mind being frozen, but I do mind 
 being scared, " replied Daisy sharply. She re 
 moved the robe with a twitch. 
 
 "If that old horse stumbles and goes down 
 and kicks, I want to be able to get out without 
 being all tangled up in a robe and dragged, " 
 said she. 
 
 "While the horse is kicking and down I don t 
 see how he can drag you very far," said Alice 
 
18 THE BUTTEEFLY HOUSE 
 
 with a slight laugh. Then the horse stumbled. 
 Daisy Shaw knocked quickly on the front win 
 dow with her little, nervous hand in its tight, 
 white kid glove. 
 
 "Do please hold your reins tighter," she 
 called. Again the misty blue eyes rolled about, 
 the head nodded, the rotary jaws were seen, 
 the robe dragged, the reins lay loosely. 
 
 "That wasn t a stumble worth mentioning, 
 said Alice Mendon. 
 
 "I wish he would stop chewing and drive," 
 said poor Daisy Shaw vehemently. "I wish 
 we had a liveryman as good as that Dougherty 
 in Axminister. I was making calls there the 
 other day, and it was as slippery as it is now, 
 and he held the reins up tight every minute. 
 I felt safe with him." 
 
 "I don t think anything will happen." 
 
 "It does seem to me if he doesn t stop chew 
 ing, and drive, I shall fly ! " said Daisy. 
 
 Alice regarded her with a little wonder. 
 Such anxiety concerning personal safety rather 
 puzzled her. "My horses ran away the other 
 day, and Dick went down flat and barked his 
 knees; that s why I have Fitzgerald to-day," 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 19 
 
 said she. "I was not hurt. Nobody was hurt 
 except the horse. I was very sorry about the 
 horse. " 
 
 "I wish I had an automobile/ said Daisy. 
 "You never know what a horse will do next." 
 
 Alice laughed again slightly. "There is a 
 little doubt sometimes as to what an automobile 
 will do next," she remarked. 
 
 "Well, it is your own brain that controls it, 
 if you can run it yourself, as you do." 
 
 "I am not so sure. Sometimes I wonder if 
 the automobile hasn t an uncanny sort of brain 
 itself. Sometimes I wonder how far men can 
 go with the invention of machinery without 
 putting more of themselves into it than they 
 bargain for," said Alice. Her smooth face did 
 not contract in the least, but was brooding with 
 speculation and thought. 
 
 Then the horse stumbled again, and Daisy 
 screamed, and again tapped the window. 
 
 "He won t go way down," said Alice. "I 
 think he is too stiff. Don t worry." 
 
 "There is no stumbling to worry about with 
 an automobile," said Daisy. 
 
 "You couldn t use one on this hill without 
 
20 THE BUTTEKFLY HOUSE 
 
 more risk than you take with a stumbling 
 horse," replied Alice. Just then a carriage 
 drawn by two fine bays passed them, and there 
 was an interchange of nods. 
 
 There is Mrs. Sturtevant," said Alice. 
 "She isn t using the automobile to-day." 
 
 "Doctor Sturtevant has had that coachman 
 thirty years, and he doesn t chew, he drives," 
 said Daisy. 
 
 Then they drew up before the house whicK 
 was their destination, Mrs. George B. Slade s. 
 The house was very small, but perkily pre 
 tentious, and they drove under the porte-cochere 
 to alight. 
 
 "I heard Mr. Slade had been making a great 
 deal of money in cotton lately," Daisy whis 
 pered, as the carriage stopped behind Mrs. 
 Sturtevant J s. "Mr. and Mrs. Slade went to 
 the opera last week. I heard they had taken a 
 box for the season, and Mrs. Slade had a new 
 black velvet gown and a pearl necklace. I 
 think she is almost too old to wear low neck." 
 
 "She is not so very old," replied Alice. "It 
 is only her white hair that makes her seem so." 
 Then she extended a rather large but well 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 21 
 
 gloved hand and opened the coupe door, while 
 Jim Fitzgerald sat and chewed and waited, and 
 the two young women got out. Daisy had 
 some trouble in holding up her long skirts. 
 She tugged at them with nervous energy, and 
 told Alice of the twenty-five cents which Fitz 
 gerald would ask for the return trip. She had 
 wished to arrive at the club in fine feather, but 
 had counted on walking home in the dusk, with 
 her best skirts high-kilted, and saving an hon 
 est penny. 
 
 "Nonsense; of course you will go with me," 
 said Alice in the calmly imperious way she had, 
 and the two mounted the steps. They had 
 scarcely reached the door before Mrs. Slade s 
 maid, Lottie, appeared in her immaculate width 
 of apron, with carefully-pulled-out bows and 
 little white lace top-knot. "Upstairs, front 
 room/ she murmured, and the two went up the 
 polished stairs. There was a landing halfway, 
 with a diamond paned window and one rubber 
 plant and two palms, all very glossy, and all 
 three in nice green jardinieres which exactly 
 matched the paper on the walls of the hall. 
 Mrs. George B. Slade had a mania for exactly 
 
22 THE BUTTEKFLY HOUSE 
 
 matching things. Some of her friends said 
 among themselves that she carried it almost 
 too far. 
 
 The front room, the guest room, into which 
 Alice Mendon and Daisy Shaw passed, was 
 done in yellow and white, and one felt almost 
 sinful in disturbing the harmony by any other 
 tint. The walls were yellow, with a frieze of 
 garlands of yellow roses ; the ceiling was tinted 
 yellow, the tiles on the shining little hearth 
 were yellow, every ornament upon the mantel 
 shelf was yellow, down to a china shepherdess 
 who wore a yellow china gown and carried a 
 basket filled with yellow flowers, and bore a yel 
 low crook. The bedstead was brass, and 
 there was a counterpane of white lace over yel 
 low, the muslin curtains were tied back with 
 great bows of yellow ribbon. Even the pic 
 tures represented yellow flowers or maidens 
 dressed in yellow. The rugs were yellow, the 
 furniture upholstered in yellow, and all of ex 
 actly the same shade. 
 
 There were a number of ladies in this yellow 
 room, prinking themselves before going down 
 stairs. They all lived in Fairbridge; they all 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 23 
 
 knew each other; but they greeted one another 
 with the most elegant formality. Alice as 
 sisted Daisy Shaw to remove her coat and lib 
 erty scarf, then she shook herself free of her 
 own wraps, rather than removed them. She 
 did not even glance at herself in the glass. 
 Her reason for so doing was partly confidence 
 in her own appearance, partly distrust of the 
 glass. She had viewed herself carefully in her 
 own looking-glass before she left home. She 
 believed in what she had seen there, but she did 
 not care to disturb that belief, and she saw that 
 Mrs. Slade s mirror over her white and yellow 
 draped dressing table stood in a cross-light. 
 While all admitted Alice Mendon s beauty, no 
 body had ever suspected her of vanity ; yet van 
 ity she had, in a degree. 
 
 The other women in the room looked at her. 
 It was always a matter of interest to Fair- 
 bridge what she would wear, and this was 
 rather curious, as, after all, she had not many 
 gowns. There was a certain impressiveness 
 about her mode of wearing the same gown 
 which seemed to create an illusion. To-day in 
 her dark red gown embroidered with poppies of 
 
24 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 still another shade, she created a distinctly new 
 impression, although she had worn the same 
 costume often before at the club meetings. 
 She went downstairs in advance of the other 
 women who had arrived before, and were yet 
 anxiously peering at themselves in the cross- 
 lighted mirror, and being adjusted as to re 
 fractory neckwear by one another. 
 
 When Alice entered Mrs. Slade s elegant lit 
 tle reception-room, which was done in a dull 
 rose colour, its accessories very exactly match 
 ing, even to Mrs. Slade s own costume, which 
 was rose silk under black lace, she was led at 
 once to a lady richly attired in black, with 
 gleams of jet, who was seated in a large chair 
 in the place of honour, not quite in the bay win- 
 clow but exactly in the centre of the opening. 
 The lady quite filled the chair. She was very 
 stout. Her face, under an ornate black hat, 
 was like a great rose full of overlapping curves 
 of florid flesh. The wide mouth was perpetu 
 ally curved into a bow of mirth, the small black 
 eyes twinkled. She was Mrs. Sarah Joy Sny- 
 der, who had come from New York to deliver 
 her famous lecture upon the subject: " Where 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 25 
 
 does a woman shine with more lustre, at home 
 or abroad ?" 
 
 The programme was to be varied, as usual 
 upon such occasions, by local talent. Leila 
 MacDonald, who sang contralto in the church 
 choir, and Mrs. Arthur Wells, who sang so 
 prano, and Mrs. Jack Evarts, who played the pi 
 ano very well, and Miss Sally Anderson, who 
 had taken lessons in elocution, all had their 
 parts, besides the president of the club, Mrs. 
 Wilbur Edes, who had a brief address in readi 
 ness, and the secretary, who had to give the 
 club report for the year. Mrs. Snyder was to 
 give her lecture as a grand climax, then there 
 were to be light refreshments and a reception 
 following the usual custom of the club. 
 
 Alice bowed before Mrs. Snyder and re 
 treated to a window at the other side of the 
 room. She sat beside the window and looked 
 out. Just then one of the other liverymen 
 drove up with a carriage full of ladies, and 
 they emerged in a flutter of veils and silk 
 skirts. Mrs. Slade, who was really superb in 
 her rose silk and black lace, with an artful frill 
 of white lace at her throat to match her great 
 
26 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 puff of white hair, remained beside Mrs. Sny- 
 der, whose bow of mirth widened. 
 
 "Who is that magnificent creature?" whis 
 pered Mrs. Snyder with a gush of enthusiasm, 
 indicating Alice beside the window. 
 
 "She lives here/ replied Mrs. Slade rather 
 stupidly. She did not quite know how to de 
 fine Alice. 
 
 "Lives here in this little place? Not all the 
 year?" rejoined Mrs. Snyder. 
 
 "Fairbridge is a very good place to live in 
 all the year," replied Mrs. Slade rather stiffly. 
 "It is near New York. We have all the advan 
 tages of a great metropolis without the draw 
 backs. Fairbridge is a most charming city, 
 and very progressive, yes, very progressive." 
 
 Mrs. Slade took it rather hardly that Mrs. 
 Snyder should intimate anything prejudicial to 
 Fairbridge and especially that it was not good 
 enough for Alice Mendon, who had been born 
 there, and lived there all her life except the 
 year she had been in college. If anything, she, 
 Mrs. Slade, wondered if Alice Mendon were 
 good enough for Fairbridge. What had she 
 ever done, except to wear handsome costumes 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 27 
 
 and look handsome and self-possessed? Al 
 though she belonged to the Zenith Club, no 
 power on earth could induce her to discharge 
 the duties connected herewith, except to pay 
 her part of the expenses, and open her house 
 for a meeting. She simply would not write a 
 paper upon any interesting and instructive 
 topic and read it before the club, and she was 
 not considered gifted. She could not sing like 
 Leila MacDonald and Mrs. Arthur Wells. She 
 could not play like Mrs. Jack Evarts. She 
 could not recite like Sally Anderson. 
 
 Mrs. Snyder glanced across at Alice, who 
 looked very graceful and handsome, although 
 also, to a discerning eye, a little sulky, and 
 bored with a curious, abstracted boredom. 
 
 "She is superb, " whispered Mrs. Snyder, 
 "yes, simply superb. Why does she live here, 
 pray?" 
 
 "Why, she was born here," replied Mrs. 
 Slade, again stupidly. It was as if Alice had 
 no more motive power than a flowering bush. 
 
 Mrs. Snyder s bow of mirth widened into a 
 laugh. "Well, can t she get away, even if she 
 was born here?" said she. 
 
28 THE BUTTEKFLY HOUSE 
 
 However, Mrs. George B. Slade s mind trav 
 elled in such a circle that she was difficult to 
 corner. "Why should she want to move?" 
 said she. 
 
 Mrs. Snyder laughed again. "But, granting 
 she should want to move, is there anything to 
 hinder ?" she asked. She wasn t a very clever 
 woman, and was deciding privately to mimic 
 Mrs. George B. Slade at some future occasion, 
 and so eke out her scanty remuneration. She 
 did not think ten dollars and expenses quite 
 enough for such a lecture as hers. 
 
 Mrs. Slade looked at her perplexedly. 
 "Why, yes, she could I suppose/ said she, 
 "but why?" 
 
 "What has hindered her before now?" 
 
 "Oh, her mother was a helpless invalid, and 
 Alice was the only child, and she had been in 
 college just a year when her father died, then 
 she came home and lived with her mother, but 
 her mother has been dead two years now, and 
 Alice has plenty of money. Her father left 
 a good deal, and her cousin and aunt live with 
 her. Oh, yes, she could, but why should she 
 want to leave Fairbridge, and " 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 29 
 
 Then some new arrivals approached, and the 
 discussion concerning Alice Mendon ceased. 
 The ladies came rapidly now. Soon Mrs. 
 Slade s hall, reception-room, and dining-room, 
 in which a gaily-decked table was set, were 
 thronged with women whose very skirts seemed 
 full of important anticipatory stirs and rus 
 tles. Mrs. Snyder s curved smile became set, 
 her eyes absent. She was revolving her lec 
 ture in her mind, making sure that she could 
 repeat it without the assistance of the notes in 
 her petticoat pocket. 
 
 Then a woman rang a little silver bell, and a 
 woman who sat short but rose to unexpected 
 heights stood up. The phenomenon was amaz 
 ing, but all the Fairbridge ladies had seen Miss 
 Bessy Dicky, the secretary of the Zenith Club, 
 rise before, and no one observed anything re 
 markable about it. Only Mrs. Snyder s mouth 
 twitched a little, but she instantly recovered 
 herself and fixed her absent eyes upon Miss 
 Bessy Dicky s long, pale face as she began to 
 read the report of the club for the past year. 
 
 She had been reading several minutes, her 
 glasses fixed firmly (one of her eyes had a cast), 
 
30 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 and her lean, veinous hands trembling with ex 
 citement, when the door bell rang with a sharp 
 peremptory peal. There was a little flutter 
 among the ladies. Such a thing had never hap 
 pened before. Fairbridge ladies were re 
 nowned for punctuality, especially at a meeting 
 like this, and in any case, had one been late, 
 she would never have rung the bell. She would 
 have tapped gently on the door, the white- 
 capped maid would have admitted her, and she, 
 knowing she was late and hearing the hollow 
 recitative of Miss Bessy Dicky s voice, would 
 have tiptoed upstairs, then slipped delicately 
 down again and into a place near the door. 
 
 But now it was different. Lottie opened the 
 door, and a masculine voice was heard. Mrs, 
 Slade had a storm-porch, so no one could look 
 directly into the hall. 
 
 "Is Mrs. Slade at home?" inquired the voice 
 distinctly. The ladies looked at one another, 
 and Miss Bessy Dicky s reading was unheard. 
 They all knew who spoke. Lottie appeared 
 with a crimson face, bearing a little ostentatious 
 silver plate with a card. Mrs. Slade adjusted 
 her lorgnette, looked at the card, and appeared 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 31 
 
 to hesitate for a second. Then a look of calm 
 determination overspread her face. She whis 
 pered to Lottie, and presently appeared a young 
 man in clerical costume, moving between the 
 seated groups of ladies with an air not so much 
 of embarrassment as of weary patience, as if 
 he had expected something like this to happen, 
 and it had happened. 
 
 Mrs. Slade motioned to a chair near her, 
 which Lottie had placed, and the young man sat 
 down. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 MANY things were puzzling in Fail-bridge, that 
 is, puzzling to a person with a logical turn of 
 mind. For instance, nobody could say that 
 Fairbridge people were not religious. It was 
 a church going community, and five denomina 
 tions were represented in it; nevertheless, the 
 professional expounders of its doctrines were 
 held in a sort of gentle derision, that is, unless 
 the expounder happened to be young and eli 
 gible from a matrimonial point of view, when 
 he gained a certain fleeting distinction. Other 
 wise the clergy were regarded (in very much 
 the same light as if employed by a railroad) 
 as the conductors of a spiritual train of cars 
 bound for the Promised Land. They were ad 
 mittedly engaged in a cause worthy of the high 
 est respect and veneration. The Cause com 
 manded it, not they. They had always lacked 
 social prestige in Fairbridge, except, as before 
 stated, in the cases of the matrimonially eli 
 gible. 
 
 89 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 33 
 
 Dominie von Rosen came under that head. 
 Consequently he was for the moment, fleeting 
 as everybody considered it, in request. But he 
 did not respond readily to the social patronage 
 of Fair-bridge. He was, seemingly, quite ob 
 livious to its importance. Karl von Rosen was 
 bored to the verge of physical illness by Fair- 
 bridge functions. Even a church affair found 
 him wearily to the front. Therefore his pres 
 ence at the Zenith Club was unprecedented and 
 confounding. He had often been asked to at 
 tend its special meetings but had never ac 
 cepted. Now, however, here he was, caught 
 neatly in the trap of his own carelessness. 
 Karl von Rosen should have reflected that the 
 Zenith Club was one of the institutions of Fair- 
 bridge, and met upon a Friday, and that Mrs. 
 George B. Slade s house was an exceedingly 
 likely rendezvous, but he was singularly absent- 
 minded as to what was near, and very present 
 minded as to what was afar. That which 
 should have been near was generally far to his 
 mind, which was perpetually gathering tha 
 wool of rainbow sheep in distant pastures. 
 
 If there was anything in which Karl von 
 
34 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 Eosen did not take the slightest interest, it was 
 women s clubs in general and the Zenith Club 
 in particular; and here he was, doomed by his 
 own lack of thought to sit through an especially 
 long session. He had gone out for a walk. To 
 his mind it was a fine winter s day. The long, 
 glittering lights of ice pleased him and when 
 ever he was sure that he was unobserved he 
 took a boyish run and long slide. During his 
 walk he had reached Mrs. Blade s house, and 
 since he worked in his pastoral calls whenever 
 he could, by applying a sharp spur to his dis 
 inclination, it had occurred to him that he 
 might make one, and return to his study in a 
 virtuous frame of mind over a slight and un 
 important, but bothersome duty performed. 
 If he had had his wits about him he might have 
 seen the feminine heads at the windows, he 
 might have heard the quaver of Miss Bessy 
 Dicky s voice over the club report; but he saw 
 and heard nothing, and now he was seated in 
 the midst of the feminine throng, and Miss 
 Bessy Dicky s voice quavered more, and she as 
 sumed a slightly mincing attitude. Her thin 
 hands trembled more, the hot, red spots on her 
 
GO 
 
 O O 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 35 
 
 thin cheeks deepened. Eeading the club re 
 ports before the minister was an epoch in an 
 epochless life, but Karl von Rosen was oblivi 
 ous of her except as a disturbing element 
 rather more insistent than the others in which 
 he was submerged. 
 
 He sat straight and grave, his eyes retro 
 spective. He was constantly getting into awk 
 ward situations, and acquitting himself in them 
 with marvellous dignity and grace. Even Mrs. 
 Sarah Joy Snyder, astute as she was, regarded 
 him keenly, and could not for the life of her 
 tell whether he had come premeditately or not. 
 She only discovered one thing, that poor Miss 
 Bessy Dicky was reading at him and posing at 
 him and trembling her hands at him, and that 
 she was throwing it all away, for Von Rosen 
 heard no more of her report than if he had been 
 in China when she was reading it. Mrs. Snyder 
 realised that hardly anything in nature could 
 be so totally uninteresting to the young man as 
 the report of a woman s club. Inasmuch as she 
 herself was devoted to such things, she re 
 garded him with disapproval, although with a 
 certain admiration. Karl von Rosen always 
 
36 THE BUTTEKFLY HOUSE 
 
 commanded admiration, although often of a 
 grudging character, from women. His utter 
 indifference to them as women was the prime 
 factor in this ; next to that his really attractive, 
 even distinguished, personality. He was hand 
 some after the fashion which usually accom 
 panies devotion to women. He was slight, but 
 sinewy, with a gentle, poetical face and great 
 black eyes, into which women were apt to pro 
 ject tenderness merely from their own fancy. 
 It seemed ridiculous and anomalous that a man 
 of Von Bosen s type should not be a lover of 
 ladies, and the fact that he was most certainly 
 not was both fascinating and exasperating. 
 
 Now Mrs. George B. Slade, magnificent ma 
 tron, as she was, moreover one who had inhaled 
 the perfume of adulation from her youth up, 
 felt a calm malice. She knew that he had en 
 tered her parlour after the manner of the spider 
 and fly rhyme of her childhood ; she knew that 
 the other ladies would infer that he had come 
 upon her invitation, and her soul was filled with 
 one of the petty triumphs of petty Fairbridge. 
 
 She, however, did not dream of the actual 
 misery which filled the heart of the graceful, 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 37 
 
 dignified young man by her side. She consid 
 ered herself in the position of a mother, who 
 forces an undesired, but nevertheless, delectable 
 sweet upon a child, who gazes at her with ado 
 ration when the savour has reached his palate. 
 She did not expect Von Rosen to be much edi 
 fied by Miss Bessy Dicky s report. She had 
 her own opinion of Miss Bessy Dicky, of her 
 sleeves, of her gown, and her report, but she 
 had faith in the truly decorative features of the 
 occasion when they should be underway, and 
 she had immense faith in Mrs. Sarah Joy Sny- 
 der. She was relieved when Miss Bessy Dicky 
 sat down, and endeavoured to compose her 
 knees, which by this time were trembling like 
 her hands, and also to assume an expression as 
 if she had done nothing at all, and nobody was 
 looking at her. That last because of the fact 
 that she had done so little, and nobody was 
 looking at her rendered her rather pathetic. 
 
 Miss Bessy Dicky did not glance at the min 
 ister, but she, nevertheless, saw him. She had 
 never had a lover, and here was the hero of her 
 dreams. He would never know it and nobody 
 else would ever know it, and no harm would be 
 
38 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 done except very possibly, by and by, a lacera 
 tion of the emotions of an elderly maiden, and 
 afterwards a life-long scar. But who goes, 
 through life without emotional scars! 
 
 After Miss Bessy Dicky sat down, Mrs. Wil 
 bur Edes, the lady of the silver bell, rose. She 
 lifted high her delicate chin, her perfect blond 
 pompadour caught the light, her black lace robe 
 swept round her in rich darkness, with occa 
 sional revelations of flower and leaf, the fairly 
 poetical pattern of real lace. As she rose, she 
 diffused around her a perfume as if rose-leaves 
 were stirred up. She held a dainty handker 
 chief, edged with real lace, in her little left 
 hand, which glittered with rings. In her right, 
 was a spangled fan like a black butterfly. Mrs. 
 Edes was past her first youth, but she was un 
 deniably charming. She was like a little, per 
 fect, ivory toy, which time has played with but 
 has not injured. Mrs. Slade looked at her, 
 then at Karl von Eosen. He looked at Mrs. 
 Wilbur Edes, then looked away. She was most 
 graceful, but most positively uninteresting. 
 However, Mrs. Slade was rather pleased at 
 that. She and Mrs. Edes were rival stars. 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 39 
 
 Von Eosen bad never looked long at her, 
 and it seemed right he should not look long at 
 the other woman. 
 
 Mrs. Slade surveyed Mrs. Edes as sHe an 
 nounced the next number on the programme, 
 and told herself that Mrs. Edes gown might 
 he real lace and everything about her very real, 
 and nice, and elegant, but she was certainly a 
 little fussy for so small a woman. Mrs. Slade 
 considered that she herself could have carried 
 off that elegance in a much more queenly man 
 ner. There was one feature of Mrs. Edes 
 costume which Mrs. Slade resented. She con 
 sidered that it should be worn by a woman of 
 her own size and impressiveness. That was a 
 little wrap of ermine. Now ermine, as every 
 body knew, should only be worn by large and 
 queenly women. Mrs. Slade resolved that she 
 herself would have an ermine wrap which 
 should completely outshine Mrs. Edes little af 
 fair, all swinging with tails and radiant with 
 tiny, bright-eyed heads. 
 
 Mrs. Edes announced a duet by Miss Mac- 
 Donald and Mrs. Wells, and sat down, and 
 again the perfume of rose leaves was percepti- 
 
40 THE BUTTEKFLY HOUSE 
 
 ble. Karl von Bosen glanced at the next per 
 formers, Miss MacDonald, who was very pretty 
 and well-dressed in white embroidered cloth, 
 and Mrs. Wells, who was not pretty, but was 
 considered very striking, who trailed after her 
 in green folds edged with fur, and bore a roll 
 of music. She seated herself at the piano with 
 a graceful sweep of her green draperies, which 
 defined her small hips, and struck the keys with 
 slender fingers quite destitute of rings, always 
 lifting them high with a palpable affectation not 
 exactly doubtful that was saying too much 
 but she was considered to reach limits of pro 
 priety with her sinuous motions, the touch of 
 her sensitive fingers upon piano keys, and the 
 quick flash of her dark eyes in her really plain 
 face. There was, for the women in Fairbridge, 
 a certain mischievous fascination about Mrs. 
 Wells. Moreover, they had in her their one ob 
 ject of covert gossip, their one stimulus to un 
 lawful imagination. 
 
 There was a young man who played the vio 
 lin. His name was Henry Wheaton, and he 
 was said to be a frequent caller at Mrs. Wells , 
 and she played his accompaniments, and Mr. 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 41 
 
 Wells was often detained in New York until the 
 late train. Then there was another young man 
 who played the cello, and he called often. 
 And there was Ellis Bainbridge, who had a fine 
 tenor voice, and he called. It was delightful 
 to have a woman of that sort, of whom nothing 
 distinctly culpable could be affirmed, against 
 whom no good reason could be brought for ex 
 cluding her from the Zenith Club and the so 
 cial set. In their midst, Mrs. Wells furnished 
 the condiments, the spice, and pepper, and mus 
 tard for many functions. She relieved to a 
 great extent the monotony of unquestioned 
 propriety. It would have been horribly dull 
 if there had been no woman in the Zenith Club 
 who furnished an excuse for the other mem 
 bers gossip. 
 
 Leila MacDonald, so carefully dressed and 
 brushed and washed, and so free from defects 
 that she was rather irritating, began to sing, 
 then people listened. Karl von Rosen listened. 
 She really had a voice which always surprised 
 and charmed with the first notes, then ceased 
 to charm. Leila MacDonald was as a good ca 
 nary bird, born to sing, and dutifully singing, 
 
42 THE BUTTEEFLY HOUSE 
 
 but without the slightest comprehension of her 
 song. It was odd too that she sang with plenty 
 of expression, but her own lack of realisation 
 seemed to dull it for her listeners. Karl von 
 Eosen listened, then his large eyes again turned 
 introspective. 
 
 Mrs. Edes again arose, after the singing and 
 playing ladies had finished their performance 
 and returned to their seats, and announced a 
 recitation by Miss Sally Anderson. Miss 
 Anderson wore a light summer gown, and 
 swept to the front, and bent low to her audi 
 ence, then at once began her recitation with a 
 loud crash of emotion. She postured, she ges 
 ticulated. She lowered her voice to inaudibil 
 ity, she raised it to shrieks and wails. She did 
 everything which she had been taught, and she! 
 had been taught a great deal. Mrs. Sarah Joy 
 Snyder listened and got data for future lec 
 tures, with her mirthful mouth sternly set. 
 
 After Sally Anderson, Mrs. Jack Evarts 
 played a glittering thing called " Waves of the 
 Sea." Then Sally Anderson recited again, 
 then Mrs. Wilbur Edes spoke at length, and 
 with an air which commanded attention, and 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 43 
 
 Von Rosen suffered agonies. He laughed with 
 sickly spurts at Mrs. Snyder s confidential sal 
 lies, when she had at last her chance to deliver 
 herself of her ten dollar speech, but the worst 
 ordeal was to follow. Von Rosen was fluttered 
 about by women bearing cups of tea, of frothy 
 chocolate, plates of cake, dishes of bonbons, 
 and saucers of ice-cream. He loathed sweets 
 and was forced into accepting a plate. He 
 stood in the midst of the feminine throng, the 
 solitary male figure looking at his cup of choc 
 olate, and a slice of sticky cake, and at an ice 
 representing a chocolate lily, which somebody 
 had placed for special delectation upon a little 
 table at his right. Then Alice Mendon came to 
 his rescue. 
 
 She deftly took the plate with the sticky cake, 
 and the cup of hot chocolate, and substituted 
 a plate with a chicken mayonnaise sandwich, 
 smiling pleasantly as she did so. 
 
 * Here, she whispered. i i Why do you make 
 a martyr of yourself for such a petty cause? 
 Do it for the faith if you want to, but not for 
 thick chocolate and angel cake." 
 
 She swept away the chocolate lily also. 
 
44 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 Von Eosen looked at her gratefully. " Thank 
 you," he murmured. 
 
 She laughed. "Oh, you need not thank me," 
 she said. "I have a natural instinct to rescue 
 men from sweets." She laughed again mali 
 ciously. "I am sure you have enjoyed the 
 club very much," she said. 
 
 Von Eosen coloured before her sarcastic, 
 kindly eyes. He began to speak, but she inter 
 rupted him. "You have heard that silence is 
 golden," said she. "It is always golden when 
 speech would be a lie." 
 
 Then she turned away and seized upon the 
 chocolate lily and pressed it upon Mrs. Joy 
 Snyder, who was enjoying adulation and good 
 things. 
 
 "Do please have this lovely lily, Mrs. Sny- 
 der," she said. "It is the very prettiest ice of 
 the lot, and meant especially for you. I am 
 sure you will enjoy it." 
 
 And Mrs. Sarah Joy Snyder, whose sense of 
 humour deserted her when she was being 
 praised and fed, and who had already eaten 
 bonbons innumerable, and three ices with ac 
 companying cake, took the chocolate lily grate- 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 45 
 
 fully. Von Rosen ate his chicken sandwich 
 and marvelled at the ways of women. 
 
 After Von Rosen had finished his sandwiches 
 and tea, he made his way to Mrs. Snyder, and 
 complimented her upon her lecture. He had 
 a constitutional dislike for falsehoods, which 
 was perhaps not so much a virtue as an idio 
 syncrasy. Now he told Mrs. Snyder that he 
 had never heard a lecture which seemed to 
 amuse an audience more than hers had done, 
 and that he quite envied her because of her 
 power of holding attention. Mrs. Snyder, with 
 the last petal of her chocolate lily sweet upon 
 her tongue, listened with such a naivete of ac 
 quiescence that she was really charming, and 
 Von Rosen had spoken the truth. He had won 
 dered, when he saw the eagerly tilted faces of 
 the women, and heard their bursts of shrill 
 laughter and clapping of hands, why he could 
 not hold them with his sermons which, he might 
 assume without vanity, contained considerable 
 subject for thought, as this woman, with her 
 face like a mask of mirth, held them with her 
 compilation of platitudes. 
 
 He thought that he had never seen so many 
 
46 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 women listen with such intensity, and lack of 
 self-consciousness. He had seen only two pat 
 their hair, only one glance at her glittering 
 rings, only three arrange the skirts of their 
 gowns while the lecture was in progress. 
 Sometimes during his sermons, he felt as if he 
 were holding forth to a bewildering sea of mo 
 tion with steadily recurrent waves, which fas 
 cinated him, of feathers, and flowers, swinging 
 fur tails, and kid-gloved hands, fluttering rib 
 bons, and folds of drapery. Karl von Eosen 
 would not have acknowledged himself as a 
 woman-hater, that savoured too much of ab 
 surd male egotism, but he had an under convic 
 tion that women were, on the whole, admitting 
 of course exceptions, self-centred in the pur 
 suit of petty ends to the extent of absolute vi- 
 ciousness. He disliked women, although he 
 had never owned it to himself. 
 
 In spite of his dislike of women, Von Eosen 
 had a house-keeper. He had made an ineffec 
 tual trial of an ex-hotel chef, but had finally 
 been obliged to resort to Mrs. Jane Eiggs. 
 She was tall and strong, wider-shouldered than 
 hipped. She went about her work with long 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 47 
 
 strides. She never fussed. She never asked 
 questions. In fact, she seldom spoke. 
 
 When Von Rosen entered his house that 
 night, after the club meeting, he had a com- 
 fortahle sense of returning to an embodied si 
 lence. The coal fire in his study grate was 
 red and clear. Everything was in order with 
 out misplacement. That was one of Jane 
 Riggs chief talents. She could tidy things 
 without misplacing them. Von Rosen loved 
 order, and was absolutely incapable of keeping 
 it. Therefore Jane Riggs orderliness was as 
 balm. He sat down in his Morris chair before 
 his fire, stretched out his legs to the warmth, 
 which was grateful after the icy outdoor air, 
 rested his eyes upon a plaster cast over the 
 chimney place, which had been tinted a beauti 
 ful hue by his own pipe, and sighed with con 
 tent. His own handsome face was rosy with 
 the reflection of the fire, his soul rose-coloured 
 with complete satisfaction. He was so glad to 
 be quit of that crowded assemblage of eager 
 femininity, so glad that it was almost worth 
 while to have encountered it just for that sense 
 of blessed relief. 
 
48 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 Mrs. Edes had offered to take him home in 
 her carriage, and he had declined almost 
 brusquely. To have exchanged that homeward 
 walk over the glistening earth, and under the 
 clear rose and violet lights of the winter sunset, 
 with that sudden rapturous discovery of the 
 slender crescent of the new moon, for a ride 
 with Mrs. Edes in her closed carriage with her 
 silvery voice in his ear instead of the keen si 
 lence of the winter air, would have been tor 
 ture. Von Eosen wondered at himself for dis 
 liking Mrs. Edes in particular, whereas he dis 
 liked most women in general. There was 
 something about her feline motions instinct with 
 swiftness, and concealed claws, and the half 
 keen, half sleepy glances of her green-blue eyes, 
 which irritated him beyond measure, and he 
 was ashamed of being irritated. It implied a 
 power over him, and yet it was certainly not a 
 physical power. It was subtle and pertained 
 to spirit. He realised, as did many in Fair- 
 bridge, a strange influence, defying reason 
 and will, which this small woman with her hid 
 den swiftness had over nearly everybody with 
 whom she came in contact. It had nothing 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 49 
 
 whatever to do with sex. She would have pro 
 duced it in the same degree, had she not been 
 in the least attractive. It was compelling, and 
 at the same time irritating. 
 
 Von Rosen in his Morris chair after the tea 
 welcomed the intrusion of Jane Riggs, which 
 dispelled his thought of Mrs. Wilbur Edes. 
 Jane stood beside the chair, a rigid straight 
 length of woman with a white apron starched 
 like a board, covering two thirds of her, and 
 waited for interrogation. 
 
 "What is it, Jane?" asked Von Rosen. 
 
 Jane Riggs replied briefly. "Outlandish 
 young woman out in the kitchen," she said with 
 distinct disapproval, yet with evident helpless 
 ness before the situation. 
 
 Von Rosen started. "Where is the dog?" 
 
 "Licking her hands. Every time I told her 
 to go, Jack growled. Mebbe you had better 
 come out yourself, Mr. Von Rosen." 
 
 When Von Rosen entered the kitchen, he saw 
 a little figure on the floor in a limp heap, with 
 the dog frantically licking its hands, which were 
 very small and brown and piteously outspread, 
 as if in supplication. 
 
50 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 "Mebbe you had better call up the doctor on 
 the telephone; she seems to have swooned 
 away, said Jane Eiggs. At the same time she 
 made one long stride to the kitchen sink, and 
 water. Von Rosen looked aghast at the 
 stricken figure, which was wrapped in a queer 
 medley of garments. He also saw on the floor 
 near by a bulging suitcase. 
 
 "She is one of them pedlars," said Jane 
 Riggs, dashing water upon the dumb little face. 
 "I rather guess you had better call up the doc 
 tor on the telephone. She don t seem to be 
 coming to easy and she may have passed 
 away. 
 
 Von Rosen gasped, then he looked pitifully 
 at the poor little figure, and ran back to his 
 study to the telephone. To his great relief as 
 he passed the window, he glanced out, and saw 
 Doctor Sturtevant s automobile making its way 
 cautiously over the icy street. Then for the 
 first time he remembered that he had been due 
 at that time about a matter of a sick parish 
 ioner. He opened the front door hurriedly, 
 and stated the case, and the two men carried 
 the little unconscious creature upstairs. Then 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 51 
 
 Von Rosen came down, leaving the doctor and 
 Martha with her. He waited in the study, lis 
 tening to the sounds overhead, waiting impa 
 tiently for the doctor s return, which was not 
 for half an hour or more. In the meantime 
 Martha came downstairs tn some errand to 
 the kitchen. Von Rosen intercepted her. 
 "What does Doctor Sturtevant think?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "Dunno, what he thinks," replied Martha 
 brusquely, pushing past him. 
 
 "Is she conscious yet?" 
 
 "Dunno, I ain t got any time to talk," said 
 Martha, casting a flaming look at him over her 
 shoulder as she entered the kitchen. 
 
 Von Rosen retreated to the study, where he 
 was presently joined by the doctor. "What is 
 it?" asked Von Rosen with an emphasis, which 
 rendered it so suspicious that he might have 
 added: "what the devil is it?" had it not been 
 for his profession. 
 
 Sturtevant answered noiselessly, the motion 
 of his lips conveying his meaning. Then he 
 said, shrugging himself into his fur coat, as 
 he spoke, "I have to rush my motor to see a 
 
52 THE BUTTEKFLY HOUSE 
 
 patient, whom I dare not leave another mo 
 ment, then I will be back." 
 
 Von Bosen s great Persian cat had curled 
 himself on the doctor s fur coat, and now 
 shaken off, sat with a languid dignity, his great 
 yellow plume of a tail waving, and his eyes 
 like topazes fixed intently upon Sturtevant. 
 At that moment a little cry was heard from the 
 guest room, a cry between a moan and a 
 scream, but unmistakably a note of suffering. 
 Sturtevant jammed his fur cap upon his head 
 and pulled on his gloves. 
 
 " Don t go," pleaded Von Eosen in a sudden 
 terror of helplessness. 
 
 "I must, but I ll break the speed laws and 
 be back before you know it. That housekeeper 
 of yours is as good as any trained nurse, and 
 better. She is as hard as nails, but she does 
 her duty like a machine, and she has brains. 
 I will be back in a few minutes." 
 
 Then Sturtevant was gone, and Von Eosen 
 sat again before his study fire. There was an 
 other little note of suffering from above. Von 
 Eosen shuddered, rose, and closed his door. 
 The Persian cat came and sat in front of him, 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 53 
 
 and gazed at him with jewel-like eyes. There 
 was an expression of almost human anxiety 
 and curiosity upon the animal s face. He 
 came from a highly developed race ; he and his 
 forbears had always been with humans. At 
 times it seemed to Von Rosen as if the cat had 
 a dumb knowledge of the most that he himself 
 knew. He reached down and patted the 
 shapely golden head, but the cat withdrew, 
 curled himself into a coil of perfect luxurious- 
 ness, with the firelight casting a warm, rosy 
 glow upon his golden beauty, purred a little 
 while, then sank into the mystery of animal 
 sleep. 
 
 Von Rosen sat listening. He told himself 
 that Sturtevant should be back within half an 
 hour. When only ten minutes had passed he 
 took out his watch and was dismayed to find 
 how short a time had elapsed. He replaced his 
 watch and leaned back. He was always listen 
 ing uneasily. He had encountered illness and 
 death and distress, but never anything quite 
 like this. He had always been able to give 
 personal aid. Now he felt barred out, and 
 fiercely helpless. 
 
54 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 He sat ten minutes longer. Then he arose. 
 He could reach the kitchen by another way 
 which did not lead past the stairs. He went 
 out there, treading on tiptoe. The cat had 
 looked up, stretched, and lazily gotten upon his 
 feet and followed him, tail waving like a pen 
 nant. He brushed around Von Eosen out in 
 the kitchen, and mewed a little,, delicate, high 
 bred mew. The dog came leaping up the base 
 ment stairs, sat up and begged. Von Rosen 
 opened the ice box and found therein some 
 steak. He cut off large pieces and fed the cat 
 and dog. He also found milk and filled a sau 
 cer. 
 
 He stole back to the study. He thought he 
 had closed all the doors, but presently the cat 
 entered, then sat down and began to lick him 
 self with his little red rough tongue. Von 
 Rosen looked at his watch again. The house 
 shook a little, and he knew that the shaking wa.s 
 caused by Jane Riggs, walking upstairs. He 
 longed to go upstairs but knew that he could 
 not, and again that rage of helplessness came 
 over him. He reflected upon human life, the 
 agony of its beginning; the agony, in spite of 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 55 
 
 bravery, in spite of denial of agony, the agony 
 under the brightest of suns, of its endurance; 
 the agony of its end; and his reflections were 
 almost blasphemous. His religion seemed to 
 crumble beneath the standing-place of his soul. 
 A torture of doubt, a certainty of ignorance, in 
 spite of the utmost efforts of faith, came over 
 him. The cat coiled himself again and sank 
 into sleep. Von Rosen gazed at him. What 
 if the accepted order of things were reversed, 
 after all? What if that beautiful little animal 
 were on a higher plane than he? Certainly 
 the cat did not suffer, and certainly suffering 
 and doubt degraded even the greatest. 
 
 He looked at his watch and saw that Sturte- 
 vant had been gone five minutes over the half 
 hour. He switched off the electric light, and 
 stood in his window, which faced the street 
 down which the doctor in his car must come. 
 He realised at once that this was more endur 
 able. He was doing what a woman would have 
 done long before. He was masculine, and had 
 not the quick instinct to stand by the window 
 and watch out, to ease impatience. The road 
 was like a broad silver band under the moon. 
 
56 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 The lights in house windows gleamed through 
 drawn shades, except in one house, where he 
 could see quite distinctly a woman seated be 
 side a lamp with a green shade, sewing, with 
 regular motions of a red, silk-clad arm. Von 
 Eosen strained his eyes, and saw, as he 
 thought, a dark hulk advancing far down the 
 street. He watched and watched, then noted 
 that the dark bulk had not moved. He won 
 dered if the motor had broken down. He 
 thought of running out to see, and made a mo 
 tion to go, then he saw swiftly-moving lights 
 pass the dark bulk. He thought they were the 
 lights of the motor, but as they passed he saw 
 it was a cab taking someone to the railroad sta 
 tion. He knew then that the dark bulk was a 
 clump of trees. 
 
 Then, before he could fairly sense it, the doc 
 tor s motor came hurtling down the street, its 
 search-lights glaring, swinging from side to 
 side. The machine stopped, and Von Eosen 
 ran to the door. 
 
 "Here I am," said Sturtevant in a hushed 
 voice. There was a sound from the room 
 above, and the doctor, Von Eosen and nurse 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 57 
 
 looked at each other. Then Von Rosen sat 
 again alone in his study, and now, in spite of 
 the closed door, he heard noises above stairs. 
 Solitude was becoming frightful to him. He 
 felt all at once strangely young, like a child, 
 and a pitiful sense of injury was over him, but 
 the sense of injury was not for himself alone, 
 but for all mankind. He realised that all man 
 kind was enormously pitiful and injured, by the 
 mere fact of their obligatory existence. And 
 he wished more than anything in the world for 
 some understanding soul with whom to share 
 his sense of the universal grievance. 
 
 But he continued to sit alone, and the cat 
 slept in his golden coil of peace. Then sud 
 denly the cat sat up, and his jewel eyes glowed. 
 He looked fixedly at a point in the room. Von 
 Rosen looked in the same direction but saw 
 nothing except his familiar wall. Then he 
 heard steps on the stairs, and the door opened, 
 and Jane Riggs entered. She was white and 
 stern. She was tragic. Her lean fingers were 
 clutching at the air. Von Rosen stared at her. 
 She sat down and swept her crackling white 
 apron over her head. 
 
CHAPTEE III 
 
 WHEN Margaret Edes had returned home after 
 the Zenith Club, she devoted an hour to rest. 
 She had ample time for that before dressing 
 for a dinner which she and her husband were 
 to give in New York that evening. The din 
 ner was set for rather a late hour in order to 
 enable Margaret to secure this rest before the 
 train-time. She lay on a couch before the fire, 
 in her room which was done in white and gold. 
 Her hair was perfectly arranged, for she had 
 scarcely moved her head during the club meet 
 ing, and had adjusted and removed her hat 
 with the utmost caution. Now she kept her 
 shining head perfectly still upon a rather hard 
 pillow. She did not relax her head, but she did 
 relax her body, and the result, as she was 
 aware, would be beautifying. 
 
 Still as her head remained, she allowed no 
 lines of disturbance to appear upon her face, and 
 for that matter, no lines of joy. Secretly she did 
 not approve of smiles, more than she approved 
 
 58 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 59 
 
 of tears. Both of them, she knew, tended to 
 leave traces, and other people, especially other 
 women, did not discriminate between the traces 
 of tears and smiles. Therefore, lying with her 
 slim graceful body stretched out at full length 
 upon her couch, Margaret Edes face was as ab 
 solutely devoid of expression as a human face 
 could well be, and this although she was think 
 ing rather strenuously. She had not been 
 pleased with the impression which Mrs. Sarah 
 Joy Snyder had made upon the Zenith Club, 
 because Mrs. Slade, and not she, had been in 
 strumental in securing her valuable services. 
 Mrs. Edes had a Napoleonic ambition which 
 was tragic and pathetic, because it could com 
 mand only a narrow scope for its really un 
 usual force. If Mrs. Edes had only been pos 
 sessed of the opportunity to subjugate Europe, 
 nothing except another Waterloo could have 
 stopped her onward march. But she had ab 
 solutely nothing to subjugate except poor little 
 Fairbridge. She was a woman of power which 
 was wasted. She was absurdly tragic, but 
 none the less tragic. Power spent upon petty; 
 ends is one of the greatest disasters of the 
 
60 THE BUTTEEFLY HOUSE 
 
 world. It wrecks not only the spender, but its 
 object. Mrs. Edes was horribly and unworth 
 ily unhappy, reflecting upon Mrs. Sarah Joy 
 Snyder and Mrs. Slade. She cared very much 
 because Mrs. Slade and not she had brought 
 about this success of the Zenith Club, with 
 Mrs. Snyder as high-light. It was a shame 
 to her, but she could not help it, because one 
 living within narrow horizons must have lim 
 ited aims. 
 
 If only her husband had enough money to en 
 able her to live in New York after the manner 
 which would have suited her, she felt capable) 
 of being a leading power in that great and 
 dreadful city. Probably she was right. The 
 woman was in reality possessed of abnormal 
 nerve force. Had Wilbur Edes owned mil 
 lions, and she been armed with the power which 
 they can convey, she might have worked mira 
 cles in her subtle feminine fashion. She would 
 always have worked subtly, and never believed 
 her feminine self. She understood its worth 
 too well. She would have conquered like a cat, 
 because she understood her weapons, her vel 
 vet charm, her purr, and her claws. She would 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 61 
 
 not have attempted a growling and bulky leap 
 into success. She would have slid and insinu 
 ated and made her gliding progress almost im 
 perceptible, but none the less remorseless. 
 
 But she was fated to live in Fairbridge. 
 What else could she do? Wilbur Edes was 
 successful in his profession, but he was not an 
 accumulator, and neither was she. His income 
 was large during some years, but it was spent 
 during those years for things which seemed ab 
 solutely indispensable to both husband and 
 wife. For instance, to-night Wilbur would 
 spend an extravagant sum upon this dinner, 
 which he was to give at an extravagant hotel 
 to some people whom Mrs. Edes had met last 
 summer, and who, if not actually in the great 
 swinij were in the outer froth of it, and she had 
 vague imaginings of future gain through 
 them. Wilbur had carried his dress suit in 
 that morning. He was to take a room in the 
 hotel and change, and meet her at the New 
 York side of the ferry. As she thought of the 
 ferry it was all Mrs. Edes could do to keep her 
 smooth brow from a frown. Somehow the 
 ferry always humiliated her; the necessity of 
 
62 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 going up or down that common, democratic 
 gang plank, clinging to the tail of her fine gown, 
 and seating herself in a row with people who 
 glanced askance at her evening wrap and her 
 general magnificence. 
 
 Poor Mrs. Edes was so small and slight that 
 holding up magnificence and treading the deck 
 with her high-heeled shoes was physically fa 
 tiguing. Had she been of a large, powerful 
 physique, had her body matched her mind, she 
 might not have felt a sense of angry humilia 
 tion. As it was, she realised that for her, her, 
 to be obliged to cross the ferry was an insult 
 at the hands of Providence. But the tunnel 
 was no better, perhaps worse, that plunged 
 into depths below the waters, like one in a pub 
 lic bath. Anything so exquisite, so dainty, so 
 subtly fine and powerful as herself, should not 
 have been condemned to this. She should have 
 been able to give her dinners in her own mag 
 nificent New York mansion. As it was, there 
 was nothing for her except to dress and accept 
 the inevitable. 
 
 It was as bad as if Napoleon the Great had 
 been forced to ride to battle on a trolley car, 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 63 
 
 instead of being booted and spurred and 
 astride a charger, which lifted one fore-leg in a 
 fling of scorn. Of course Wilbur would meet 
 her, and they would take a taxicab, but even a 
 taxicab seemed rather humiliating to her. It 
 should have been her own private motor car. 
 And she would be obliged to descend the stairs 
 at the station ungracefully, one hand clutching 
 nervously at the tail of her gorgeous gown, the 
 other at her evening cloak. It was absolutely 
 impossible for so slight a woman to descend 
 stairs with dignity and grace, holding up an 
 evening cloak and a long gown. 
 
 However, there would be compensations 
 later. She thought, with decided pleasure, of 
 the private dining-room, and the carefully 
 planned and horribly expensive decorations, 
 which would be eminently calculated to form a 
 suitable background for herself. The flowers 
 and candle-shades were to be yellow, and she 
 was to wear her yellow chiffon gown, with 
 touches of gold embroidery, a gold comb set 
 with topazes in her yellow hair, and on her 
 breast a large, gleaming stone which was a yel 
 low diamond of very considerable value. Wil- 
 
64 THE BUTTEEFLY HOUSE 
 
 bur had carried in his suit case her yellow satin 
 slippers, her gold-beaded fan, and the queer lit 
 tle wrap of leopard skin which she herself had 
 fashioned from a rug which her husband had 
 given her. She had much skill in fashioning 
 articles for her own adornment as a cat has in 
 burnishing his fur, and would at any time have 
 sacrificed the curtains or furniture covers, had 
 they met her needs. 
 
 She would not be obliged crowning disgrace 
 to carry a bag. All she would need would be 
 her little case for tickets, and her change purse, 
 and her evening cloak had pockets. The even 
 ing cloak lay beside the yellow chiffon gown, 
 carefully disposed on the bed, which had a lace 
 counterpane over yellow satin. The cloak was 
 of a creamy cloth lined with mink, a sumptuous 
 affair, and she had a tiny mink toque with one 
 yellow rose as head covering. 
 
 She glanced approvingly at the rich attire 
 spread upon the bed, and then thought again of 
 the dreadful ferry, and her undignified hop 
 across the dirty station to the boat. She longed 
 for the days of sedan chairs, for anything 
 rather than this. She was an exquisite lady 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 65 
 
 caught in the toils of modern cheap progress 
 toward all her pleasures and profits. She did 
 not belong in a democratic country at all unless 
 she had millions. She was out of place, as 
 much out of place as a splendid Angora in an 
 alley. Fairbridge to her instincts was as an 
 alley; yet since it was her alley, she had to 
 make the best of it. Had she not made the best 
 of it, exalted it, magnified it, she would have 
 gone mad. Wherefore the triumph of Mrs. 
 Slade in presenting Mrs. Sarah Joy Snyder 
 seemed to her like an affair of moment. For 
 lack of something greater to hate and rival, she 
 hated and rivalled Mrs. Slade. For lack of 
 something big over which to reign, she wished 
 to reign over Fairbridge and the Zenith Club. 
 Mrs. Slade s perfectly-matched drawing-room 
 took on the semblance of a throne-room, in 
 which she had seen herself usurped. 
 
 Then she thought of the young clergyman, 
 even as he was thinking of her. She knew per 
 fectly well how he had been trapped, but she 
 failed to see the slightest humour in it. She 
 had no sense of humour. She saw only the 
 additional triumph of Mrs. Slade in securing 
 
66 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 this rather remarkable man at the Zenith Club, 
 something which she herself had never been 
 able to do. Von Rosen s face came before her. 
 She considered it a handsome face, but no 
 man s face could disturb her. She held her 
 virtue with as nervous a clutch as she held up 
 her fine gown. To soil either would be injudi 
 cious, impolitic, and she never desired the in 
 judicious and impolitic. 
 
 "He is a handsome man," she said to her 
 self, "an aristocratic-looking man." Then the 
 telephone bell close beside her divan rang, and 
 she took up the receiver carefully, not moving 
 her head, sat up, and put her delicate lips to the 
 speaking tube. 
 
 "Hello," said a voice, and she recognised it 
 as Von Rosen s although it had an agitated, 
 nervous ring which was foreign to it. 
 
 "What is it?" she said in reply, and the 
 voice responded with volubility, "A girl, a 
 young Syrian girl, is at my home. She is in a 
 swoon or something. We cannot revive her. 
 Is the doctor at home? Tell him to hurry over, 
 please. I am Mr. von Rosen. Tell him to 
 hurry. She may be dead." 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 67 
 
 " You have made a mistake, Mr. von Rosen," 
 said Mrs. Edes thin voice, as thin and silvery 
 as a reed. "You are speaking to Mrs. Wilbur 
 Edes. My telephone number is 5R. You 
 doubtless want Doctor Sturtevant. His num 
 ber is 51M." 
 
 "Oh, pardon," cried the voice over the tele 
 phone. "Sorry to have disturbed you, Mrs. 
 Edes, I mistook " 
 
 The voice trailed into nothingness. There 
 was a sharp ring. Mrs. Edes hung up her re 
 ceiver. She thought slowly that it was a 
 strange circumstance that Mr. von Rosen 
 should have a fainting or dead young Syrian 
 girl in his house. Then she rose from the di 
 van, holding her head very stiffly, and began to 
 dress. She had just enough time to dress lei 
 surely and catch the train. She called on one 
 of the two maids to assist her and was quite 
 equipped, even to the little mink toque, fas 
 tened very carefully on her shining head, when 
 there was a soft push at the door, and her twin 
 daughters, Maida and Adelaide, entered. 
 They were eight years old, but looked younger. 
 They were almost exactly alike as to small, 
 
68 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 pretty features and pale blond colouring. 
 Maida scowled a little, and Adelaide did not, 
 and people distinguished them by that when in 
 doubt. 
 
 They stood and stared at their mother with 
 a curious expression on their sharp, delicate 
 little faces. It was not exactly admiration, it 
 was not wonder, nor envy, nor affection, yet 
 tinctured by all. 
 
 Mrs. Edes looked at them. "Maida," said 
 she, "do not wear that blue hair-ribbon again. 
 It is soiled. Have you had your dinners!" 
 
 "Yes, mamma," responded first one, then the 
 other, Maida with the frown being slightly in 
 the lead. 
 
 "Then you had better go to bed," said Mrs. 
 Edes, and the two little girls stood carefully 
 aside to allow her to pass. 
 
 "Good night, children," said Mrs. Edes with 
 out turning her mink-crowned head. The lit 
 tle girls watched the last yellow swirl of their 
 mother s skirts, disappearing around the stair- 
 landing, then Adelaide spoke. 
 
 "I mean to wear red, myself, when I m grown 
 up," said she. 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 69 
 
 "Ho, just because Jim Carr likes red," re 
 torted Maida. "As for me, I mean to have a 
 gown just like hers, only a little deeper shade 
 of yellow." 
 
 Adelaide laughed, an unpleasantly snarling 
 little laugh. "Ho," said she, "just because 
 Val Thomas likes yellow." 
 
 Then the coloured maid, Emma, who was 
 cross because Mrs. Edes evening out had de 
 prived her of her own, and had been ruthlessly 
 hanging her mistress s gown which she had 
 worn to the club in a wad on a closet hook, dis 
 regarding its perfumed hanger, turned upon 
 them. 
 
 "Heah, ye chillun," said she, "your ma sid 
 for you to go to baid." 
 
 Each little girl had her white bed with a can 
 opy of pink silk in a charming room. There 
 were garlands of rosebuds on the wallpaper 
 and the furniture was covered with rosebud 
 chintz. 
 
 While their mother was indignantly sailing 
 across the North Eiver, her daughters lay 
 awake, building air-castles about themselves 
 and their boy-lovers, which fevered their im- 
 
70 THE BUTTEKFLY HOUSE 
 
 aginations, and aged them horribly in a spir 
 itual sense. 
 
 "Amy White s mother plays dominoes with 
 her every evening," Maida remarked. Her 
 voice sounded incredibly old, full of faint de 
 risiveness and satire, but absolutely non-com 
 plaining. 
 
 "Amy White s mother would look awfully 
 funny in a gown like Mamma s," said Adel 
 aide. 
 
 "I suppose that is why she plays dominoes 
 with Amy," said Maida in her old voice. 
 
 "Oh, don t talk any more, Maida, I want to 
 go to sleep," said Adelaide pettishly, but she 
 was not in the least sleepy. She wished to re 
 turn to the air-castle in which she had been 
 having sweet converse with Jim Carr. This 
 air-castle was the abode of innocence, but it 
 was not yet time for its building at all. It 
 was such a little childish creature who lay 
 curled up under the coverlid strewn with rose 
 buds that the gates of any air-castle of life and 
 love, and knowledge, however innocent and ig 
 norant, should have been barred against her, 
 perhaps with dominoes. 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 71 
 
 However, she entered in, her soft cheeks 
 burning, and her pulse tingling, and saw the 
 strange light through its fairy windows, and 
 her sister also entered her air-castle, and all the 
 time their mother was sailing across the North 
 River toward the pier where her husband 
 waited. She kept one gloved hand upon the 
 fold of her gown, ready to clutch it effectually 
 clear of the dirty deck when the pier was 
 reached. When she was in the taxicab with 
 Wilbur, she thought again of Von Rosen. 
 "Dominie von Rosen made a mistake," said 
 she, "and called up the wrong number. He 
 wanted Doctor Sturtevant, and he got me." 
 Then she repeated the message. "What do 
 you suppose he was doing with a fainting Syr 
 ian girl in his house?" she ended. 
 
 A chuckle shook the dark bulk in its fur 
 lined coat at her side. "The question is why 
 the Syrian girl chose Von Rosen s house to 
 faint in," said he lightly. 
 
 "Oh, don t be funny, Wilbur, 5 said Mar 
 garet. "Have you seen the dining-room? 
 How does it look?" 
 
 "I thought it beautiful, and I am sure you 
 
72 THE BUTTEKFLY HOUSE 
 
 like it," said Wilbur Edes in the chastened 
 tone which he commonly used toward his wife. 
 He had learned long ago that facetiousness 
 displeased her, and he lived only to please her, 
 aside from his interest in his profession. Poor 
 "Wilbur Edes thought his wife very wonderful, 
 and watched with delight the hats doffed when 
 she entered the hotel lift like a little beruffled 
 yellow canary. He wished those men could see 
 her later, when the canary resemblance had al 
 together ceased, when she would look tall and 
 slender and lithe in her clinging yellow gown 
 with the great yellow stone gleaming in her 
 corsage. 
 
 For some reason Margaret Edes held her 
 husband s admiration with a more certain ten 
 ure because she could not be graceful when 
 weighed down with finery. The charm of her 
 return to grace was a never-ending surprise. 
 Wilbur Edes loved his wife more comfortably 
 than he loved his children. He loved them a 
 little uneasily. They were unknown elements 
 to him, and he sometimes wished that he had 
 more time at home, to get them firmly fixed in 
 his comprehension. Without the slightest con- 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 73 
 
 demnation of his wife, he had never regarded 
 her as a woman in whom the maternal was a 
 distinguishing feature. He saw with approba 
 tion the charming externals with which she sur 
 rounded their offspring. It was a gratification 
 to him to be quite sure that Maida s hair rib 
 bon would always be fresh and tied perkily, 
 and that Adelaide would be full of dainty little 
 gestures copied from her mother, but he had 
 some doubts as to whether his wonderful Mar 
 garet might not be too perfect in herself, and 
 too engrossed with the duties pertaining to per 
 fection to be quite the proper manager of im 
 perfection and immaturity represented by 
 childhood. 
 
 "How did you leave the children?" he in 
 quired when they were in their bedroom at the 
 hotel, and he was fitting the yellow satin slip 
 pers to his wife s slender silk shod feet. 
 
 "The children were as well as usual. I told 
 Emma to put them to bed. Do you think the 
 orchids in the dining-room are the right shade, 
 Wilter?" 
 
 "I am quite sure. I am glad that you told 
 Emma to put them to bed." 
 
74 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 "I always do. Mrs. George B. Slade is most 
 unpleasantly puffed up." 
 
 "Why!" 
 
 "Oh, because she got Mrs. Sarah Joy Snyder 
 to speak to the club." 
 
 "Did she do her stunt well?" 
 
 "Well enough. Mrs. Slade was so pleased, 
 it was really offensive." 
 
 Wilbur Edes had an inspiration. "The 
 Fay-Wymans," said he (the Fay-Wymans 
 were the principal guests of their dinner 
 party), "know a lot of theatrical people. I will 
 see if I can t get them to induce somebody, say 
 Lydia Greenway, to run out some day; I sup 
 pose it would have to be later on, just after the 
 season, and do a stunt at the club." 
 
 "Oh, that would be simply charming," cried 
 Margaret, "and I would rather have it in the 
 spring, because everything looks so much pret 
 tier. But don t you think it will be impossible, 
 Wilbur?" 
 
 "Not with money as an inducement." Wil 
 bur had the pleasant consciousness of an un 
 usually large fee which was sure to be his own 
 before that future club meeting, and he could 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 75 
 
 see no better employment for it than to enable 
 his adored wife to outshine Mrs. George B. 
 Slade. When in New York engaged in his pro 
 fession, Wilbur Edes was entirely free from the 
 vortex of Fairbridge, but his wife, with its ter 
 rible eddies still agitating her garments, could 
 suck him therein, even in the great city. He 
 was very susceptible to her influence. 
 
 Margaret Edes beamed at her husband as he 
 rose. That will make Marion Slade furious, * 
 she said. She extended her feet. " Pretty 
 slippers, aren t they, Wilbur f " 
 
 "Charming, my dear." 
 
 Margaret was so pleased that she tried to do 
 something very amiable. 
 
 "That was funny, I mean what you said 
 about the Syrian girl at the Dominie s," she 
 volunteered, and laughed, without making a 
 crease in her fair little face. She was really 
 adorable, far more than pretty, leaning bacK 
 with one slender, yellow-draped leg crossed 
 over the other, revealing the glittering slippers 
 and one silken ankle. 
 
 "It does sound somewhat queer, a Syrian 
 girl fainting in the Dominie s house," said 
 
76 THE BUTTEEFLY HOUSE 
 
 Wilbur. "She could not have found a house 
 where her sex, of any nationality, are in less 
 repute." 
 
 "Then you don t think that Alice Men- 
 don ?" There was a faint note of jealousy 
 in Margaret s voice, although she herself had 
 not the slightest interest in Dominie von Bo- 
 sen or any man, except her husband; and in 
 him only because he was her husband. As thej 
 husband of her wonderful self, he acquired a 
 certain claim to respect, even affection, such as 
 she had to bestow. 
 
 "I don t think Alice Mendon would take up 
 with the Dominie, if he would with her," re 
 sponded Wilbur Edes hastily. Margaret did 
 not understand his way of speaking, but just 
 then she looked at herself in an opposite mir 
 ror, and pulled down one side of her blond 
 pompadour a bit, which softened her face, and 
 added to its allurement. The truth was Wil 
 bur Edes, before he met Margaret, had pro 
 posed to Alice Mendon. Alice had never told, 
 and he had not, consequently Margaret did not 
 know. Had she known it would have made no 
 difference, since she could not imagine any 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 77 
 
 man preferring Alice to herself. All her 
 jealousy was based upon the facts of her supe 
 rior height, and ability to carry herself well, 
 where she knew herself under many circum 
 stances about as graceful as an Angora cat 
 walking upon her hind legs. She was abso 
 lutely sure of her husband. The episode with 
 Alice had occurred before he had ever even seen 
 Herself. She smiled radiantly upon him as 
 she arose. She was conscious of no affection 
 for her husband, but she was conscious of a de 
 sire to show appreciation, and to display radi 
 ance for his delectation. 
 
 "It is charming of you to think of getting 
 Lydia Greenway to read, you dear old man," 
 said she. Wilbur beamed. 
 
 "Well, of course, I can not be sure, that is 
 not absolutely sure, but if it is to be done, I 
 will manage it," said he. 
 
 It was at this very time, for radically differ 
 ent notes sound at the same time in the har 
 mony or discord of life, that Von Rosen s 
 housekeeper, Jane Riggs, stood before him with 
 that crackling white apron swept over her face. 
 
 "What is it?" asked Von Rosen, and he real- 
 
78 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 ised that his lips were stiff, and his voice 
 sounded strange. 
 
 A strange harsh sob came from behind the 
 apron. "She was all bent to one side with 
 that heavy suit case, as heavy as lead, for I 
 hefted it," said Jane Riggs, "and she couldn t 
 have been more than fifteen. Them outlandish 
 girls get married awful young. " 
 
 "What is it!" 
 
 "And there was poor Jack lickin her hands, 
 and him a dog everybody is so scared of, and 
 she a sinkin down in a heap on my kitchen 
 floor." 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "She has passed away," answered Jane 
 Riggs, * and the baby is a boy, and no bigger 
 than the cat, not near as big as the cat when I 
 come to look at him, and I put some of my old 
 flannels and my shimmy on him, and Doctor 
 Sturtevant has got him in my darning basket, 
 all lined with newspapers, the New York Sun, 
 and the Times and hot water bottles, and it s 
 all happened in the best chamber, and I call it 
 pretty goings on." 
 
 Jane Riggs gave vent to discordant sobs. 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 79 
 
 Her apron crackled. Von Rosen took hold of 
 her shoulders. "Go straight back up there," 
 he ordered. 
 
 "Why couldn t she have gone in and fainted 
 away somewhere where there was more women 
 than one," said Jane Riggs. "Doctor Sturte- 
 vant, he sent me down for more newspapers." 
 
 "Take these, and go back at once," said Von 
 Rosen, and he gathered up the night papers in 
 a crumpled heap and thrust them upon the wo 
 man. 
 
 "He said you had better telephone for Mrs. 
 Bestwick," said Jane. Mrs. Bestwick was the 
 resident nurse of Fairbridge. Von Rosen 
 sprang to the telephone, but he could get no re 
 sponse whatever from the Central office, prob 
 ably on account of the ice-coated wires. 
 
 He sat down disconsolately, and the cat leapt 
 upon his knees, but he pushed him away impa 
 tiently, to be surveyed in consequence by those 
 topaz eyes with a regal effect of injury, and 
 astonishment. Von Rosen listened. He won 
 dered if he heard, or imagined that he heard, a 
 plaintive little wail. The dog snuggled close 
 to him, and he felt a warm tongue lap. Von 
 
80 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 Eosen patted the dog s head. Here was sym 
 pathy. The cat s leap into his lap had been 
 purely selfish. Von Rosen listened. He got 
 up, and tried to telephone again, but got no 
 response from Central. He hung up the re 
 ceiver emphatically and sat down again. The 
 dog again came close, and he patted the humble 
 loving head. Von Rosen listened again, and 
 again could not be sure whether he actually 
 heard or imagined that he heard, the feeblest, 
 most helpless cry ever lifted up from this earth, 
 that of a miserable new born baby with its 
 uncertain future reaching before it and all 
 the sins of its ancertors upon its devoted 
 head. 
 
 When at last the door opened and Doctor 
 Sturtevant entered, he was certain. That poor 
 little atom of humanity upstairs was lifting up 
 its voice of feeble rage and woe because of its 
 entrance into existence. Sturtevant had an 
 oddly apologetic look. "I assure you I am 
 sorry, my dear fellow " he began. 
 
 "Is the poor little beggar going to live?" 
 asked Von Rosen. 
 
 "Well, yes, I think so, judging from the pres- 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 81 
 
 ent outlook," replied the doctor still apologeti 
 cally. 
 
 "I could not get Mrs. Bestwick," said Von 
 Eosen anxiously. "I think the telephone is out 
 of commission, on account of the ice." 
 
 " Never mind that. Your housekeeper is a 
 jewel, and I will get Mrs. Bestwick on my way 
 home. I say, Von Eosen " 
 
 Von Eosen looked at him inquiringly. 
 
 "Oh, well, never mind; I really must be off 
 now," said the doctor hurriedly. "I will get 
 Mrs. Bestwick here as soon as possible. I 
 think the child will have to be kept here for a 
 short time anyway, considering the weather, 
 and everything." 
 
 "Why, of course," said Von Eosen. 
 
 After the doctor had gone, he went out in 
 the kitchen. He had had no dinner. Jane 
 Eiggs, who had very acute hearing, came to the 
 head of the stairs, and spoke in a muffled tone, 
 muffled as Von Eosen knew because of the pres 
 ence of death and life in the house. "The 
 roast is in the oven, Mr. von Eosen," said she, 
 "I certainly hope it isn t too dry, and the soup 
 is in the kettle, and the vegetables are all ready 
 
82 THE BUTTEEFLY HOUSE 
 
 to dish up. Everything is ready except the 
 coffee." 
 
 " You know I can make that," called Von 
 Eosen in alarm. * Don t think of coming 
 down." 
 
 Von Eosen could make very good coffee. It 
 was an accomplishment of his college days. 
 He made some now. He felt the need of it. 
 Then he handily served the very excellent din 
 ner, and sat down at his solitary dining tahle. 
 As he ate his soup, he glanced across the table, 
 and a hlush like that of a girl overspread his 
 dark face. He had a vision of a high chair, 
 and a child installed therein with the custom 
 ary hib and spoon. It was a singular circum 
 stance, but everything in life moves in se 
 quences, and that poor Syrian child upstairs, 
 in her dire extremity, was furnishing a se 
 quence in the young man s life, before she went 
 out of it. Her stimulation of his sympathy 
 and imagination was to change the whole 
 course of his existence. 
 
 Meanwhile, Doctor Sturtevant was having a 
 rather strenuous argument with his wife, who 
 for once stood against him. She had her not- 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 83 
 
 to-be-silenced personal note. She had a hor 
 ror of the alien and unusual. All her life she 
 had walked her chalk-line, and anything out 
 side savoured of the mysterious, and terrible. 
 She was Anglo-Saxon. She was what her an 
 cestresses had been for generations. The 
 strain was unchanged, and had become so tense 
 and narrow that it was almost fathomless. 
 Mrs. Sturtevant, good and benevolent on 
 her chalk-line, was involuntarily a bigot. 
 She looked at Chinese laundry men, poor 
 little yellow figures, shuffling about with bags 
 of soiled linen, with thrills of recoil. She 
 would not have acknowledged it to herself, for 
 she came of a race which favoured abolition, 
 but nothing could have induced her to have a 
 coloured girl in her kitchen. Her imagina 
 tions and prejudices were stained as white as 
 her skin. There was a lone man living on the 
 outskirts of Fairbridge, in a little shack built 
 by himself in the woods, who was said to have 
 Indian blood in his veins, and Mrs. Sturtevant 
 never saw him without that awful thrill of re 
 coil. "When the little Orientals, men or women, 
 swayed sidewise and bent with their cheap 
 
84 THE BUTTEKFLY HOUSE 
 
 suitcases filled with Eastern handiwork, came to 
 the door, she did not draw a long breath until 
 she had watched them out of sight down the 
 street. It made no difference to her that they 
 might be Christians, that they might have suf 
 fered persecution in their own land and sought 
 our doorless entrances of hospitality; she still 
 realised her own aloofness from them, or rather 
 theirs from her. They had entered existence 
 entirely outside her chalk-line. She and they 
 walked on parallels which to all eternity could 
 never meet. 
 
 It therefore came to pass that, although she 
 had in the secret depths of her being bemoaned 
 her childlessness, and had been conscious of 
 yearnings and longings which were agonies, 
 when Doctor Sturtevant, after the poor young 
 unknown mother had been laid away in the 
 Fairbridge cemetery, proposed that they should 
 adopt the bereft little one, she rebelled. 
 
 "If he were a white baby, I wouldn t object 
 that I know of," said she, "but I can t have 
 this kind. I can t make up my mind to it, Ed 
 ward." 
 
 "But, Maria, the child is white. He may not 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 85 
 
 be European, but he is white. That is, while of 
 course he has a dark complexion and dark eyes 
 and hair, he is as white, in a way, as any child 
 in Fairbridge, and he will be a beautiful boy. 
 Moreover, we have every reason to believe 
 that he was born in wedlock. There was a ring 
 on a poor string of a ribbon on the mother s 
 neck, and there was a fragment of a letter which 
 Von Rosen managed to make out. He thinks 
 that the poor child was married to another 
 child of her own race. The boy is all right and 
 he will be a fine little fellow." 
 
 "It is of no use," said Maria Sturtevant. 
 "I can t make up my mind to adopt a baby, 
 that belonged to that kind of people. I simply 
 can not, Edward." 
 
 Sturtevant gave up the matter for the time 
 being. The baby remained at Von Rosen s 
 under the care of Mrs. Bestwick, and Jane 
 Riggs, but when it was a month old, the doctor 
 persuaded his wife to go over and see it. 
 Maria Sturtevant gazed at the tiny scrap of 
 humanity curled up in Jane Riggs darning 
 basket, the old-young face creased as softly as 
 a rosebud, with none of its beauty, but with a 
 
86 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 compelling charm. She watched the weak mo 
 tion of the infinitesimal legs and arms beneath 
 the soft smother of wrappings, and her heart 
 pained her with longing, but she remained firm. 
 
 "It is no use, Edward," she said, when they 
 had returned to Von Eosen s study. "I can t 
 make up my mind to adopt a baby coming from 
 such queer people." Then she was confronted 
 by a stare of blank astonishment from Von 
 Eosen, and also from Jane Eiggs. 
 
 Jane Eiggs spoke with open hostility. "I 
 don t know that anybody has asked anybody to 
 adopt our baby," said she. 
 
 Von Eosen laughed, but he also blushed. He 
 spoke rather stammeringly. "Well, Sturte- 
 vant," said he, "the fact is, Jane and I have 
 talked it over, and she thinks she can manage, 
 and he seems a bright little chap, and I have 
 about made up my mind to keep him myself." 
 
 "He is going to be baptised as soon as he is 
 big enough to be taken out of my darning 
 basket," said Jane Eiggs with defiance, but 
 Mrs. Sturtevant regarded her with relief. 
 
 "I dare say he will be a real comfort to 
 you," she said, "even if he does come from 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 87 
 
 such queer stock." Her husband looted at 
 Von Rosen and whistled under his breath. 
 
 "People will talk/ he said aside. 
 
 "Let them," returned Von Rosen. He was 
 experiencing a strange new joy of possession, 
 which no possibility of ridicule could daunt. 
 However, his joy was of short duration. The 
 baby was a little over three months old, and 
 had been promoted to a crib, and a perambu 
 lator, had been the unconscious recipient of 
 many gifts from the women of Von Rosen s 
 parish, and of many calls from admiring little 
 girls. Jane had scented the danger. She 
 came home from marketing one morning, quite 
 pale, and could hardly speak when she entered 
 Von Rosen s study. 
 
 "There s an outlandish young man around 
 here," said she, "and you had better keep that 
 baby close." 
 
 Von Rosen laughed. "Those people are al 
 ways about," he said. "You have no reason 
 to be nervous, Jane. There is hardly a chance 
 he has anything to do with the baby, and in any 
 case, he would not be likely to burden himself 
 with the care of it." 
 
68 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 " Don t you be too sure," said Jane stoutly, 
 "a baby like that!" 
 
 Jane, much against her wishes, was obliged 
 to go out that afternoon, and Von Eosen was 
 left alone with the baby with the exception of 
 a little nurse girl who had taken the place of 
 Mrs. Bestwick. Then it was that the Syrian 
 man, he was no more than a boy, came. Von 
 Eosen did not at first suspect. The Syrian 
 spoke very good English, and he was a Chris 
 tian. So he told Von Eosen. Then he also 
 told him that the dead girl had been his wife, 
 and produced letters signed with the name 
 which those in her possession had borne. Von 
 Eosen was convinced. There was something 
 about the boy with his haughty, almost sullen, 
 oriental manner which bore the stamp of truth. 
 However, when he demanded only the suit-case 
 which his dead wife had brought when she 
 came to the house, Von Eosen was relieved. 
 He produced it at once, and his wonder and 
 disgust mounted to fever heat, when that East 
 ern boy proceeded to take out carefully the 
 gauds of feminine handiwork which it con 
 tained, and press them upon Von Eosen at ex- 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 89 
 
 orbitant prices. Von Eosen was more incensed 
 than he often permitted himself to be. He 
 ordered the boy from the house, and he de 
 parted with strong oaths, and veiled and intri 
 cate threats after the manner of his subtle 
 race, and when Jane Biggs came home, Yon 
 Eosen told her. 
 
 "I firmly believe the young rascal was that 
 poor girl s husband, and the boy s father," he 
 said. 
 
 "Didn t he ask to have the baby?" 
 
 "Never mentioned such a thing. All he 
 wanted was the article of value which the poor 
 girl left here." 
 
 Jane Eiggs also looked relieved. "Outland 
 ish people are queer," she said. 
 
 But the next morning she rushed into Von 
 Eosen s room when he had barely finished 
 dressing, sobbing aloud like a child, her face 
 rigidly convulsed with grief, and her hands 
 waving frantically with no effort to conceal it. 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 THE little Syrian baby had disappeared. No 
 body had reckoned with the soft guile of a race 
 as supple and silent as to their real intentions 
 as cats. There was a verandah column wound 
 with a massive wistaria vine near the window 
 of the baby s room. The little nurse girl went 
 home every night, and Jane Eiggs was a heavy 
 sleeper. When she had awakened, her first 
 glance had been into the baby s crib. Then she 
 sprang, and searched with hungry hands. The 
 little softly indented nest was not warm, the 
 child had been gone for some hours, probably 
 had been taken during the first and soundest 
 sleep of the household. Jane s purse, and her 
 gold breast pin, had incidentally been taken 
 also. When she gave the alarm to Von Eosen, 
 a sullen, handsome Syrian boy was trudging 
 upon an unfrequented road, which led circuit- 
 ously to the City, and he carried a suit-case, 
 but it was held apart, by some of the Eastern 
 embroideries used as wedges, before strapping, 
 
 90 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 91 
 
 and from that came the querulous wail of a; 
 baby squirming uncomfortably upon drawn 
 work centre pieces, and crepe kimonas. Now 
 and then the boy stopped and spoke to the baby 
 in a lovely gentle voice. He promised it food, 
 and shelter soon in his own soft tongue. He 
 was carrying it to his wife s mother, and sullen 
 as he looked and was, and thief as he was, love 
 for his own swayed him, and made him deter 
 mined to hold it fast. Von Rosen made all pos 
 sible inquiries. He employed detectives but he 
 never obtained the least clue to the where 
 abouts of the little child. He, however, al 
 though he grieved absurdly, almost as absurdly 
 as Jane, had a curious sense of joy over the 
 whole. Life in Fairbridge had, before birth 
 and death entered his home, been so monoto 
 nous, that he was almost stupefied. Here was 
 a thread of vital gold and flame, although it 
 had brought pain with it. When Doctor Stur- 
 tevant condoled with him, he met with an un 
 expected response. "I feel for you, old man. 
 It was a mighty unfortunate thing that it hap 
 pened in your house, now that this has come 
 of it," he said. 
 

 92 THE BUTTEEFLY HOUSE 
 
 "I am very glad it happened, whatever came 
 of it," said Von Eosen. "It is something to 
 have had in my life. I wouldn t have missed 
 it." 
 
 Fairbridge people, who were on the whole a 
 good-natured set, were very sympathetic, es 
 pecially the women. Bessy Dicky shed tears 
 when talking to Mrs. Sturtevant about the dis 
 appearance of the baby. Mrs. Sturtevant was 
 not very responsive. 
 
 "It may be all for the best," she said. 
 "Nobody can tell how that child would have 
 turned out. He might have ended by killing 
 Mr. von Eosen." Then she added with a sigh 
 that she hoped his poor mother had been mar 
 ried. 
 
 "Why, of course she was since there was a 
 baby," said Bessy Dicky. Then she rose has 
 tily with a blush because Doctor Sturtevant s 
 motor could be heard, and took her leave. 
 
 Doctor Sturtevant had just returned from 
 a call upon Margaret Edes, who had ex 
 perienced a very severe disappointment, com 
 ing as it did after another very successful meet 
 ing of the Zenith Club at Daisy Shaw s, who 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 93 
 
 had most unexpectedly provided a second 
 cousin who recited monologues wonderfully. 
 Wilbur had failed in his attempt to secure 
 Lydia Greenway for Margaret s star-feature. 
 The actress had promised, but had been sud 
 denly attacked with a very severe cold which 
 had obliged her to sail for Europe a week ear 
 lier than she had planned. Margaret had been 
 quite ill, but Doctor Sturtevant gave her pain 
 pellets with the result that late in the after 
 noon she sat on her verandah in a fluffy white 
 tea gown, and then it was that little Annie 
 Eustace came across the street, and sat with 
 her. Annie was not little. Although slender, 
 she was, in fact, quite tall and wide shouldered 
 and there was something about her which 
 seemed to justify the use of the diminutive ad 
 jective. Possibly it was her face, which was 
 really small and very pretty, with perfect 
 cameo-like features and an odd, deprecating, 
 almost painfully humble expression. It was 
 the face of a creature entirely capable of ask 
 ing an enemy s pardon for an injury inflicted 
 upon herself. In reality, Annie Eustace had 
 very much that attitude of soul. She always 
 
94 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 considered the wrong as her natural place, and, 
 in fact, would not have been comfortable else 
 where, although she suffered there. And yet, 
 little Annie Eustace was a gifted creature. 
 There was probably not a person in Fair- 
 bridge who had been so well endowed by na 
 ture, but her environment and up-bringing 
 had been unfortunate. If Annie s mother had 
 lived, the daughter might have had more spirit, 
 but she had died when Annie was a baby, and 
 the child had been given over to the tyranny of 
 two aunts, and a grandmother. As for her 
 father, he had never married again, but he had 
 never paid much attention to her. He had 
 been a reserved, silent man, himself under 
 the sway of his mother and sisters. Charles 
 Eustace had had an obsession to the effect that 
 the skies of his own individual sphere would 
 fall to his and his child s destruction, if his fe 
 male relatives deserted him, and that they had 
 threatened to do, upon the slightest sign of re 
 volt. Sometimes Annie s father had regarded 
 her wistfully and wondered within himself if 
 it were quite right for a child to be so entirely 
 governed, but his own spirit of yielding made 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 95 
 
 it impossible for Mm to realise the situation. 
 Obedience had been little Annie Eustace s first 
 lesson taught by the trio, who to her repre 
 sented all government, in her individual case. 
 
 Annie Eustace obeyed her aunts, and grand 
 mother (her father had been dead for several 
 years), but she loved only three, two were 
 women, Margaret Edes and Alice Mendon ; the 
 other was a man, and the love was not con 
 fessed to her own heart. 
 
 This afternoon Annie wore an ugly green 
 gown, which was, moreover, badly cut. The 
 sleeves were too long below the elbow, and too 
 short above, and every time she moved an arm 
 they hitched uncomfortably. The neck ar 
 rangement was exceedingly unbecoming, and 
 the skirt not well hung. The green was of the 
 particular shade which made her look yellow. 
 As she sat beside Margaret and embroidered 
 assiduously, and very unskilfully, some daisies 
 on a linen centre-piece, the other woman eyed 
 her critically. 
 
 "You should not wear that shade of green, 
 if you will excuse my saying so, dear," she re 
 marked presently. 
 
96 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 Annie regarded her with a charming, loving 
 smile. She would have excused her idol for 
 saying anything. "I know it is not very; be 
 coming," she agreed sweetly. 
 
 "Becoming," said Margaret a trifle vi 
 ciously. She was so out of sorts about her fail 
 ure to secure Lydia Greenway that she felt a 
 great relief in attacking little Annie Eustace. 
 
 "Becoming," said she. "It actually makes 
 you hideous. That shade is impossible for you 
 and why, I trust you will not be offended, you 
 know it is for your own good, dear, why do 
 you wear your hair in that fashion?" 
 
 "I am afraid it is not very becoming," said 
 Annie with the meekness of those who inherit 
 the earth. She did not state that her aunt 
 Harriet had insisted that she dress her hair in 
 that fashion. Annie was intensely loyal. 
 
 "Nobody," said Margaret, "unless she were 
 as beautiful as Helen of Troy, should wear her 
 hair that way, and not look a fright." 
 
 Annie Eustace blushed, but it was not a dis 
 tressed blush. When one has been downtrod 
 den one s whole life, one becomes accustomed 
 to it, and besides she loved the down-treader. 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 97 
 
 "Yes," said she. "I looked at myself in my 
 glass just before I came and I thought I did 
 not look well." 
 
 "Hideous," said Margaret. 
 
 Annie smiled agreement and looked pretty, 
 despite the fact that her hair was strained 
 tightly back, showing too much of her intellec 
 tual forehead, and the colour of her gown killed 
 all the pink bloom lights in her face. Annie 
 Eustace had a beautiful soul and it showed 
 forth triumphant over all bodily accessories, 
 in her smile. 
 
 "You are not doing that embroidery at all 
 well," said Margaret. 
 
 Annie laughed. "I know it," she said with 
 a sort of meek amusement. "I don t think I 
 ever can master long and short stitch." 
 
 "Why on earth do you attempt it then?" 
 
 "Everybody embroiders," replied Annie. 
 She did not state that her grandmother had 
 made taking the embroidery a condition of her 
 call upon her friend. 
 
 Margaret continued to regard her. She was 
 finding a species of salve for her own disap 
 pointment in this irritant applied to another. 
 
98 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 "What does make you wear that hair ring?" 
 said she. 
 
 "It was a present," replied Annie humbly, 
 but she for the first time looked a little dis 
 turbed. That mourning emblem with her 
 father s and mother s, and a departed sister s 
 hair in a neat little twist under a small crys 
 tal, grated upon her incessantly. It struck her 
 as a species of ghastly sentiment, which at once 
 distressed, and impelled her to hysterical 
 mirth. 
 
 "A present," repeated Margaret. "If any 
 body gave me such a present as that, I would 
 never wear it. It is simply in shocking bad 
 taste." 
 
 "I sometimes fear so," said Annie. She did 
 not state that her Aunt Jane never allowed her 
 to be seen in public without that dismal adorn 
 ment. 
 
 "You are a queer girl," said Margaret, and 
 she summed up all her mood of petty cruelty 
 and vicarious revenge in that one word 
 "queer." 
 
 However, little Annie Eustace only smiled as 
 if she had been given a peculiarly acceptable 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 99 
 
 present. She was so used to being underrated, 
 that she had become in a measure immune to 
 criticism, and besides criticism from her adored 
 Mrs. Edes was even a favour. She took 
 another bungling stitch in the petal of a white 
 floss daisy. 
 
 Margaret felt suddenly irritated. All this 
 was too much like raining fierce blows upon a 
 down pillow. 
 
 "Do, for goodness sake, Annie Eustace, stop 
 doing that awful embroidery if you don t want 
 to drive me crazy," said she. 
 
 Then Annie looked at Margaret, and she was 
 obviously distressed and puzzled. Her grand 
 mother had enjoined it upon her to finish just 
 so many of these trying daisies before her re 
 turn and yet, on the other hand, here was Mar 
 garet, her adorable Margaret, forbidding her 
 to work, and, moreover, Margaret in such an 
 irritable mood, with that smooth brow of hers 
 frowning, and that sweet voice, which usually 
 had a lazy trickle like honey, fairly rasping, was 
 as awe-inspiring as her grandmother. Annie 
 Eustace hesitated for a second. Her grand 
 mother had commanded. Margaret Edes had 
 
100 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 commanded. The strongest impulse of her 
 whole being was obedience, but she loved 
 Margaret, and she did not love her grand 
 mother. She had never confessed such 
 a horror to herself, but one does not love 
 another human being whose main aim to 
 ward one is to compress, to stiffen, to make 
 move in a step with itself. Annie folded up 
 the untidy embroidery. As she did so, she 
 dropped her needle and also her thimble. The 
 needle lay glittering beside her chair, the thim 
 ble rolled noiselessly over the trailing fold of 
 her muslin gown into the folds of Margaret s 
 white silk. Margaret felt an odd delight in 
 that. Annie was careless, and she was dainty, 
 and she was conscious of a little pleasurable 
 preening of her own soul-plumage. 
 
 Margaret said nothing about the thimble and 
 needle. Annie sat regarding her with a sort 
 of expectation, and the somewhat mussy little 
 parcel of linen lay in her lap. Annie folded 
 over it her very slender hands, and the horrible 
 hair ring was in full evidence. 
 
 Margaret fixed her eyes upon it. Annie 
 quickly placed the hand which wore it under 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOU^E . 1C1 
 
 the other. Then she spoke, since Margaret did 
 not, and she said exactly the wrong thing. The 
 being forced continually into the wrong, often 
 has the effect of making one quite innocently 
 take the first step in that direction even if no 
 force be used. 
 
 "I hear that the last meeting of the Zenith 
 Club was unusually interesting/ said little 
 Annie Eustace, and she could have said nothing 
 more hapless to Margaret Edes in her present 
 mood. Quite inadvertently, she herself be 
 came the irritant party. Margaret actually 
 flushed. "I failed to see anything interesting 
 .whatever about it, myself," said she tartly. 
 
 Annie offended again. "I heard that Mrs. 
 Sarah Joy Snyder s address was really very re 
 markable, " said she. 
 
 "It was simply a very stupid effort to be 
 funny," returned Margaret. "Sometimes 
 women will laugh because they are expected to, 
 and they did that afternoon. Everything was 
 simply cut and dried. It always is at Mrs. 
 George B. Slade s. I never knew a woman so 
 absolutely destitute of originality." 
 
 Annie looked helplessly at Margaret. She 
 
162 THE fcUTTEKFLY HOUSE 
 
 could say no more unless she contradicted. 
 Margaret continued. She felt that she could 
 no longer conceal her own annoyance, and she 
 was glad of this adoring audience of one. 
 
 "I had planned something myself for the 
 next meeting, something which has never been 
 done," said she, " some thing new, and stimu 
 lating." 
 
 "Oh, how lovely!" cried Annie. 
 
 "But of course, like all really clever plans 
 for the real good and progress of a club like 
 ours, something has to come up to prevent," 
 said Margaret. 
 
 "Oh, what!" 
 
 "Well, I had planned to have Lydia Green- 
 way, you know she is really a great artist, come 
 to the next meeting and give dramatic recita 
 tions." 
 
 "Oh, would she?" gasped Annie Eustace. 
 
 "Of course, it would have meant a large pe 
 cuniary outlay," said Margaret, "but I was 
 prepared, quite prepared, to make some sacri 
 fices for the good of the club, but, why, you 
 must have read it in the papers, Annie." 
 
 Annie looked guiltily ignorant. 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 103 
 
 "I really do not see how you contrive to ex 
 ist without keeping more in touch with the cur 
 rent events," said Margaret. 
 
 Annie looked meekly culpable, although she 
 was not. Her aunts did not approve of news 
 papers, as containing so much information, so 
 much cheap information concerning the evil in 
 the world, especially for a young person like 
 Annie, and she was not allowed to read them, 
 although she sometimes did so surreptitiously. 
 
 "It was in all the papers," continued Mar 
 garet, with her censorious air. "Lydia Green- 
 way was obliged to leave unexpectedly and go 
 to the Riveria. They fear tuberculosis. She 
 sailed last Saturday." 
 
 "I am so sorry," said Annie. Then she pro 
 ceeded to elaborate her statement in exactly 
 the wrong way. She said how very dreadful 
 it would be if such a talented young actress 
 should fall a victim of such a terrible disease, 
 and what a loss she would be to the public, 
 whereas all that Margaret Edes thought should 
 be at all considered by any true friend of her 
 own was her own particular loss. 
 
 "For once the Zenith Club would have had a 
 
104 THE BUTTEEFLY HOUSE 
 
 meeting calculated to take Fairbridge women 
 out of their rut in which people like Mrs. Slade 
 and Mrs. Sturtevant seem determined to keep 
 them," returned Margaret testily. Annie 
 stared at her. Margaret often said that it was 
 the first rule of her life never to speak ill of 
 any one, and she kept the letter of it as a rule. 
 
 "I am so sorry," said Annie. Then she 
 added with more tact. "It would have been 
 such a wonderful thing for us all to have had 
 Lydia Greenway give dramatic recitals to us. 
 Oh, Margaret, I can understand how much it 
 would have meant." 
 
 "It would have meant progress," said Mar 
 garet. She looked imperiously lovely, as she 
 sat there all frilled about with white lace and 
 silk with the leaf-shadows playing over the 
 slender whiteness. She lifted one little hand 
 tragically. "Progress," she repeated. "Prog 
 ress beyond Mrs. George B. Slade s and Mrs. 
 Sturtevant s and Miss Bessy Dicky s, and 
 that is precisely what we need." 
 
 Annie Eustace gazed wistfully upon her 
 friend. "Yes," she agreed, "you are quite 
 right, Margaret. Mrs. Slade and Mrs. Sturte- 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 105 
 
 vant and poor Bessy Dicky and all the other 
 members are very good, and we think highly of 
 them, but I too feel that we all travel in a rut 
 sometimes. Perhaps we all walk too much the 
 same way." Then suddenly Annie burst into 
 a peal of laughter. She had a sense of humour 
 which was startling. It was the one thing 
 which environment had not been able to subdue, 
 or even produce the effect of submission. 
 Annie Eustace was easily amused. She had a 
 scent for the humorous like a hound s for game, 
 and her laugh was irrepressible. 
 
 "What on earth are you laughing at now?" 
 inquired Margaret Edes irritably. 
 
 "I was thinking," Annie replied chokingly, 
 "of some queer long-legged birds I saw once 
 in a cage in a park. I really don t know 
 whether they were ibises or cranes, or survivals 
 of species, but anyway, the little long-legged 
 ones all walked just the same way in a file be 
 hind a tall long-legged one, who walked precisely 
 in the same way, and all of a sudden, I seemed 
 to see us all like that. Only you are not in the 
 least like that tall, long-legged bird, Margaret, 
 and you are the president of the Zenith Club." 
 
106 THE BUTTEEFLY HOUSE 
 
 Margaret surveyed Annie with cool displeas 
 ure. "I," said she, "see nothing whatever to 
 laugh at in the Zenith Club, if you do." 
 
 "Oh, Margaret, I don t!" cried Annie. 
 
 "To my mind, the Zenith Club is the one in 
 stitution in this little place which tends to ad 
 vancement and mental improvement. 
 
 "Oh, Margaret, I think so too, you know I 
 do," said Annie in a shocked voice. "And my 
 heart was almost broken because I had to miss 
 that last meeting on account of grandmother s 
 having such a severe cold." 
 
 "The last meeting was not very much to 
 miss," said Margaret, for !A.nnie had again 
 said the wrong thing. 
 
 Annie, however, went on eagerly and uncon 
 sciously. She was only aware that she was be 
 ing accused of disloyalty, or worse, of actually 
 poking fun, when something toward which she 
 felt the utmost respect and love and admira 
 tion was concerned. 
 
 "Margaret, you know," she cried, "you 
 know how I feel toward the Zenith Club. You 
 must know what it means to me. It really does 
 take me out of my little narrow place in life as 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 107 
 
 nothing else does. I cannot tell you what an 
 inspiration it really is to me. Oh, Margaret, 
 you know!" 
 
 Margaret nodded in stiff assent. As a mat 
 ter of fact, she did know. The Zenith Club of 
 Fairbridge did mean very much, very much in 
 deed, to little Annie Eustace. Nowhere else 
 did she meet en masse others of her kind. She 
 did not even go to church for the reason that 
 her grandmother did not believe in church 
 going at all and wished her to remain with her. 
 One aunt was Dutch Reformed and the other 
 Baptist; and neither ever missed a service. 
 Annie remained at home Sundays, and read 
 aloud to her grandmother, and when both aunts 
 were in the midst of their respective services, 
 and the cook, who was intensely religious, en 
 gaged in preparing dinner, she and her old 
 grandmother played pinocle. However, al 
 though Annie played cards very well, it was 
 only with her relatives. She had never been 
 allowed to join the Fairbridge Card Club. 
 She never attended a play in the city, because 
 Aunt Jane considered plays wicked. It was in 
 reality doubtful if she would have been per- 
 
108 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 mitted to listen to Lydia Greenway, had that 
 person been available. Annie s sole large rec 
 reation was the Zenith Club, and it meant, as 
 she had said, much to her. It was to the 
 stifled young heart as a great wind of stimu 
 lus which was for the strengthening of her 
 soul. Whatever the Zenith Club of Fair- 
 bridge was to others, it was very much 
 worth while for little Annie Eustace. She 
 wrote papers for it, which were astonishing, 
 although her hearers dimly appreciated the 
 fact, not because of dulness, but because little 
 Annie had written them, and it seemed incred 
 ible to Fairbridge women that little Annie 
 Eustace whom they had always known, and 
 whose grandmother and aunts they knew, 
 could possibly write anything remarkable. It 
 was only Alice Mendon who listened with a 
 frown of wonder, and intent eyes upon the 
 reader. When she came home upon one occa 
 sion, she remarked to her aunt, Eliza Mendon, 
 and her cousin, Lucy Mendon, that she had 
 been impressed by Annie Eustace s paper, but 
 both women only stared and murmured assent. 
 The cousin was very much older than Alice, 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 109 
 
 and both she and her mother were of a placid, 
 reflective type. They got on very well with 
 Alice, but sometimes she had a queer weariness 
 from always seeing herself and her own ideas 
 in them instead of their own. And she was 
 not in the least dictatorial. She would have 
 preferred open, antagonistic originality, but 
 she got a surfeit of clear, mirror-like peace. 
 
 She was quite sure that they would quote her 
 opinion of Annie Eustace s paper, but that did 
 not please her. Later on she spoke to Annie 
 herself about it. "Haven t you something else 
 written that you can show me ? She had even 
 suggested the possibility, the desirability, of 
 Annie s taking up a literary career, but she had 
 found the girl very evasive, even secretive, and 
 had never broached the subject again. 
 
 As for Margaret Edes, she had never fairly 
 listened to anything which anybody except her 
 self had written, unless it had afforded matter 
 for discussion, and the display of her own bril 
 liancy. Annie s productions were so modestly 
 conclusive as to apparently afford no standing 
 ground for argument. In her heart, Margaret 
 regarded them as she regarded Annie s person- 
 
110 THE BUTTEKFLY HOUSE 
 
 ality, with a contempt so indifferent that it was 
 hardly contempt. 
 
 She proceeded exactly as if Annie had not 
 made such a fervent disclaimer. "The Zenith 
 Club is the one and only thing which lifts 
 Fairbridge, and the women of Fairbridge, above 
 the common herd," said she majestically. 
 
 "Don t I know it? Oh, Margaret, don t I 
 know it," cried the other with such feverish 
 energy that Margaret regarded her wonder- 
 ingly. For all her exploiting of the Zenith 
 Club of Fairbridge, she herself, unless she were" 
 the main figure at the helm, could realise noth 
 ing in it so exceedingly inspiring, but it was 
 otherwise with Annie. It was quite conceiv 
 able that had it not been for the Zenith Club, 
 she never would have grown to her full mental 
 height. Annie Eustace had a mind of the se 
 quential order. By subtle processes, unanalysa 
 ble even by herself, even the record of Miss 
 Bessy Dicky started this mind upon momentous 
 trains of thought. Unquestionably the Zenith 
 Club acted as a fulminate for little Annie Eus 
 tace. To others it might seem, during some of 
 the sessions, as a pathetic attempt of village 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 111 
 
 women to raise themselves upon tiptoes enough 
 to peer over their centuries of weedy feminine 
 growth; an attempt which was as futile, 
 and even ridiculous, as an attempt of a cow to 
 fly. But the Zenith Club justified its existence 
 nobly in the result of little Annie Eustace, if in 
 no other, and it, no doubt, justified itself in 
 others. Who can say what that weekly gath 
 ering meant to women who otherwise would 
 not move outside their little treadmill of house 
 hold labour, what uplifting, if seemingly futile 
 grasps at the great outside of life? Let no one 
 underrate the Women s Club until the years 
 have proven its uselessness. 
 
 "I am so sorry about Lydia Greenway," said 
 Annie, and this time she did not irritate Mar 
 garet. 
 
 "It does seem as if one were simply doomed 
 to failure every time one really made an effort 
 to raise standards," said Margaret. 
 
 Then it was that Annie all unconsciously 
 sowed a seed which led to strange, and rather 
 terrifying results. "It would be nice," said 
 little Annie, "if we could get Miss Martha 
 Wallingford to read a selection from Hearts 
 
112 THE BUTTEKFLY HOUSE 
 
 Astray at a meeting of the club. I read a few 
 nights ago, in a paper I happened to pick up at 
 Alice s, that she was staying in New York at 
 the Hollingsgate. Her publishers were to give 
 her a dinner last night, I believe." 
 
 Margaret Edes started. "I had not seen 
 that," she said. Then she added in a queer 
 brooding fashion, "That book of hers had an 
 enormous sale. I suppose her publishers feel 
 that they owe it to her to give her a good time 
 in New York. Then, too, it will advertise 
 Hearts Astray." 
 
 "Did you like the book?" asked Annie rather 
 irrelevantly. Margaret did not reply. She 
 was thinking intently. "It would be a great 
 feature for the club if we could induce her to 
 give a reading," she said at length. 
 
 "I don t suppose it would be possible," re 
 plied Annie. "You know they say she never 
 does such things, and is very retiring. I read 
 in the papers that she was, and that she refused 
 even to speak a few words at the dinner given 
 in her honour." 
 
 "We might ask her," said Margaret. 
 
 "I am sure that she would not come. The 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 113 
 
 paper stated that she had had many invitations 
 to Women s Clubs and had refused. I don t 
 think she ought because she might be such a 
 help to other women. " 
 
 Margaret said nothing. She leaned back, 
 and, for once, her face was actually contracted 
 with thought to the possible detriment of its 
 smooth beauty. 
 
 A clock in the house struck, and at the same 
 time Maida and Adelaide raced up the steps, 
 followed by gleeful calls from two little boys 
 on the sidewalk. 
 
 "Where have you been?" asked Margaret. 
 Then she said without waiting for a reply, "If 
 Martha Wallingford would come, I should pre 
 fer that to Lydia Greenway." 
 
 Maida and Adelaide, flushed and panting, 
 and both with mouths full of candy, glanced at 
 their mother, then Maida chased Adelaide into 
 the house, their blue skirts flitting out of sight 
 like blue butterfly wings. 
 
 Annie Eustace rose. She had noticed that 
 neither Maida nor Adelaide had greeted her, 
 and thought them rude. She herself had been 
 most carefully trained concerning manners of 
 
114 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 incoming and outgoing. She, however, did not 
 care. She had no especial love for children 
 unless they were small and appealing because 
 of helplessness. 
 
 "I must go," she said. "It is six o clock, 
 supper will be ready." She glanced rather ap 
 prehensively as she spoke at the large white 
 house, not two minutes walk distant across 
 the street. 
 
 "How very delightful it is to lie as punctual 
 as your people are," said Margaret. "Good 
 bye, Annie." She spoke abstractedly, and 
 Annie felt a little hurt. She loved Margaret, 
 and she missed her full attention when she left 
 her. She passed down the walk between Mar 
 garet s beautifully kept Japanese trees, and 
 gained the sidewalk. Then a sudden recollec 
 tion filled her with dismay. She had promised 
 her grandmother to go to the post-office before 
 returning. An important business letter was 
 expected. Annie swept the soft tail of her 
 muslin into a little crushed ball, and ran, her 
 slender legs showing like those of a young bird 
 beneath its fluff of plumage. She realized the 
 necessity of speed, of great speed, for the post- 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 115 
 
 office was a quarter of a mile away, and the 
 Eustace family supped at five minutes past six, 
 with terrible and relentless regularity. Why 
 it should have been five minutes past instead 
 of upon the stroke of the hour, Annie had never 
 known, but so it was. It was as great an offence 
 to be a minute too early as a minute too late 
 at the Eustace house, and many a maid had 
 been discharged for that offence, her plea that 
 the omelet was cooked and would fall if the 
 meal be delayed, being disregarded. Poor 
 Annie felt that she must hasten. She could not 
 be dismissed like the maid, but something 
 equally to be dreaded would happen, were she 
 to present herself half a minute behind time in 
 the dining-room. There they would be seated, 
 her grandmother, her Aunt Harriet, and her 
 Aunt Jane. Aunt Harriet behind the silver 
 tea service; Aunt Jane behind the cut glass 
 bowl of preserves; her grandmother behind 
 the silver butter dish, and on the table would 
 be the hot biscuits cooling, the omelet falling, 
 the tea drawing too long and all because of 
 her. There was tremendous etiquette in the 
 Eustace family. Not a cup of tea would Aunt 
 
116 THE BUTTEEFLY HOUSE 
 
 Harriet pour, not a spoon would Aunt Jane dip 
 into the preserves, not a butter ball would her 
 grandmother impale upon the little silver fork. 
 And poor Hannah, the maid, white aproned and 
 capped, would stand behind Aunt Harriet like 
 a miserable conscious graven image. There 
 fore Annie ran, and ran, and it happened that 
 she ran rather heedlessly and blindly and 
 dropped her mussy little package of fancy 
 work, and Karl von Eosen, coming out of the 
 parsonage, saw it fall and picked it up rather 
 gingerly, and called as loudly as was decorous 
 after the flying figure, but Annie did not hear 
 and Von Eosen did not want to shout, neither 
 did he want, or rather think it advisable, to 
 run, therefore he followed holding the linen 
 package well away from him, as if it were a 
 disagreeable insect. He had never seen much 
 of Annie Eustace. Now and then he called 
 upon one of her aunts, who avowed her prefer 
 ence for his religious denomination, but if he 
 saw Annie at all, she was seated engaged upon 
 some such doubtfully ornamental or useful 
 task, as the specimen which he now carried. 
 Truth to say, he had scarcely noticed Annie 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 117 
 
 Eustace at all. She had produced the effect of 
 shrinking from observation under some subtle 
 shadow of self-effacement. She was in reality 
 a very rose of a girl, loving and sweet, and 
 withal wonderfully endowed; but this human 
 rose, dwelt always for Karl von Rosen, in the 
 densest of bowers through which her beauty and 
 fragrance of character could not penetrate his 
 senses. Undoubtedly also, although his mascu 
 line intelligence would have scouted the possi 
 bility of such a thing, Annie s dull, ill-made 
 garb served to isolate her. She also never 
 came to church. That perfect little face with 
 its expression of strange insight, must have 
 aroused his attention among his audience. But 
 there was only the Aunt Harriet Eustace, an 
 exceedingly thin lady, present and always at 
 tired in rich blacks. Karl von Rosen to-day 
 walking as rapidly as became his dignity, in 
 pursuit of the young woman, was aware that 
 he hardly felt at liberty to accost her with any 
 thing more than the greeting of the day. He 
 eyed disapprovingly the parcel which he car 
 ried. It was a very dingy white, and greyish 
 threads dangled from it. Von Rosen thought 
 
118 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 it a most unpleasant thing, and reflected with 
 mild scorn and bewilderment concerning the 
 manner of mind which could find amusement 
 over such employment, for he divined that it 
 was a specimen of feminine skill, called fancy 
 work. 
 
 Annie Eustace ran so swiftly with those long 
 agile legs of hers that he soon perceived that in 
 terception upon her return, and not overtaking, 
 must ensue. He did not gain upon her at all, 
 and he began to understand that he was mak 
 ing himself ridiculous to possible observers in 
 windows. He therefore slackened his pace, 
 and met Annie upon her return. She had a let 
 ter in her hand and was advancing with a head 
 long rush, and suddenly she attracted him. Ho 
 surrendered the parcel. " Thank you very 
 much," said Annie, "but I almost wish you had 
 not found it." 
 
 Von Eosen stared at her. Was she rude 
 after all, this very pretty girl, who was capa 
 ble of laughter. "You would not blame me if 
 you had to embroider daisies on that dreadful 
 piece of linen," said Annie with a rueful 
 glance at the dingy package. 
 
"I almost wish yon had not found it" 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 119 
 
 Von Eosen smiled kindly at her. "I don t 
 blame you at all," he replied. "I can under 
 stand it must be a dismal task to embroider 
 daisies." 
 
 "It is, Mr. yon Eosen " Annie hesitated. 
 
 "Yes," said Von Eosen encouragingly. 
 
 "You know I never go to church." 
 
 "Yes," said Von Eosen mendaciously. He 
 really did not know. In future he, however, 
 would. 
 
 "Well, I don t go because " again Annie 
 hesitated, while the young man waited inter 
 rogatively. 
 
 Then Annie spoke with force. "I would 
 really like to go occasionally," she said, "I 
 doubt if I would always care to." 
 
 "No, I don t think you would," assented Von 
 Eosen with a queer delight. 
 
 "But I never can because Grandmother is 
 old and she has not much left in life, you 
 know. 
 
 "Of course." 
 
 "It is all very well for people to talk about 
 firesides, and knitting work, and peaceful eyes 
 of age fixed upon Heavenly homes," said 
 
120 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 Annie, "but all old people are not like that. 
 Grandma hates to knit although she does think 
 I should embroider daisies, and she does like 
 to have me play pinocle with her Sunday morn 
 ings, when Aunt Harriet and Aunt Jane are 
 out of the way. It is the only chance she has 
 during the whole week you know because 
 neither Aunt Harriet nor Aunt Jane approves 
 of cards, and poor Grandma is so fond of them, 
 it seems cruel not to play with her the one 
 chance she has." 
 
 "I think you are entirely right," said Von 
 Eosen with grave conviction and he was 
 charmed that the girl regarded him as if he had 
 said nothing whatever unusual. 
 
 "I have always been sure that it was right, " 
 said Annie Eustace, "but I would like some 
 times to go to church." 
 
 "I really wish you could," said Von Eosen, 
 "and I would make an especial effort to write 
 a good sermon." 
 
 "Oh," said Annie, "Aunt Harriet often 
 hears you preach one which she thinks very 
 good." 
 
 Von Eosen bowed. Suddenly Annie s shy- 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 121 
 
 ness, reserve, whatever it was, seemed to over 
 cloud her. The lovely red faded from her 
 cheeks, the light from her eyes. She lost her 
 beauty in a great measure. She bowed stiffly, 
 saying: "I thank you very much, good even 
 ing, " and passed on, leaving the young man 
 rather dazed, pleased and yet distinctly an 
 noyed, and annoyed in some inscrutable fashion 
 at himself. 
 
 Then he heard shouts of childish laughter, 
 and a scamper of childish feet, and Maida and 
 Adelaide Edes rushed past, almost jostling 
 him from the sidewalk. Maida carried a 
 letter, which her mother had written, and dis 
 patched to the last mail. And that letter was 
 destined to be of more importance to Von 
 Eosen than he knew. 
 
 As for Annie Eustace, whose meeting with 
 Yon Rosen had, after her first lapse into the 
 unconsciousness of mirth, disturbed her, as the 
 meeting of the hero of a dream always dis 
 turbs a true maiden who has not lost through 
 many such meetings the thrill of them, she hur 
 ried home trembling, and found everything just 
 exactly as she knew it would be. 
 
122 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 There sat Aunt Harriet perfectly motionless 
 behind the silver tea service, and although the 
 cosy was drawn over the teapot, the tea seemed 
 to be reproachfully drawing to that extent that 
 Annie could hear it. There sat Aunt Jane be 
 hind the cut glass bowl of preserved fruit, with 
 the untouched silver spoon at hand. There sat 
 her grandmother behind the butter plate. 
 There stood Hannah, white capped and white 
 aproned, holding the silver serving tray like a 
 petrified statue of severity, and not one of them 
 spoke, but their silence, their dignified, re 
 proachful silence was infinitely worse than a 
 torrent of invective. How Annie wished they 
 would speak. How she wished that she could 
 speak herself, but she knew better than to even 
 offer an excuse for her tardiness. Well she 
 knew that the stony silence which would meet 
 that would be worse, much worse than this. 
 So she slid into her place opposite her Aunt 
 Jane, and began her own task of dividing into 
 sections the omelet which was quite flat be 
 cause she was late, and seemed to reproach her 
 in a miserable, low-down sort of fashion. 
 
 However, there was in the girl s heart a little 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 123 
 
 glint of youthful joy, which was unusual. She 
 had met Mr. Von Rosen and had forgotten her 
 self, that is at first, and he had looked kindly at 
 her. There was no foolish hope in little Annie 
 Eustace s heart; there would be no spire of as 
 piration added to her dreams because of the 
 meeting, but she tasted the sweet of approba 
 tion, and it was a tonic which she sorely needed, 
 and which inspired her to self-assertion in a 
 childishly naughty and mischievous way. It 
 was after supper that evening, that Annie 
 strolled a little way down the street, taking ad 
 vantage of Miss Bessy Dicky s dropping in for 
 a call, to slink unobserved out of her 
 shadowy corner, for the Eustaces were fond 
 of sitting in the twilight. The wind had 
 come up, the violent strong wind which comes 
 out of the south, and Annie walked very near 
 the barberry hedge which surrounded Doctor 
 Sturtevant s grounds, and the green muslin 
 lashed against it to its undoing. When Annie 
 returned, the skirt was devastated and Aunt 
 Harriet decreed that it could not be mended 
 and must be given to the poor Joy children. 
 There were many of those children of a degen- 
 
124: ,THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 erate race, living on the outskirts of Fairbridge, 
 and Annie had come to regard them as living 
 effigies of herself, since everything which she 
 had outgrown or injured past repair, fell to 
 them. * There will be enough to make two nice 
 dresses for Charlotte and Minnie Joy," said 
 Aunt Harriet, "and it will not be wasted, even 
 if you have been so careless, Annie." 
 
 Annie could see a vision of those two little 
 Joy girls getting about in the remnants of her 
 ghastly muslin, and she shuddered, although 
 with relief. 
 
 "You had better wear your cross barred 
 white muslin afternoons now," said Aunt Har 
 riet, and Annie smiled for that was a pretty 
 dress. She smiled still more when Aunt Jane 
 said that now as the cross-barred white was to 
 be worn every day, another dress must be 
 bought, and she mentioned China silk some 
 thing which Annie had always longed to own 
 and blue, dull blue, a colour which she loved. 
 
 Just before she went to bed, Annie stood in 
 the front doorway looking out at the lovely 
 moonlight and the wonderful shadows which 
 transformed the village street, like the wings 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 125 
 
 of angels, and she heard voices and laughter 
 from the Edes house opposite. Then Mar 
 garet began singing in her shrill piercing voice 
 from which she had hoped much, but which had 
 failed to please, even at the Zenith Club. 
 
 Annie adored Margaret, but she shrank be 
 fore her singing voice. If she had only known 
 what was passing through the mind of the 
 singer after she went to bed that night, she 
 would have shuddered more, for Margaret Edes 
 was planning a possible coup before which 
 Annie, in spite of a little latent daring of her 
 own, would have been aghast. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 THE next morning Margaret announced her 
 self as feeling so much better that she thought 
 she would go to New York. She had several 
 errands, she said, and the day was beautiful 
 and the little change would do her good. She 
 would take the train with her husband, but a 
 different ferry, as she wished to go up town. 
 Wilbur acquiesced readily. "It is a mighty 
 fine morning, and you need to get out," he said. 
 Poor Wilbur at this time felt guiltily culpable 
 that he did not own a motor car in which his 
 Margaret might take the air. He had tried to 
 see his way clear toward buying one, but in 
 spite of a certain improvidence, the whole na 
 ture of the man was intrinsically honest. He al 
 ways ended his conference with himself concern 
 ing the motor by saying that he could not possi 
 bly keep it running, even if he were to manage 
 the first cost, and pay regularly his other bills. 
 He, however, felt it to be a shame to himself 
 that it was so, and experienced a thrill of pos- 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 127 
 
 itive pain of covetousness, not for himself, but 
 for his Margaret, when one of the luxurious 
 things whirled past him in Fairbridge. He, 
 it was true, kept a very smart little carriage 
 and horse, but that was not as much as Mar 
 garet should have. Every time Margaret 
 seemed a little dull, or complained of headache, 
 as she had done lately, he thought miserably of 
 that motor car, which was her right. There 
 fore when she planned any little trip like that 
 of to-day, he was immeasurably pleased. At 
 the same time he regarded her with a slightly 
 bewildered expression, for in some subtle fash 
 ion, her face as she propounded the trifling plan, 
 looked odd to him, and her voice also did not 
 sound quite natural. However, he dismissed 
 the idea at once as mere fancy, and watched 
 proudly the admiring glances bestowed upon 
 her in the Fairbridge station, while they were 
 waiting for the train. Margaret had a pecul 
 iar knack in designing costumes which were 
 at once plain and striking. This morning she 
 wore a black China silk, through the thin bodice 
 of which was visible an under silk strewn with 
 gold disks. Her girdle was clasped with a gold 
 
128 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 buckle, and when she moved there were slight 
 glimpses of a yellow silk petticoat. Her hat 
 was black, but under the brim was tucked a 
 yellow rose against her yellow hair. Then to fin 
 ish all, Margaret wore in the lace at her throat, 
 a great brooch of turquoise matrix, which 
 matched her eyes. Her husband realised her 
 as perfectly attired, although he did not in the 
 least understand why. He knew that his Mar 
 garet looked a woman of another race from the 
 others in the station, in their tailored skirts, 
 and shirtwaists, with their coats over arm, and 
 their shopping bags firmly clutched. It was a 
 warm morning, and feminine Fairb ridge s ideaC 
 of a suitable costume for a New York shopping 
 trip was a tailored suit, and a shirtwaist, and 
 as a rule, the shirtwaist did not fit. Margaret 
 never wore shirtwaists, she understood that 
 she was too short unless she combined a white 
 skirt with a waist. Margaret would have 
 broken a commandment with less hesitation 
 than she would have broken the line of her 
 graceful little figure with two violently con 
 trasting colours. Mrs. Sturtevant in a grey 
 skirt and an elaborate white waist, which em- 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 129 
 
 phasised her large bust, looked ridiculous be 
 side tbis fair, elegant little Margaret, although 
 her clothes bad in reality cost more. Wilbur 
 watched his wife as she talked sweetly with the 
 other woman, and his heart swelled with the 
 pride of possession. When they were on the 
 train and he sat by himself in the smoker, hav 
 ing left Margaret with Mrs. Sturtevant, his 
 heart continued to feel warm with elation. He 
 waited to assist his wife off the train at Jersey 
 City and realised it a trial that he could not 
 cross the river on the same ferry. Margaret 
 despised the tube and he wished for the short 
 breath of sea air which he would get on the 
 Courtland ferry. He glanced after her re 
 treating black skirts with the glimpses of yel 
 low, regretfully, before he turned his back and 
 turned toward his own slip. And he glanced 
 the more regretfully because this morning, with 
 all his admiration of his wife, he had a dim 
 sense of something puzzling which arose like a 
 cloud of mystery between them. 
 
 Wilbur Edes sailing across the river had, 
 however, no conception of the change which had 
 begun in his little world. It was only a shake 
 
130 .THE BUTTEEFLY HOUSE 
 
 of the kaleidoscope of an unimportant life, re 
 sulting in a different combination of atoms, but 
 to each individual it would be a tremendous 
 event partaking of the nature of a cataclysm. 
 That morning he had seen upon Margaret s* 
 charming face an expression which made it 
 seem as the face of a stranger. He tried to dis 
 miss the matter from his mind. He told him 
 self that it must have been the effect of the 
 light or that she had pinned on her hat at a 
 different angle. Women are so perplexing, 
 and their attire alters them so strangely. But 
 Wilbur Edes had reason to be .puzzled. Mar 
 garet had looked and really was different. In 
 a little while she had become practically 
 a different woman. Of course, she had only 
 developed possibilities which had always been 
 dormant within her, but they had been so 
 dormant, that they had not been to any 
 mortal perception endowed with life. Hitherto 
 Margaret had walked along the straight 
 and narrow way, sometimes, it is true, 
 jostling circumstances and sometimes being 
 jostled by them, yet keeping to the path. Now 
 she had turned her feet into that broad way 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 131 
 
 wherein there is room for the utmost self which 
 is in us all. Henceforth husband and wife 
 would walk apart in a spiritual sense, unless 
 there should come a revolution in the character 
 of the wife, who was the stepper aside. 
 
 Margaret seated comfortably on the ferry 
 boat, her little feet crossed so discreetly that 
 only a glimpse of the yellow fluff beneath was 
 visible, was conscious of a not unpleasurable 
 exhilaration. She might and she might not be 
 about to do something which would place her 
 distinctly outside the pale which had hence 
 forth enclosed her little pleasance of life. 
 Were she to cross that pale, she felt that it 
 might be distinctly amusing. Margaret was 
 not a wicked woman, but virtue, not virtue in 
 the ordinary sense of the word, but straight 
 walking ahead according to the ideas of Fair- 
 bridge, had come to drive her at times to the 
 verge of madness. Then, too, there was always 
 that secret terrible self-love and ambition of 
 hers, never satisfied, always defeated by petty 
 weapons. Margaret, sitting as gracefully as a 
 beautiful cat, on the ferry boat that morning 
 realised the vindictive working of her claws, 
 
132 THE BUTTEEFLY HOUSE 
 
 and her impulse to strike at her odds of life, 
 and she derived therefrom an unholy exhilara 
 tion. 
 
 She got her taxicab on the other side and 
 leaned back, catching frequent glances of ad 
 miration, and rode pleasurably to the regal 
 up-town hotel which was the home of Miss 
 Martha Wallingford, while in the city. She, 
 upon her arrival, entered the hotel with an air 
 which caused a stir among bell boys. Then she 
 entered a reception room and sat down, dis 
 posing herself with slow grace. Margaret 
 gazed about her and waited. There were only 
 three people in the room, one man and two 
 ladies, one quite young a mere girl the other 
 from the resemblance and superior age, evi 
 dently her mother. The man was young and 
 almost vulgarly well-groomed. He had given 
 a glance at Margaret as she entered, a glance of 
 admiration tempered with the consideration 
 that in spite of her grace and beauty, she was 
 probably older than himself. Then he contin 
 ued to gaze furtively at the young girl who sat 
 demurely, with eyes downcast beneath a soft, 
 wild tangle of dark hair, against which some 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 133 
 
 pink roses and a blue feather on her hat showed 
 fetchingly. She was very well dressed, evi 
 dently a well-guarded young thing from one of 
 the summer colonies. The mother, high cor 
 seted, and elegant in dark blue lines, which 
 made only a graceful concession to age, without 
 fairly admitting it, never allowed one glance of 
 the young man s to escape her. She also saw 
 her slender young daughter with every sense 
 in her body and mind. 
 
 Margaret looked away from them. The 
 elder woman had given her costume an appre 
 ciative, and herself a supercilious glance, which 
 had been met with one which did not seem to 
 recognise her visibility. Margaret was not 
 easily put down by another woman. She 
 stared absently at the ornate and weary decora 
 tions of the room. It was handsome, but tire 
 some, as everybody who entered realised, and 
 as, no doubt, the decorator had found out. It 
 was a ready-made species of room, with no 
 heart in it, in spite of the harmonious colour 
 scheme and really artistic detail. 
 
 Presently the boy with the silver tray entered 
 and approached Margaret. The young man 
 
134 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 stared openly at her. He began to wonder if 
 she were not younger than he had thought. 
 The girl never raised her downcast eyes; the 
 older woman cast one swift sharp glance at her. 
 The boy murmured so inaudibly that Margaret 
 barely heard, and she rose and followed him as 
 he led the way to the elevator. Miss Walling- 
 ford, who was a young Western woman and a 
 rising, if not already arisen literary star, had 
 signified her willingness to receive Mrs. Wil 
 bur Edes in her own private sitting-room. 
 Margaret was successful so far. She had pen 
 cilled on her card, "Can you see me on a mat 
 ter of importance! I am not connected with 
 the Press," and the young woman who es 
 teemed nearly everything of importance, and 
 was afraid of the Press, had agreed at once to 
 see her. Miss Martha Wallingford was stay 
 ing in the hotel with an elderly aunt, against 
 whose rule she rebelled in spite of her youth 
 and shyness, which apparently made it impos 
 sible for her to rebel against anybody, and the 
 aunt had retired stiffly to her bedroom when her 
 niece said positively that she would see her 
 caller. 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 135 
 
 "You don t know who she is and I promised 
 your Pa when we started that I wouldn t let 
 you get acquainted with folks unless I knew all 
 about them," the aunt had said and the niece, 
 the risen star, had set her mouth hard. "We 
 haven t seen a soul except those newspaper 
 men, and I know everyone of them is married, 
 and those two newspaper women who told about 
 my sleeves being out of date," said Martha 
 Wallingford, "and this Mrs. Edes may be real 
 nice. I m going to see her anyhow. We came 
 so late in the season that I believe everybody 
 in New York worth seeing has gone away and 
 this lady has come in from the country and it 
 may lead to my having a good time after all. 
 I haven t had much of a time so far, and you 
 know it, Aunt Susan." 
 
 "How you talk, Martha Wallingford! 
 Haven t you been to the theatre every night 
 and Coney Island, and the Metropolitan and 
 everything there is to see?" 
 
 "There isn t much to see in New York any 
 way except the people," returned the niece. 
 "People are all I care for anyway, and I 
 don t call the people I have seen worth count- 
 
136 THE BUTTEEFLY HOUSE 
 
 ing. They only came to make a little money 
 out of me and my sleeves. I am glad I got this 
 dress at McCreery s. These sleeves are all 
 right. If this Mrs. Edes should be a news 
 paper woman, she can t make fun of these 
 sleeves anyway." 
 
 "You paid an awful price for that dress," 
 said her aunt. 
 
 "I don t care. I got such a lot for my book 
 that I might as well have a little out of it, and 
 you know as well as I do, Aunt Susan, that 
 South Mordan, Illinois, may be a very nice 
 place, but it does not keep up with New York 
 fashions. I really did not have a decent thing 
 to wear when I started. Miss Slocumb did as 
 well as she knew how, but her ideas are about 
 three years behind New York. I didn t know 
 myself, how should I ? And you didn t, and as 
 for Pa, he would think everything I had on was 
 stylish if it dated back to the ark. You ought 
 to have bought that mauve silk for yourself. 
 You have money enough; you know you have, 
 Aunt Susan." 
 
 "I have money enough, thanks to my dear 
 husband s saving all his life, but it is not going 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 137 
 
 to be squandered on dress by me, now lie is dead 
 and gone." 
 
 "I would have bought the dress for you my 
 self, then," said the niece. 
 
 "No, thank you," returned the aunt with as 
 perity. "I have never been in the habit of be 
 ing beholden to you for my clothes and I am 
 not going to begin now. I didn t want that 
 dress anyway. I always hated purple." 
 
 "It wasn t purple, it was mauve." 
 
 "I call purple, purple, I don t call it anything 
 else!" Then the aunt retreated precipitately 
 before the sound of the opening door and en 
 trenched herself in her bedroom, where she 
 stood listening. 
 
 Margaret Edes treated the young author witK 
 the respect which she really deserved, for tal 
 ent she possessed in such a marked degree as 
 to make her phenomenal, and the phenomenal 
 is always entitled to consideration of some sort. 
 
 "Miss Wallingfordl" murmured Margaret, 
 and she gave an impression of obeisance; this 
 charming elegantly attired lady before the 
 Western girl. Martha Wallingford coloured 
 high with delight and admiration. 
 
138 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 "Yes, I am Miss Wallingford," she replied 
 and asked her caller to be seated. Margaret 
 sat down facing her. The young author 
 shuffled in her chair like a school girl. She was 
 an odd combination of enormous egotism and 
 the most painful shyness. She realised at a 
 glance that she herself was provincial and piti 
 fully at a disadvantage personally before this 
 elegant vision, and her personality was in real 
 ity more precious to her than her talent. 
 
 "I can not tell you what a great pleasure 
 and privilege this is for me," said Margaret, 
 and her blue eyes had an expression of admir 
 ing rapture. The girl upon whom the eyes 
 were fixed, blushed and giggled and tossed her 
 head with a sudden show of pride. She quite 
 agreed that it was a pleasure and privilege for 
 Margaret to see her, the author of Hearts 
 Astray, even if Margaret was herself so charm 
 ing and so provoldngly well dressed. Miss 
 Martha Wallingford did not hide her light of 
 talent under a bushel with all her shyness, which 
 was not really shyness at all but a species of 
 rather sullen pride and resentment because she 
 was so well aware that she could not do well 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 139 
 
 the things which were asked of her and had not 
 mastered the art of dress and self poise. 
 
 Therefore, Martha, with the delight of her 
 own achievements full upon her face, which was 
 pretty, although untutored, regarded her visi 
 tor with an expression which almost made Mar 
 garet falter. It was probably the absurd 
 dressing of the girl s hair which restored Mar 
 garet s confidence in her scheme. Martha 
 Wallingford actually wore a frizzled bang, very 
 finely frizzled too, and her hair was strained 
 from the nape of her neck, and it seemed im 
 possible that a young woman who knew no bet 
 ter than to arrange her hair in such fashion, 
 should not be amenable to Margaret s plan. 
 The plan, moreover, sounded very simple, ex 
 cept for the little complications which might 
 easily arise. Margaret smiled into the pretty 
 face under the fuzz of short hair. 
 
 "My dear Miss Wallingford," said she, "I 
 have come this morning to beg a favour. I 
 hope you will not refuse me, although I am such 
 an entire stranger. If, unfortunately, my 
 intimate friend, Mrs. Fay-Wyman, of whom I 
 assume that you of course know, even if you 
 
140 THE BUTTEBFLY HOUSE 
 
 have not met her, as you may easily have done, 
 or her daughter, Miss Edith Fay-Wyman, had 
 not left town last week for their country house, 
 Eose-In-Flower, at Hyphen-by-the-Sea, a most 
 delightful spot. Mr. Edes and I have spent 
 several week ends there. I am preventedfrom 
 spending longer than week ends because I am 
 kept at home by my two darling twin daugh 
 ters. Mrs. Fay-Wyman is a sweet woman and 
 I do so wish I could have brought her here to 
 day. I am sure you would at once fall madly 
 in love with her and also with her daughter, 
 Miss Edith Fay-Wyman, such a sweet girl, 
 and " But here Margaret was unexpectedly, 
 even rudely interrupted by Miss Wallingford, 
 who looked at her indignantly. 
 
 "I never fall in love with women, " stated 
 that newly risen literary star abruptly, "whyj 
 should I? What does it amount to?" 
 
 "Oh, my dear," cried Margaret, "when you 
 are a little older you will find that it amounts- 
 to very much. There is a soul sympathy, 
 and" 
 
 "I don t think that I care much about soul 
 sympathy," stated Miss Wallingford, who was 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 141 
 
 beginning to be angrily bewildered by her 
 guest s long sentences, which so far seemed to 
 have no point as far as she herself was con 
 cerned. 
 
 Margaret started a little. Again the doubt 
 seized her if she were not making a mistake, 
 undertaking more than she could well carry 
 through, for this shy authoress was fast devel 
 oping unexpected traits. However, Margaret, 
 once she had started, was not easily turned 
 back. She was as persistently clinging as a 
 sweet briar. 
 
 "Oh, my dear," she said, and her voice was 
 like trickling honey, "only wait until you are 
 a little older and you will find that you do care, 
 care very, very much. The understanding and 
 sympathy of other women will become very 
 sweet to you. It is so pure and ennobling, so 
 free from all material taint." 
 
 "I have seen a great many women who were 
 perfect cats, \ stated Miss Martha Walling- 
 ford. 
 
 "Wait until you are older," said Margaret 
 again and her voice seemed fairly dissolving 
 into some spiritual liquid of divine sweetness. 
 
142 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 "Wait until you are older, my dear. You are 
 very young, so young to have accomplished a 
 wonderful work which will live." 
 
 "Oh, well," said Martha Wallingford, and 
 as she spoke she fixed pitiless shrewd young 
 eyes upon the face of the other woman, which 
 did not show at its best, in spite of veil and the 
 velvety darkness of hat-shadow. This hotel 
 sitting-room was full of garish cross lights. 
 "Oh, well," said Martha Wallingford, "of 
 course, I don t know what may happen if I live 
 to be old, as old as you." 
 
 Margaret Edes felt like a photograph proof 
 before the slightest attempt at finish had been 
 made. Those keen young eyes conveyed the 
 impression of convex mirrors. She restrained 
 an instinctive impulse to put a hand before her 
 face, she had an odd helpless sensation before 
 the almost brutal, clear-visioned young thing. 
 Again she shrank a little from her task, again 
 her spirit reasserted itself. She moved and 
 brought her face somewhat more into the 
 shadow. Then she spoke again. She wisely 
 dropped the subject of feminine affinities. She 
 plunged at once into the object of her visit, 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 143 
 
 which directly concerned Miss Martha Walling- 
 ford, and Margaret, who was as astute in her 
 way as the girl, knew that she was entirely right 
 in assuming that Martha Wallingford was 
 more interested in herself than anything else 
 in the world. 
 
 "My dear," she said, "I may as well tell you 
 at once why I intruded upon you this morn 
 ing." 
 
 "Please do," said Martha Wallingford. 
 
 "As I said before, I deeply regret that I was 
 unable to bring some well-known person, Mrs. 
 Fay-Wyman, for instance, to make us ac 
 quainted in due form, but " 
 
 "Oh, I don t care a bit about that," said 
 Martha. "What is it?" 
 
 Margaret again started a little. She had not 
 expected anything like this. The mental pic 
 ture which she had formed of Martha Walling 
 ford, the young literary star, semed to undergo 
 a transformation akin to an explosion, out of 
 which only one feature remained intact thei 
 book, "Hearts Astray." If Miss Wallingford 
 had not possessed a firm foundation in that 
 volume, it is entirely possible that Margaret 
 
144 THE BUTTEKFLY HOUSE 
 
 might have abandoned her enterprise. As it 
 was, after a little gasp she went on. 
 
 "I did so wish to assure you in person of my 
 great admiration for your wonderful book," 
 said she. Martha Wallingford made no reply. 
 She had an expression of utter acquiescence 
 in the admiration, also of having heard that 
 same thing so many times, that she was some 
 what bored by it. She waited with questioning 
 eyes upon Margaret s face. 
 
 "And I wondered," said Margaret, "if you 
 would consider it too informal, if I ventured 
 to beg you to be my guest at my home in Fair- 
 bridge next Thursday and remain the week 
 end, over Sunday. It would give me so much 
 pleasure, and Fairbridge is a charming little 
 village and there are really many interesting 
 people there whom I think you would enjoy, and 
 as for them !" Margaret gave a slight roll 
 to her eyes "they would be simply over 
 whelmed. 
 
 "I should like to come very much, thank 
 you," said Martha Wallingford. 
 
 Margaret beamed. "Oh, my 3ear," she 
 cried, "I can not tell you how much joy your 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 145 
 
 prompt and warm response gives me. And " 
 Margaret looked about her rather vaguely, 
 "you are not alone here, of course. You have 
 a maid, or perhaps, your mother " 
 
 "My Aunt Susan is with me," said Miss 
 Wallingford, "but there is no use inviting her. 
 She hates going away for a few days. She 
 says it is just as much trouble packing as it 
 would be to go for a month. There is no use 
 even thinking of her, but I shall be delighted 
 to come." 
 
 Margaret hesitated. "May I not have the 
 pleasure of being presented to your aunt?" she 
 inquired. 
 
 "Aunt Susan is out shopping," lied Miss 
 Martha Wallingford. Aunt Susan was clad in a 
 cotton crepe wrapper, and Martha knew that 
 she would think it quite good enough for her 
 to receive anybody in, and that she could not 
 convince her to the contrary. It was only re 
 cently that Martha herself had become con 
 verted from morning wrappers, and the reac 
 tion was violent. "The idea of a woman like 
 this Mrs. Edes seeing Aunt Susan in that awful 
 pink crepe wrapper ! she said to herself. She 
 
146 THE BUTTEEFLY HOUSE 
 
 hoped Aunt Susan was not listening, and would 
 not make a forcible entry into the room. Aunt 
 Susan in moments of impulse was quite capable 
 of such coups. Martha glanced rather appre 
 hensively toward the door leading into the bed 
 room but it did not open. Aunt Susan was in 
 deed listening and she was rigid with indigna 
 tion, but in truth, she did not want to accompany 
 her niece upon this projected visit, and she was 
 afraid of being drawn into such a step should 
 she present herself. Aunt Susan did dislike 
 making the effort of a visit for a few days only. 
 Martha had told the truth. It was very hot, 
 and the elder woman was not very strong. 
 Moreover, she perceived that Martha did not 
 want her and there would be the complication 
 of kicking against the pricks of a very deter 
 mined character, which had grown more deter 
 mined since her literary success. In fact, Aunt 
 Susan stood in a slight awe of her niece since 
 that success, for all her revolts which were su 
 perficial. Therefore, she remained upon her 
 side of the door which she did not open until 
 the visitor had departed after making definite 
 arrangements concerning trains and meetings. 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 147 
 
 Then Aunt Susan entered the room with a cloud 
 of pink crepe in her wake. 
 
 "Who was that?" she demanded of Martha. 
 
 "Mrs. Wilbur Edes," replied her niece, and 
 she aped Margaret to perfection as she added, 
 "and a most charming woman, most charm 
 ing. " 
 
 "What did she want you to do?" inquired 
 
 the aunt. 
 
 "Now, Aunt Susan," replied the niece, 
 "what is the use of going over it all? You 
 heard every single thing she said." 
 
 "I did hear her ask after me," said the aunt 
 unabashed, "and I heard you tell a lie about it. 
 You told her I had gone out shopping and you 
 knew I was right in the next room. 
 
 "I didn t mean to have you come in and see 
 a woman dressed like that one, in your wrap 
 per." 
 
 "What is the matter with my wrapper?" 
 
 Martha said nothing. 
 
 "Are you going?" asked her aunt. 
 
 "You know that too." 
 
 "I don t know what your Pa would say," 
 remarked Aunt Susan, but rather feebly, for 
 
148 THE BUTTEBFLY HOUSE 
 
 she had a vague idea that it was her duty to 
 accompany her niece and she was determined 
 to shirk it. 
 
 "I don t see how Pa can say much of any 
 thing since he is in South Mordan, Illinois, and 
 won t know about it, unless you telegraph, until 
 next week," said Martha calmly. "Now, come 
 along, Aunt Susan, and get dressed. I have 
 made up my mind to get that beautiful white 
 silk dress we looked at yesterday. It did not 
 need any alteration and I think I shall buy that 
 pearl and amethyst necklace at Tiffany s. I 
 know Mrs. Edes will have an evening party and 
 there will be gentlemen, and what is the use of 
 my making so much money out of Hearts Astray 
 if I don t have a few things I want? Hurry; 
 and get dressed." 
 
 "I don t see why this wrapper isn t plenty 
 good enough for a few errands at two or three 
 stores," said the aunt sulkily, but she yielded 
 to Martha s imperative demand that she change 
 her wrapper for her black satin immediately. 
 
 Meantime Margaret on her way down town 
 to the ferry was conscious of a slight consterna 
 tion at what she had done. She understood 
 
THE BUTTEKFLY HOUSE 149 
 
 that in this young woman was a feminine ele 
 ment which radically differed from any which 
 had come within her ken. She, however, was 
 determined to go on. The next day invitations 
 were issued to the Zenith Club for the following 
 Friday, from four to six, and also one to din 
 ner that evening to four men and five women. 
 She planned for Sunday an automobile ride; 
 she was to hire the car from the Axminister 
 garage, and a high tea afterward. Poor Mar 
 garet did all in her power to make her scheme 
 a success, but always she had that chilling 
 doubt of her power. Miss Martha Walling- 
 ford had impressed her as being a young wo 
 man capable of swift and unexpected move 
 ments. She was rather afraid of her but she 
 did not confess her fear to Wilbur. When he 
 inquired genially what kind of a girl the 
 authoress was, she replied: "Oh, charming, of 
 course, but the poor child does not know how 
 to do up her hair." However, when Martha 
 arrived Thursday afternoon and Margaret met 
 her at the station, she, at a glance, discovered 
 that the poor child had discovered how to do 
 up her hair. Some persons brains work in a 
 
150 THE BUTTEEFLY HOUSE 
 
 great many directions and Martha Walling- 
 ford s was one of them. Somehow or other, 
 she had contrived to dispose of her tightly 
 frizzed fringe, and her very pretty hair 
 swept upward from a forehead which was 
 both intellectual and beautiful. She was 
 well dressed too. She had drawn heavily 
 upon her royalty revenue. She had worked 
 hard and spent a good deal during the 
 short time since Margaret s call, and her brain 
 had served her body well. She stepped across 
 the station platform with an air. She carried 
 no provincial bag merely a dainty little affair 
 mounted in gold which matched her gown and 
 she had brought a small steamer trunk. 
 
 Margaret s heart sank more and more, but 
 she conducted her visitor to her little carriage 
 and ordered the man to drive home, and when 
 arrived there, showed Martha her room. She 
 had a faint hope that the room might intimi 
 date this Western girl, but instead of intimida 
 tion there was exultation. She looked about 
 her very coolly, but afterward, upon her return 
 to East Mordan, Illinois, she bragged a good 
 deal about it. The room was really very 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 151 
 
 charming and rather costly. The furniture 
 was genuine First Empire; the walls, which 
 were hung with paper covered with garlands of 
 roses, were decorated with old engravings; 
 there was a quantity of Dresden ware and there 
 was a little tiled bathroom. Over a couch in 
 the bedroom lay a kimona of white silk em 
 broidered with pink roses. Afterward Martha 
 made cruel fun of her Aunt s pink crepe and 
 made her buy a kimona. 
 
 " Shall I send up my maid to assist yon in 
 unpacking, Miss Wallingf ord ? " inquired Mar 
 garet, inwardly wondering how the dinner 
 would be managed if the offer were accepted. 
 To her relief, Martha gave her an offended 
 stare. "No, thank you, Mrs. Edes," said she, 
 "I never like servants, especially other peo 
 ples , mussing up my things." 
 
 When Margaret had gone, Martha looked 
 about her, and her mouth was frankly wide 
 open. She had never seen such exquisite 
 daintiness and it daunted her, although she 
 would have died rather than admit it. She 
 thought of her own bedroom at home in East 
 Mordan, Illinois, with its old black walnut 
 
152 THE BUTTEKFLY HOUSE 
 
 chamber set and framed photographs and 
 chromos, but she maintained a sort of defiant 
 pride in it even to herself. In Martha Wal- 
 lingford s character there was an element par 
 taking of the nature of whalebone, yielding, 
 but practically unbreakable, and sometimes 
 wholly unyielding. Martha proceeded to ar 
 ray herself for dinner. She had not a doubt 
 that it would be a grand affair. She therefore 
 did not hesitate about the white silk, which was 
 a robe of such splendour that it might not have 
 disgraced a court. It showed a great deal 
 of her thin, yet pretty girlish neck, and it had 
 a very long train. She had a gold fillet 
 studded with diamonds for her hair that hair 
 which was now dressed according to the very 
 latest mode a mode which was startling, yet 
 becoming, and she clasped around her throat 
 the Tiffany necklace, and as a crowning touch, 
 put on long white gloves. When she appeared 
 upon the verandah where Margaret sat dressed 
 in a pretty lingerie gown with Wilbur in a 
 light grey business suit, the silence could be 
 heard. Then there was one double gasp of ad 
 miration from Maida and Adelaide in their 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 153 
 
 white frocks and blue ribbons. They looked at 
 the visitor with positive adoration, but she 
 flushed hotly. She was a very quick-witted 
 girl. Margaret recovered herself, presented 
 Wilbur, and shortly, they went in to dinner, but 
 it was a ghastly meal. Martha Wallingford in 
 her unsuitable splendour was frankly, as she 
 put it afterward, "hopping mad," and Wilbur 
 was unhappy and Margaret aghast, although 
 apparently quite cool. There was not a guest 
 besides Martha. The dinner was simple. Aft 
 erward it seemed too farcical to ask a guest at 
 tired like a young princess to go out on the 
 verandah and lounge in a wicker chair, while 
 Wilbur smoked. Then Annie Eustace ap 
 peared and Margaret was grateful. "Dear 
 Annie, " she said, after she had introduced the 
 two girls, "I am so glad you came over. Come 
 
 in." 
 
 "It is pleasanter on the verandah, isn t it?" 
 began Annie, then she caught Margaret s ex 
 pressive glance at the magnificent white silk. 
 They all sat stiffly in Margaret s pretty draw 
 ing-room. Martha said she didn t play bridge 
 and upon Annie s timid suggestion of pinocle, 
 
154 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 said she had never heard of it. Wilbur dared 
 not smoke. All that wretched evening they 
 sat there. The situation was too much for 
 Margaret, that past mistress of situations, and 
 her husband was conscious of a sensation ap 
 proaching terror and also wrath whenever he 
 glanced at the figure in sumptuous white, the 
 figure expressing sulkiness in every feature 
 and motion. Margaret was unmistakably 
 sulky as the evening wore on and nobody came 
 except this other girl of whom she took no no 
 tice at all. She saw that she was pretty, 
 her hair badly arranged and she was ill- 
 dressed, and that was enough for her. She felt 
 it to be an insult that these people had invited 
 her and asked nobody to meet her, Martha Wal- 
 lingford, whose name was in all the papers, at 
 tired in this wonderful white gown. When 
 Annie Eustace arose to go, she arose too with 
 a peremptory motion. 
 
 "I rather guess I will go to bed," said Mar 
 tha Wallingford. 
 
 "You must be weary," said Margaret. 
 
 "I am not tired," said Martha Wallingford, 
 "but it seems to me as dull here as in South 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 155 
 
 Mercian, Illinois. I might as well go to bed and 
 to sleep as sit here any longer. " 
 
 When Margaret had returned from the guest 
 room, her husband looked at her almost in a be 
 wildered fashion. Margaret sank wearily into 
 a chair. " Isn t she impossible V she whis 
 pered. 
 
 "Did she think there was a dinner party?" 
 Wilbur inquired perplexedly. 
 
 "I don t know. It was ghastly. I did not 
 for a moment suppose she would dress for a 
 party, unless I told her, and it is Emma s night 
 off and I could not ask people with only Clara 
 to cook and wait." 
 
 Wilbur patted his wife s shoulder comfort 
 ingly. "Never mind, dear," he said, "when 
 she gets her chance to do her to-morrow s stunt 
 at your club, she will be all right." 
 
 Margaret shivered a little. She had dared 
 say nothing to Martha about that "stunt." 
 Was it possible that she was making a horrible 
 mistake? 
 
 The next day, Martha was still sulky but she 
 did not, as Margaret feared, announce her in 
 tention of returning at once to New York. 
 
156 .THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 Margaret said quite casually that she had in 
 vited a few of the brightest and most interest 
 ing people in Fairhridge to meet her that aft 
 ernoon and Martha became curious, although 
 still resentful, and made no motion to leave. 
 She, however, resolved to make no further mis 
 takes as to costume, and just as the first tide of 
 the Zenith Club broke over Margaret s thresh 
 old, she appeared clad in one of her South 
 Mordan, Illinois, gowns. It was one which she 
 had tucked into her trunk in view of foul 
 weather. It was a hideous thing made from 
 two old gowns. It had a garish blue tunic 
 reaching well below the hips and a black skirt 
 bordered with blue. Martha had had it made 
 herself from a pattern after long study of the 
 fashion plates in a Sunday newspaper and the 
 result, although startling, still half convinced 
 her. It was only after she had seen all the 
 members of the Zenith Club seated and had 
 gazed at their costumes, that she realised 
 that she had made a worse mistake than tha-fc of 
 the night before. To begin with, the day was 
 very warm and her gown heavy and clumsy. 
 The other ladies were arrayed in lovely ling- 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 157 
 
 eries or light silks and laces. The Zenith Club 
 was exceedingly well dressed on that day. 
 Martha sat in her place beside her hostess and 
 her face looked like a sulky child s. Her eye 
 lids were swollen, her pouting lips dropped 
 at the corners. She stiffened her chin until it 
 became double. Margaret was inwardly per 
 turbed but she concealed it. The programme 
 went on with the inevitable singing by Miss 
 MacDonald and Mrs. Wells, the playing by Mrs. 
 Jack Evarts, the recitation by Sally Anderson. 
 Margaret had not ventured to omit those fea 
 tures. Then, Mrs. Sturtevant read in a trem 
 bling voice a paper on Emerson. Then Mar 
 garet sprang her mines. She rose and sur 
 veyed her audience with smiling impressive- 
 ness. "Ladies," she said, and there was an 
 immediate hush, "Ladies, I have the pleasure, 
 the exceeding pleasure of presenting you to my 
 guest, Miss Martha Wallingford, the author of 
 Hearts Astray. She will now speak briefly 
 to you upon her motive in writing and her 
 method of work." There was a soft clapping 
 of hands. Margaret sat down. She was quite 
 pale. Annie Eustace regarded her wonder- 
 
158 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 ingly. What had happened to her dear Mar 
 garet? 
 
 The people waited. Everybody stared at 
 Miss Martha Wallingf ord who had written that 
 great seller, Hearts Astray. Martha Wal- 
 lingford sat perfectly still. Her eyes were so 
 downcast that they gave the appearance of be 
 ing closed. Her pretty face looked red and 
 swollen. Everybody waited. She sat abso 
 lutely still and made no sign except that of her 
 obstinate face of negation. Margaret bent 
 over her and whispered. Martha did not even 
 do her the grace of a shake of the head. 
 
 Everybody waited again. Martha Walling- 
 ford sat so still that she gave the impression 
 of a doll made without speaking apparatus. 
 It did not seem as if she could even wink. 
 Then Alice Mendon, who disliked Margaret 
 Edes and had a shrewd conjecture as to the 
 state of affairs, but who was broad in her views, 
 pitied Margaret. She arose with considerable 
 motion and spoke to Daisy Shaw at her right, 
 and broke the ghastly silence, and immediately 
 everything was in motion and refreshments 
 were being passed, but Martha Wallingford, 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 159 
 
 who had written Hearts Astray, was not 
 there to partake of them. She was in her 
 room, huddled in a chair upholstered with 
 cream silk strewn with roses; and she was in 
 one of the paroxysms of silent rage which be 
 longed to her really strong, although undis 
 ciplined nature, and which was certainly in this 
 case justified to some degree. 
 
 "It was an outrage," she said to herself. 
 She saw through it all now. She had refused 
 to speak or to read before all those women s 
 clubs and now this woman had trapped her, 
 that was the word for it, trapped her. 
 
 As she sat there, her sullenly staring angry 
 eyes saw in large letters at the head of a col 
 umn in a morning paper on the table beside her, 
 * The Poor Lady, 9 the greatest) anonymous 
 novel of the year." 
 
 Then she fell again to thinking of her wrongs 
 and planning how she should wreak vengeance 
 upon Margaret Edes. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 MARTHA WALLINGFOED was a young person of 
 direct methods. She scorned subterfuges. 
 Another of her age and sex might have gone to 
 bed with a headache, not she. She sat abso 
 lutely still beside her window, quite in full view, 
 of the departing members of the Zenith Club, 
 had they taken the trouble to glance in that di 
 rection, and some undoubtedly did, and she 
 remained there; presently she heard her 
 hostess s tiny rap on the door. Martha did not 
 answer, but after a repeated rap and wait, Mar 
 garet chose to assume that she did, and entered. 
 Margaret knelt in a soft flop of scented lingerie 
 beside the indignant young thing. She ex 
 plained, she apologised, she begged, she im 
 plored Martha to put on that simply ravishing 
 gown which she had worn the evening before; 
 she expatiated at length upon the charms of the 
 people whom she had invited to dinner, but 
 Martha spoke not at all until she was quite 
 ready. Then she said explosively, "I won t." 
 
 160 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 161 
 
 She was silent after that. Margaret recog 
 nised the futility of further entreaties. She 
 went down stairs and confided in Wilbur. "I 
 never saw such an utterly impossible girl/ she 
 said; " there she sits and won t get dressed and 
 come down to dinner. " 
 
 "She is a freak, must be, most of these writer 
 people are freaks," said Wilbur sympatheti 
 cally. "Poor old girl, and I suppose you have 
 got up a nice dinner too." 
 
 "A perfectly charming dinner and invited 
 people to meet her." 
 
 "How did she do her stunt this afternoon?" 
 
 Margaret flushed. "None too well," she re 
 plied. 
 
 "Oh, well, dear, I don t see how you are to 
 blame." 
 
 "I can say that Miss Wallingford is not well, 
 I suppose," said Margaret, and that was what 
 she did say, but with disastrous results. 
 
 Margaret, ravishing in white lace, sprinkled 
 iwith little gold butterflies, had taken her place 
 at the head of her table. Emma was serving 
 the first course and she was making her little 
 speech concerning the unfortunate indisposi- 
 
162 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 tion of her guest of honour when she was sud 
 denly interrupted by that guest herself, an im 
 age of sulky wrath, clad in the blue and black 
 costume pertaining to South Mordan, Illinois. 
 
 "I am perfectly well. She is telling an awful 
 whopper, " proclaimed this amazing girl. "I 
 won t dress up and come to dinner because I 
 won t. She trapped me into a woman s club 
 this afternoon and tried to get me to make a 
 speech without even, telling me what she meant 
 to do and now I won t do anything." 
 
 With that Miss Wallingford disappeared and 
 unmistakable stamps were heard upon the 
 stairs. One woman giggled convulsively; an 
 other took a glass of water and choked. A man 
 laughed honestly. Wilbur was quite pale. 
 Margaret was imperturbable. Karl von Eosen, 
 who was one of the guests and who sat behind 
 Annie Eustace, looked at Margaret with won 
 der. "Was this the way of women?" he 
 thought. He did not doubt for one minute that 
 the Western girl had spoken the truth. It had 
 been brutal and homely, but it had been the 
 truth. Little Annie Eustace, who had been al 
 lowed to come to a dinner party for the first 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 163 
 
 time in her life and who looked quite charming 
 in an old, much mended, but very fine India 
 muslin and her grandmother s corals, did not, 
 on the contrary, believe one word of Miss Wal- 
 lingford s. 
 
 Her sympathy was all with her Margaret. 
 It was a horrible situation and her dear Mar 
 garet was the victim of her own hospitality. 
 She looked across the table at Alice Mendon 
 for another sympathiser, but Alice was talk 
 ing busily to the man at her right about a new 
 book. She had apparently not paid much at 
 tention. Annie wondered how it could have 
 escaped her. That horrid girl had spoken so 
 loudly. She looked up at Von Rosen. "I am 
 so sorry for poor Margaret," she whispered. 
 Von Rosen looked down at her very gently. 
 This little girPs belief in her friend was like a 
 sacred lily, not to be touched or soiled. 
 
 "Yes," he said and Annie smiled up at him 
 comfortably. Von Rosen was glad she sat be 
 side him. He thought her very lovely, and 
 there was a subtle suggestion of something be 
 sides loveliness. He thought that daintily 
 mended India muslin exquisite, and also the 
 
164 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 carved corals, bracelets on the slender wrists, 
 a necklace resting like a spray of flowers on 
 the girlish neck, a comb in the soft hair which 
 Annie had arranged becomingly and covered 
 from her aunt s sight with a lace scarf. She 
 felt deceitful about her hair, but how could she 
 help it? 
 
 The dinner was less ghastly than could have 
 been expected after the revelation of the guest 
 of honour and the blank consternation of the 
 host, who made no attempt to conceal his state 
 of mind. Poor Wilbur had no society tricks. 
 Alice Mendon, who was quite cognizant of the 
 whole matter, but was broad enough to leap 
 to the aid of another woman, did much. 
 She had quite a talent for witty stories and a 
 goodly fund of them. The dinner went off very 
 well, while Martha Wallingford ate hers from 
 a dinner tray in her room and felt that every 
 morsel was sweetened with righteous revenge. 
 
 The next morning she left for New York and 
 Margaret did not attempt to detain her al 
 though she had a lunch party planned besides 
 the Sunday festivities. Margaret had had a 
 scene with Wilbur after the departure of the 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 165 
 
 guests the previous evening. For the first 
 time in her experience, the devoted husband 
 had turned upon his goddess. He had asked, 
 "Was it true, what that girl said?" and Mar 
 garet had laughed up at him bewitchingly to no 
 effect. Wilbur s face was very stern. 
 
 "My dear," said Margaret, "I knew per 
 fectly well that if I actually asked her to speak 
 or read, she would have refused." 
 
 "You have done an unpardonable thing," 
 said the man. "You have betrayed your own 
 sense of honour, your hospitality toward the 
 guest under your roof." 
 
 Margaret laughed as she took an ornament 
 from her yellow head but the laugh was de 
 fiant and forced. In her heart she bitterly re 
 sented her husband s attitude and more bitterly 
 resented the attitude of respect into which it 
 forced her. "It is the very last time I ask a 
 Western authoress to accept my hospitality," 
 said she. 
 
 "I hope so," said Wilbur gravely. 
 
 That night Karl von Eosen walked home 
 with Annie Eustace. She had come quite un 
 attended, as was the wont of Fairbridge ladies. 
 
166 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 That long peaceful Main Street lined with the 
 homes of good people always seemed a safe 
 thoroughfare. Annie was even a little sur 
 prised when Von Rosen presented himself and 
 said, "I will walk home with you, Miss Eustace, 
 with your permission/ 
 
 "But I live a quarter of a mile past your 
 house, " said Annie. 
 
 Von Rosen laughed. "A quarter of a mile 
 will not injure me," he said. 
 
 "It will really be a half mile," said Annie. 
 She wanted very much that the young man 
 should walk home with her, but she was very 
 much afraid of making trouble. She was re 
 lieved when he only laughed again and said 
 something about the beauty of the night. It 
 was really a wonderful night and even the eyes 
 of youth, inhabiting it with fairy dreams, were 
 not essential to perceive it. 
 
 "What flower scent is that?" asked Von 
 Rosen. 
 
 "I think," replied Annie, "that it is wild 
 honeysuckle," and her voice trembled slightly. 
 The perfumed night and the strange presence 
 beside her went to the child s head a bit. The 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 167 
 
 two walked along under the trees, which cast 
 etching-like shadows in the broad moonlight, 
 and neither talked much. There was scarcely 
 a lighted window in any of the houses and they 
 had a delicious sense of isolation, the girl 
 and the man awake in a sleeping world. Annie 
 made no further allusion to Miss Wallingford. 
 She had for almost the first time in her life a 
 little selfish feeling that she did not wish to jar 
 a perfect moment even with the contemplation 
 of a friend s troubles. She was very happy 
 walking beside Von Rosen, holding up her 
 flimsy embroidered skirts carefully lest they 
 come in contact with dewy grass. She had 
 been admonished by her grandmother and her 
 aunts so to do and reminded that the frail fab 
 ric would not endure much washing however 
 skilful. Between the shadows, her lovely face 
 showed like a white flower as Von Rosen looked 
 down upon it. He wondered more and more 
 that he had never noticed this exquisite young 
 creature before. He did not yet dream of love 
 in connection with her, but he was conscious of 
 a passion of surprised admiration and protect- 
 iveness. 
 
168 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 "How is it that I have never seen yon when 
 I call on your Aunt Harriet?" he asked when 
 he parted with her at her own gate, a stately 
 wrought iron affair in a tall hedge of close 
 trimmed lilac. 
 
 "I am generally there, I think, " replied 
 Annie, but she was also conscious of a little 
 surprise that she had not paid more attention 
 when this young man, who looked at her so 
 kindly, called. Then came one of her sudden 
 laughs. 
 
 "What is it!" asked Von Eosen. 
 
 "Oh, nothing, except that the cat is usually 
 there too," replied Annie. Von Eosen looked 
 back boyishly. 
 
 "Be sure I shall see you next time and hang 
 the cat," he said. 
 
 When Annie was in her room unclasp 
 ing her corals, she considered how very 
 much mortified and troubled her friend, 
 Margaret Edes, must feel. She recalled 
 how hideous it had all been that appear 
 ance of the Western girl in the dining-room 
 door-way, her rude ways, her flushed angry 
 face. Annie did not dream of blaming Mar- 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 169 
 
 garet. She was almost a fanatic as far as 
 loyalty to her friends was concerned. She 
 loved Margaret and she had only a feeling of 
 cold dislike and disapprobation toward Miss 
 Wallingford who had hurt Margaret. As for 
 that charge of "trapping," she paid no heed to 
 it whatever. She made up her mind to go and 
 see Margaret the very next day and tell her a 
 secret, a very great secret, which she was sure 
 would comfort her and make ample amends to 
 her for all her distress of the night before. 
 Little Annie Eustace was so very innocent and 
 ignorant of the ways of the world that had her 
 nearest and dearest been able to look into her 
 heart of hearts, they might have been appalled, 
 incredulous and reverent, according to their 
 natures. For instance, this very good, simple 
 young girl who had been born with the light of 
 genius always assumed that her friends would 
 be as delighted at any good fortune of hers as 
 at their own. She fairly fed upon her admira 
 tion of Alice Mendon that evening when she 
 had stepped so nobly and tactfully into the 
 rather frightful social breach and saved, if not 
 wholly, the situation. 
 
170 THE BUTTEEFLY HOUSE 
 
 " Alice was such a dear," she thought, and 
 the thought made her face fairly angelic. 
 Then she recalled how lovely Alice had looked, 
 and her own mobile face took on unconsciously 
 Alice s expression. Standing before her look 
 ing-glass brushing out her hair, she saw re 
 flected, not her own beautiful face between the 
 lustrous folds, but Alice s. Then she recalled 
 with pride Margaret s imperturbability under 
 such a trial. "Nobody but Margaret could 
 have carried off such an insult under her own 
 roof too," she thought. 
 
 After she was in bed and her lamp blown out 
 and the white moon-beams were entering her 
 open windows like angels, she, after saying her 
 prayers, thought of the three, Margaret, Alice, 
 and Karl von Eosen. Then suddenly a warm 
 thrill passed over her long slender body but it 
 seemed to have its starting point in her soul. 
 She saw very distinctly the young man s dark 
 handsome face, but she thought, "How absurd 
 of me, to see him so distinctly, as distinctly as I 
 see Margaret and Alice, when I love them so 
 much, and I scarcely know Mr. von Eosen." 
 Being brought up by one s imperious grand- 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 171 
 
 mother and two imperious aunts and being one 
 self naturally of an obedient disposition and of 
 a slowly maturing temperament, tends to 
 lengthen the long childhood of a girl. Annie 
 was almost inconceivably a child, much more 
 of a child than Maida or Adelaide Edes. They 
 had been allowed to grow like weeds as far as 
 their imagination was concerned, and she had 
 been religiously pruned. 
 
 The next afternoon she put on her white 
 barred muslin and obtained her Aunt Harriet s 
 permission to spend an hour or two with Mar 
 garet if she would work assiduously on her 
 daisy centre piece, and stepped like a white 
 dove across the shady village street. Annie, 
 unless she remembered to do otherwise, was 
 prone to toe in slightly with her slender feet. 
 She was also prone to allow the tail of her white 
 gown to trail. She gathered it up only when, 
 her Aunt called after her. She found Mar 
 garet lying indolently in the hammock which 
 was strung across the wide shaded verandah. 
 She was quite alone. Annie had seen with re 
 lief Miss Martha Wallingford being driven to 
 the station that morning and the express fol- 
 
172 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 lowing with her little trunk. Margaret greeted 
 Annie a bit stiffly but the girl did not notice it. 
 She was so full of her ignorant little plan to 
 solace her friend with her own joy. Poor 
 Annie did not understand that it requires a na 
 ture seldom met upon this earth, to be solaced, 
 under disappointment and failure, by another s 
 joy. Annie had made up her mind to say very 
 little to Margaret about what had happened the 
 evening before. Only at first, she remarked 
 upon the beauty of the dinner, then she said 
 quite casually, "Dear Margaret, we were all so 
 sorry for poor Miss Wallingford s strange con 
 duct." 
 
 "It really did not matter in the least," re 
 plied Margaret coldly. "I shall never invite 
 her again." 
 
 "I am sure nobody can blame you," said 
 Annie warmly. "I don t want to say harsh 
 things, you know that, Margaret, but that poor 
 girl, in spite of her great talent, cannot have 
 had the advantage of good home-training." 
 
 Oh, she is Western, said Margaret. How: 
 very warm it is to-day. 
 
 "Very, but there is quite a breeze here." 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 173 
 
 "A hot breeze, " said Margaret wearily. 
 "How I wish we could afford a house at the 
 seashore or the mountains. The hot weather 
 does get on my nerves." 
 
 A great light of joy came into Annie s eyes. 
 "Oh, Margaret dear," she said, "I can t do it 
 yet but it does look as if some time before long 
 perhaps, I may be able myself to have a house 
 at the seashore. I think Sudbury beach would 
 be lovely. It is always cool there, and then you 
 can come and stay with me whenever you like 
 during the hot weather. I will have a room 
 fitted up for you in your favourite white and 
 gold and it shall be called Margaret s room and 
 you can always come, when you wish." 
 
 Margaret looked at the other girl with a slow 
 surprise. "I do not understand," said she. 
 
 "Of course, you don t. You know we have 
 only had enough to live here as we have done, 
 said Annie with really childish glee, "but oh, 
 Margaret, you will be so glad. I have not told 
 you before but now I must for I know it will 
 make you so happy, and I know I can trust you 
 never to betray me, for it is a great secret, a 
 very great secret, and it must not be known by 
 
174 THE BUTTEBFLY HOUSE 
 
 other people at present. I don t know just 
 when it can be known, perhaps never, certainly, 
 not now." 
 
 Margaret looked at her with indifferent in 
 terrogation. Annie did not realise how indif 
 ferent. A flood-tide of kindly joyful emotion 
 does not pay much attention to its banks. 
 Annie continued. She looked sweetly excited; 
 her voice rose high above its usual pitch. 
 "You understand, Margaret dear, how it is," 
 she said. "You see I am quite unknown, that 
 is, my name is quite unknown, and it would 
 really hinder the success of a book." 
 
 Margaret surveyed her with awakening in 
 terest. "A book!" said she. 
 
 "Yes, a book! Oh, Margaret, I know it will 
 be hard for you to believe, but you know I am 
 very truthful. I I wrote the book they are 
 talking about so much now. You know what I 
 mean ? J 
 
 "Not the 1" 
 
 "Yes, The Poor Lady, the anonymous novel 
 which people are talking so much about and 
 which sold better than any other book last 
 week. I wrote it. I really did, Margaret." 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 175 
 
 " You wrote it!" 
 
 Annie continued almost wildly. "Yes, I did, 
 I did!" she cried, "and you are the only soul 
 that knows except the publishers. They said 
 they were much struck with the book but ad 
 vised anonymous publication, my name was so 
 utterly unknown." 
 
 "You wrote The Poor Lady?" said Mar 
 garet. Her eyes glittered, and her lips tight 
 ened. Envy possessed her, but Annie Eustace 
 did not recognise envy when she saw it. 
 
 Annie went on in her sweet ringing voice, al 
 most producing the effect of a song. She was 
 so happy, and so pleased to think that she was 
 making her friend happy. 
 
 "Yes," she said, "I wrote it. I wrote The 
 Poor Lady." 
 
 "If," said Margaret, "you speak quite so 
 loud, you will be heard by others." 
 
 Annie lowered her voice immediately with a 
 startled look. "Oh," she whispered. "I 
 would not have anybody hear me for any 
 thing." 
 
 "How did you manage?" asked Margaret. 
 
 Annie laughed happily. "I fear I have been 
 
176 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 a little deceitful," she said, "but I am sure they 
 will forgive me when they know. I keep a 
 journal; I have always kept one since I was a 
 child. Aunt Harriet wished me to do so. And 
 the journal was very stupid. So little unusual 
 happens here in Fairbridge, and I have always 
 been rather loath to write very much about my 
 innermost feelings or very much about my 
 friends in my journal because of course one can 
 never tell what will happen. It has never 
 seemed to me quite delicate to keep a very full 
 journal, and so there was in reality very little 
 to write. Annie burst into a peal of laughter. 
 "It just goes this way, the journal," she said. 
 "To-day is pleasant and warm. This morning 
 I helped Hannah preserve cherries. In the 
 afternoon I went over to Margaret s and sat 
 with her on the verandah, embroidered two dai 
 sies and three leaves with stems on my centre 
 piece, came home, had supper, sat in the twi 
 light with Grandmother, Aunt Harriet and 
 Aunt Susan. Went upstairs, put on my wrap 
 per and read until it was time to go to bed. 
 Went to bed. Now that took very little time 
 and was not interesting and so, after I went up- 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 177 
 
 stairs, I wrote my entry in the journal in about 
 five minutes and then I wrote The Poor Lady. 
 Of course, when I began it, I was not at all sure 
 that it would amount to anything. I was not 
 sure that any publisher would look at it. Some 
 times I felt as if I were doing a very foolish 
 thing: spending time and perhaps deceiving 
 Grandmother and my aunts very wickedly, 
 though I was quite certain that if the book 
 should by any chance succeed, they would not 
 think it wrong. 
 
 "Grandmother is very fond of books and so 
 is Aunt Harriet, and I have often heard them 
 say they wished I had been a boy in order that 
 I might do something for the Eustace name. 
 You know there have been so many distin 
 guished professional men in the Eustace fam 
 ily and they of course did not for one minute 
 think a girl like me could do anything and I did 
 not really think so myself. Sometimes I won 
 der how I had the courage to keep on writing 
 when I was so uncertain but it was exactly as 
 if somebody were driving me. When I had the 
 book finished, I was so afraid it ought to be type 
 written, but I could not manage that. At least 
 
178 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 I thought I could not, but after awhile I did, 
 and in a way that nobody suspected, Aunt 
 Harriet sent me to New York. You know I 
 am not often allowed to go alone but it was 
 when Grandmother had the grippe and Aunt 
 Susan the rheumatism and Aunt Harriet had 
 a number of errands and so I went on the 
 Twenty-third Street ferry, and did not go far 
 from Twenty-third Street and I took my book 
 in my handbag and carried it into Larkins and 
 White s and I saw Mr. Larkins in his office and 
 he was very kind and polite, although I think 
 now he was laughing a little to himself at the 
 idea of my writing a book, but he said to leave 
 the MSS. and he would let me hear. And I left 
 it and, oh, Margaret, I heard within a week, and 
 he said such lovely things about it. You know I 
 always go to the post-office, so there was no 
 chance of anybody s finding it out that way. 
 And then the proof began to come and I was at 
 my wits end to conceal that, but I did. And 
 then the book was published, and, Margaret, 
 you know the rest. Nobody dreams who wrote 
 it, and I have had a statement and oh, my dear, 
 next November I am to have a check." (Annie 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 179 
 
 leaned over and whispered in Margaret s ear.) 
 1 Only think/ she said with a burst of rapture. 
 
 Margaret was quite pale. She sat looking 
 straight before her with a strange expression. 
 She was tasting in the very depths of her soul 
 a bitterness which was more biting than any 
 bitter herb which ever grew on earth. It was 
 a bitterness, which, thank God, is unknown to 
 many; the bitterness of the envy of an incapa 
 ble, but self-seeking nature, of one with the 
 burning ambition of genius but destitute of the 
 divine fire. To such come unholy torture, 
 which is unspeakable at the knowledge of an 
 other s success. Margaret Edes was inwardly 
 writhing. To think that Annie Eustace, little 
 Annie Eustace, who had worshipped at her own 
 shrine, whom she had regarded with a lazy, 
 scarcely concealed contempt, for her incredible 
 lack of wordly knowledge, her provincialism, 
 her ill-fitting attire, should have achieved a tri 
 umph which she herself could never achieve. 
 A cold hatred of the girl swept over the woman. 
 She forced her lips into a smile, but her eyes 
 were cruel. 
 
 "How very interesting, my dear," she said. 
 
180 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 Poor Annie started. She was acute, for 
 all her innocent trust in another s goodness, 
 and the tone of her friend s voice, the look in 
 her eyes chilled her. And yet she did not 
 know what they signified. She went on beg 
 ging for sympathy and rejoicing with her joy 
 as a child might beg for a sweet. " Isn t it 
 perfectly lovely, Margaret dear?" she said. 
 
 "It is most interesting, my dear child," re 
 plied Margaret. 
 
 Annie went on eagerly with the details of her 
 triumph, the book sales which increased every 
 week, the revises, the letters from her publish 
 ers, and Margaret listened smiling in spite of 
 her torture, but she never said more than 
 "How interesting." 
 
 At last Annie went home and could not help 
 feeling disappointed, although she could not 
 fathom the significance of Margaret s recep 
 tion of her astonishing news. Annie only wor 
 ried because she feared lest her happiness had 
 not cheered her friend as much as she had an 
 ticipated. 
 
 "Poor Margaret, she must feel so very bad 
 that nothing can reconcile her to such a be- 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 181 
 
 trayal of her hospitality/ she reflected as she 
 flitted across the street. There was nobody in 
 evidence at her house at window or on the wide 
 verandah. Annie looked at her watch tucked 
 in her girdle, hung around her neck by a thin 
 gold chain which had belonged to her mother. 
 It yet wanted a full hour of supper time. She 
 had time to call on Alice Mendon and go to the 
 post-office. Alice lived on the way to the post- 
 office, in a beautiful old colonial house. Annie 
 ran along the shady sidewalk and soon had a 
 glimpse of Alice s pink draperies on her great 
 front porch. Annie ran down the deep front 
 yard between the tall box bushes, beyond which 
 bloomed in a riot of colour and perfume roses 
 and lilies and spraying heliotrope and pinks 
 and the rest of their floral tribe all returned 
 to their dance of summer. Alice s impos 
 ing colonial porch was guarded on either side 
 of the superb circling steps by a stone lion from 
 over seas. On the porch was a little table and 
 several chairs. Alice sat in one reading. She 
 was radiant in her pink muslin. Alice seldom 
 wore white. She was quite sensible as to the 
 best combinations of herself with colours al- 
 
182 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 though she had, properly speaking, no vanity. 
 She arranged herself to the best advantage as 
 she arranged a flower in a vase. On the heav 
 ily carved mahogany table beside her was a 
 blue and white India bowl filled with white 
 roses and heliotrope and lemon verbena. 
 Annie inhaled the bouquet of perfume happily 
 as she came up the steps with Alice smiling a 
 welcome at her. Annie had worshipped more 
 fervently at Margaret Edes shrine than at 
 Alice s and yet she had a feeling of fuller con 
 fidence in Alice. She was about to tell Alice 
 about her book, not because Alice needed the 
 comfort of her joy but because she herself, al 
 though unknowingly, needed Alice s ready sym 
 pathy of which she had no doubt. Her inter 
 view with Margaret had left the child hurt and 
 bewildered and now she came to Alice. Alice 
 did not rise and kiss her. Alice seldom kissed 
 anybody but she radiated kindly welcome. 
 
 "Sit down, little Annie," she said, "I am 
 glad you have come. My aunt and cousin 
 have gone to New York and I have been alone 
 all day. We would have tea and cake but I 
 know the hour of your Medes and Persians 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 183 
 supper approaches instead p f my later din 
 
 ner. 
 
 "Yes," said Annie, sitting down, "and if I 
 were to take tea and cake now, Alice, I could 
 eat nothing and grandmother and my aunts are 
 very particular about my clearing my plate. " 
 
 Alice laughed, but she looked rather solici 
 tously at the girl. I know, she said, then she 
 hesitated. She pitied little Annie Eustace and 
 considered her rather a victim of loving but 
 mistaken tyranny. "I wish," she said, "that 
 you would stay and dine with me to-night." 
 
 Annie fairly gasped. "They expect me at 
 home," she replied. 
 
 "I know, and I suppose if I were to send over 
 and tell them you would dine with me, it would 
 not answer." 
 
 Annie looked frightened. "I fear not, Alice. 
 You see they would have had no time to think 
 it over and decide." 
 
 "Yes, I suppose so." 
 
 "I have time to make you a little call and 
 stop at the post-office for the last mail and get 
 home just in time for supper." 
 
 "Oh, well, you must come and dine with me 
 
184 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 a week from to-day, and I will have a little din 
 ner-party, " said Alice. "I will invite some 
 nice people. We will have Mr. von Eosen for 
 one." 
 
 Annie suddenly flushed crimson. It oc 
 curred to her that Mr. von Rosen might walk 
 home with her as he had done from Margaret s, 
 and a longing and terror at once possessed her. 
 
 Alice wondered at the blush. 
 
 "I was so sorry for poor Margaret last 
 night," Annie said with an abrupt change of 
 subject. 
 
 "Yes," said Alice. 
 
 "That poor Western girl, talented as she is, 
 must have been oddly brought up to be so very 
 rude to her hostess," said Annie. 
 
 "I dare say Western girls are brought up 
 differently," said Alice. 
 
 Annie was so intent with what she had to tell 
 Alice that she did not realise the extreme eva 
 siveness of the other s manner. 
 
 "Alice," she said. 
 
 "Well, little Annie Eustace?" 
 
 Annie began, blushed, then hesitated. 
 
 "I am going to tell you something. I have 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 185 
 
 told Margaret. I have just told her this aft 
 ernoon. I thought it might please her and 
 comfort her after that terrible scene at her din 
 ner last night, but nobody else knows except 
 the publishers." 
 
 "What is it?" asked Alice, regarding Annie 
 with a little smile. 
 
 "Nothing, only I wrote The Poor Lady," 
 said Annie. 
 
 "My dear Annie, I knew it all the time," 
 said Alice. 
 
 Annie stared at her. "How?" 
 
 "Well, you did not know it, but you did re 
 peat in that book verbatim, ad literatim, a sen 
 tence, a very striking one, which occurred in 
 one of your papers which you wrote for the 
 Zenith Club. I noticed that sentence at the 
 time. It was this: *A rose has enough beauty 
 and fragrance to enable it to give very freely 
 and yet itself remain a rose. It is the case with 
 many endowed natures but that is a fact which 
 is not always understood. My dear Annie, 
 I knew that you wrote the book, for that 
 identical sentence occurs in The Poor Lady 
 on page one hundred forty-two. You see I 
 
186 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 have fully considered the matter to remember 
 the exact page. I knew the minute I read that 
 sentence that my little Annie Eustace had writ 
 ten that successful anonymous book, and I was 
 the more certain because I had always had my 
 own opinion as to little Annie s literary ability 
 based upon those same Zenith Club papers. 
 You will remember that I have often told you 
 that you should not waste your time writing 
 club papers when you could do work like that." 
 
 Annie looked alarmed. "Oh, Alice," she 
 said, "do you think anybody else has remem 
 bered that sentence!" 
 
 "My dear child, I am quite sure that not a 
 blessed woman in that club has remembered 
 that sentence," said Alice. 
 
 "I had entirely forgotten." 
 
 "Of course, you had." 
 
 "It would be very unfortunate if it were re 
 membered, because the publishers are so anx 
 ious that my name should not be known. You 
 see, nobody ever heard of me and my name 
 would hurt the sales and the poor publishers 
 have worked so hard over the advertising, it 
 would be dreadful to have the sales fall off. 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 187 
 
 You really don t think anybody does remem 
 ber?" 
 
 "My dear," said Alice with her entirely 
 good-natured, even amused and tolerant air of 
 cynicism, "the women of the Zenith Club re 
 member their own papers. You need not have 
 the slightest fear. But Annie, you wonderful 
 little girl, I am so glad you have come to me 
 with this. I have been waiting for you to tell 
 me, for I was impatient to tell you how de 
 lighted I am. You blessed child, I never was 
 more glad at anything in my whole life. I 
 am as proud as proud can be. I feel as if I 
 had written that book myself, and better than 
 written it myself. I have had none of the 
 bother of the work and my friend had it and 
 my friend has the fame and the glory and she 
 goes around among us with her little halo hid 
 den out of sight of everybody, except myself." 
 
 "Margaret knows." 
 
 Alice stiffened a little. "That is recent," 
 she said, "and I have known all the time." 
 
 "Margaret could not have remembered that 
 sentence, I am sure," Annie said thought 
 fully. "Poor Margaret, she was so npset by 
 
188 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 what happened last night that I am afraid the 
 news did not cheer her up as much as I thought 
 it would." 
 
 "Well, you dear little soul," said Alice, "I 
 am simply revelling in happiness and pride 
 because of it, you may be sure of that." 
 
 "But you have not had such an awful blow 
 as poor Margaret had," said Annie. Then she 
 brightened. "Oh Alice," she cried, "I wanted 
 somebody who loved me to be glad." 
 
 "You have not told your grandmother and 
 aunts yet I" 
 
 "I have not dared," replied Annie in a 
 shamed fashion. "I know I deceived them and 
 I think perhaps grandmother might find it hard 
 not to tell. She is so old you know, and she 
 does tell a great deal without meaning and 
 Aunt Susan likes to tell news. I have not 
 dared, Alice. The publishers have been so 
 very insistent that nobody should know, but I 
 had to tell you and Margaret." 
 
 "It made no difference anyway about me," 
 said Alice, "since I already knew." 
 
 "Margaret can be trusted too, I am sure," 
 Annie said quickly. 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 189 
 
 Of course. " 
 
 Annie looked at her watch. "I must go," 
 she said, "or I shall be late. Isn t it really 
 wonderful that I should write a successful 
 book, Alice?" 
 
 "You are rather wonderful, my dear," said 
 Alice. Then she rose and put her arms around 
 the slender white-clad figure and held her close, 
 and gave her one of her infrequent kisses. 
 "You precious little thing," she said, "the book 
 is wonderful, but my Annie is more wonderful 
 because she can be told so and never get the 
 fact into her head. Here is your work, dear." 
 
 An expression of dismay came over Annie s 
 face. "Oh, dear," she said, "I have only em 
 broidered half a daisy and what will Aunt Har 
 riet say?" 
 
 "You have embroidered a whole garden as 
 nobody else can, if people only knew it," said 
 Alice. 
 
 "But Alice," said Annie ruefully, "my em 
 broidery is really awful and I don t like to do 
 it and the linen is so grimy that I am ashamed. 
 Oh, dear, I shall have to face Aunt Harriet with 
 that half daisy!" 
 
190 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 Alice laughed. "She can t kill you." 
 
 "No, but I don t like to have her so disap 
 pointed." 
 
 Alice kissed Annie again before she went, 
 and watched the slight figure flitting down be 
 tween the box-rows, with a little frown of per 
 plexity. She wished that Annie had not told 
 Margaret Edes about the book and yet she did 
 not know why she wished so. She was very far 
 from expecting the results. Alice was too no 
 ble herself to entertain suspicions of the igno- 
 bility of others. Certainty she was obliged to 
 confront, as she had confronted the affair of 
 the night before. It was, of course, the cer 
 tainty that Margaret had been guilty of a dis 
 graceful and treacherous deed which made her 
 uneasy in a vague fashion now and yet she did 
 not for one second dream of what was to oc 
 cur at the next meeting of the Zenith Club. 
 
 That was at Mrs. Sturtevant s and was the 
 great affair of the year. It was called, 
 to distinguish it from the others, "The 
 Annual Meeting," and upon that occasion the 
 husbands and men friends of the members were 
 invited and the function was in the evening. 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 191 
 
 Margaret had wished to have the club at 
 her own house, before the affair of Martha Wal- 
 lingford, but the annual occasions were regu 
 lated by the letters of the alphabet and it was 
 incontrovertibly the turn of the letter S and 
 Mrs. Sturtevant s right could not be questioned. 
 During the time which elapsed before this meet 
 ing, Margaret Edes was more actively unhappy 
 than she had ever been in her life and all her 
 strong will could not keep the traces of that 
 unhappiness from her face. Lines appeared. 
 Her eyes looked large in dark hollows. Wilbur 
 grew anxious about her. 
 
 "You must go somewhere for a change," he 
 said, "and I will get my cousin Marion to come 
 here and keep house and look out for the chil 
 dren. You must not be bothered even with 
 them. You need a complete rest and change." 
 
 But Margaret met his anxiety with irrita 
 tion. She felt as if some fatal fascination con 
 fined her in Fairbridge and especially did she 
 feel that she must be present at the annual 
 meeting. Margaret never for one minute 
 formulated to herself why she had this fierce 
 desire. She knew in a horrible way at the back 
 
192 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE , 
 
 of her brain, but she kept the knowledge cov 
 ered as with a veil even from herself. 
 
 She had a beautiful new gown made for the 
 occasion. Since she had lost so much colour, 
 she was doubtful of the wisdom of wearing her 
 favourite white and gold, or black. She had 
 a crepe of a peculiar shade of blue which suited 
 her and she herself worked assiduously em 
 broidering it in a darker shade which brought 
 out the colour of her eyes. She looked quite 
 herself when the evening came and Wilbur s 
 face brightened as he looked at her in her trail 
 ing blue with a little diamond crescent fasten 
 ing a tiny blue feather in her golden fluff of 
 hair. 
 
 "You certainly do look better," he said hap- 
 
 "I am well, you old goose," said Margaret, 
 fastening her long blue gloves. "You have 
 simply been fussing over nothing as I told 
 you." 
 
 "Well, I hope I have. You do look stunning 
 to-night," said Wilbur, gazing at her with a 
 pride so intense that it was almost piteous in 
 its self-abnegation. 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 193 
 
 "Is that your stunt there on the table?" he 
 inquired, pointing to a long envelope. 
 
 Margaret laughed carefully, dimpling her 
 cheeks. "Yes," she said, and Wilbur took the 
 envelope and put it into his pocket. "I will 
 carry it for you," he said. "By the way, what 
 is your stunt, honey? Did you write some 
 thing?" 
 
 "Wait, until you hear," replied Margaret, 
 and she laughed carefully again. She gath 
 ered up the train of her blue gown and turned 
 upon him, her blue eyes glowing with a strange 
 fire, feverish roses on her cheeks. "You are 
 not to be surprised at anything to-night," she 
 said and laughed again. 
 
 She still had a laughing expression when 
 they were seated in Mrs. Sturtevant s flower- 
 scented drawing-room, a handsome room, thanks 
 to the decorator, who was young and enthusias 
 tic. Margaret had duly considered the color 
 scheme in her choice of a gown. The furniture 
 was upholstered with a wisteria pattern, except 
 a few chairs which were cane-seated, with sil 
 vered wood. Margaret had gone directly to 
 one of these chairs. She was not sure of her 
 
194 THE BUTTEEFLY HOUSE 
 
 gown being exactly the right shade of blue to 
 harmonise with the wisteria at close quarters. 
 The chair was tall and slender. Margaret s 
 feet did not touch the floor, but the long blue 
 trail of her gown concealed that, and she con 
 trived to sit as if they did. She gave the im 
 pression of a tall creature of extreme grace as 
 she sat propping her back against her silvered 
 chair. Wilbur gazed at her with adoration. 
 He had almost forgotten the affair of Martha 
 Wallingford. He had excused his Margaret 
 because she was a woman and he was 
 profoundly ignorant of women s strange ambi 
 tions. Now, he regarded her with unquali 
 fied admiration. He looked from her to the 
 other women and back again and was en 
 tirely convinced that she outshone them all 
 as a sun a star. He looked at the envelope 
 in her blue lap and was sure that she had writ 
 ten something which was infinitely superior to 
 the work of any other woman there. Down in 
 the depths of his masculine soul, Wilbur Edes 
 had a sense of amused toleration when 
 women s clubs were concerned, but he always 
 took his Margaret seriously, and the Zenith 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 195 
 
 Club on that account was that night an impor 
 tant and grave organisation. He wished very 
 much to smoke and he was wedged into an un 
 comfortable corner with a young girl who in 
 sisted upon talking to him and was all the time 
 nervously rearranging her hair, but he had a 
 good view of his Margaret in her wonderful 
 blue gown, in her silver chair, and he was con 
 soled. 
 
 "Have you read The Poor Lady?" asked 
 spasmodically the girl, and drove in a slipping 
 hair-pin at the same time. 
 
 "I never read novels," replied Wilbur ab 
 sently, 4 haven t much time you know. 
 
 "Oh, I suppose not, but that is such a won 
 derful book and only think, nobody has the 
 least idea who wrote it, and it does make it so 
 interesting. I thought myself it was written 
 by Wilbur Jack until I came to a sentence which 
 I could quite understand and that put him 
 out of the question. Of course, Wilbur Jack 
 is such a great genius that no young girl like 
 myself pretends to understand him, but that is 
 why I worship him. I tell Mamma I think he 
 is the ideal writer for young girls, so elevating. 
 
196 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 And then I thought The Poor Lady might have 
 been written by Mrs. Eudora Peasely because 
 she is always so lucid and I came to a sentence 
 which I could not understand at all. Oh, dear, 
 I have thought of all the living writers as writ 
 ing that book and have had to give it up, and 
 of course the dead ones are out of the ques 
 tion. " 
 
 "Of course," said Wilbur gravely, and then 
 his Margaret stood up and took some printed 
 matter from an envelope and instantly the sit 
 uation became strangely tense. Men and 
 women turned eager faces ; they could not have 
 told why eager, but they were all conscious of 
 something unusual in the atmosphere and every 
 expression upon those expectant faces suddenly 
 changed into one which made them as a listen 
 ing unit. Then Margaret began. 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 WILBUR EDES thought he had never seen his 
 wife look as beautiful as she did standing there 
 before them all with those fluttering leaves of 
 paper in her hand. A breeze came in at an op 
 posite window and Margaret s blue feather 
 tossed in it; her yellow hair crisped and 
 fluffed and the paper fluttered. Margaret 
 stood for an appreciable second surveying 
 them all with a most singular expres 
 sion. It was compounded of honeyed sweet 
 ness, of triumph, and something else more sub 
 tle, the expression of a warrior entering battle 
 and ready for death, yet terrible with defiance 
 and the purpose of victory, and death for his 
 foe. 
 
 Then Margaret spoke and her thin silvery 
 voice penetrated to every ear in the room. 
 
 "Members of the Zenith Club and friends/ 
 said Margaret, "I take the opportunity offered 
 me to-night to disclose a secret which is a 
 source of much joy to myself, and which I am 
 
 197 
 
198 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 sure will be a source of joy to you also. I 
 trust that since you are my friends and neigh 
 bours and associates in club work, you will 
 acquit me of the charge of egotism and credit 
 me with my whole motive, which is, I think, not 
 an unworthy one coming to you in joy, as I 
 would come in sorrow for your sympathy and 
 understanding. I am about to read an extract 
 from a book whose success has given me the 
 most unqualified surprise and delight, knowing 
 as I do that a reading by an author from her 
 own work always increases the interest even 
 though she may not be an able expositor by 
 word of mouth of what she has written." 
 
 Then Margaret read. She had chosen a 
 short chapter which was in itself almost a 
 complete little story. She read exceedingly 
 well and without faltering. People listened 
 with ever-growing amazement. Then Mrs. 
 Jack Evarts whispered so audibly to a man at 
 her side that she broke in upon Margaret s 
 clear recitative. "Goodness, she s reading 
 from that book that is selling so, The Poor 
 Lady I remember every word of that chap 
 ter." 
 
THE BUTTEEFLY HOUSE 199 
 
 Then while Margaret continued her reading 
 imperturbably, the chorus of whispers in 
 creased. "That is from The Poor Lady, yes, it 
 is. Did she write it? Why, of course, she did. 
 She just said so. Isn t it wonderful that she 
 has done such a thing!" 
 
 Wilbur Edes sat with his eyes riveted upon 
 his wife s face, his own gone quite pale, but 
 upon it an expression of surprise and joy so 
 intense that he looked almost foolish from such 
 a revelation of his inner self. 
 
 The young girl beside him drove hair pins 
 frantically into her hair. She twisted up a 
 lock which had strayed and fastened it. She 
 looked alternately at Wilbur and Margaret. 
 
 "Goodness gracious," said she, and did not 
 trouble to whisper. "That is the next to the 
 last chapter of The Poor Lady. And to think 
 that your wife wrote it! Goodness gracious, 
 and here she has been living right here in Fair- 
 bridge all the time and folks have been seeing 
 her and talking to her and never knew! Did 
 you know, Mr. Edes?" 
 
 The young girl fixed her sharp pretty eyes 
 upon Wilbur. "Never dreamed of it," he 
 
200 THE BUTTEEFLY HOUSE 
 
 blurted out, "just as much surprised as any of 
 you." 
 
 "I don t believe I could have kept such a 
 wonderful thing as that from my own hus 
 band, " said the girl, who was unmarried, and 
 had no lover. But Wilbur did not hear. All 
 he heard was his beloved Margaret, who had 
 secretly achieved fame for herself, reading on 
 and on. He had not the slightest idea what 
 she was reading. He had no interest what 
 ever in that. All he cared for was the 
 amazing fact that his wife, his wonder 
 ful, beautiful Margaret, had so covered 
 herself with glory and honour. He had a 
 slightly hurt feeling because she had not 
 told him until this public revelation. He felt 
 that his own private joy and pride as her hus 
 band should have been perhaps sacred and re 
 spected by her and yet possibly she was right. 
 This public glory might have seemed to her the 
 one which would the most appeal to him. 
 
 He had, as he had said, not read the book, but 
 he recalled with a sort of rapturous tenderness 
 for Margaret how he had seen the posters all 
 along the railroad as he commuted to the city, 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 201 
 
 and along the elevated road. His face gazing 
 at Margaret was as beautiful in its perfectly 
 unselfish pride and affection, as a mother s. 
 To think that his darling had done such a thing ! 
 He longed to be at home alone with her and say 
 to her what he could not say before all these 
 people. He thought of a very good reason why 
 she had chosen this occasion to proclaim her 
 authorship of the famous anonymous novel. 
 She had been so humiliated, poor child, by the 
 insufferable rudeness of that Western girl that 
 she naturally wished to make good. And how 
 modest and unselfish she had been to make the 
 attempt to exalt another author when she her 
 self was so much greater. Wilbur fully ex 
 onerated Margaret for what she did in the 
 case of Martha Wallingford in the light of this 
 revelation. His modest, generous, noble wife 
 had honestly endeavoured to do the girl a fa 
 vour, to assist her in spite of herself and she 
 had received nothing save rudeness, ingrati 
 tude, and humiliation in return. Now, she was 
 asserting herself. She was showing all Fair- 
 bridge that she was the one upon whom hon 
 our should be showered. She was showing him 
 
202 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 and rightfully. He remembered with compunc 
 tion his severity toward her on account of the 
 Martha Wallingford affair, his beautiful, 
 gifted Margaret! Why, even then she might 
 have electrified that woman s club by making 
 the revelation which she had won to-night and 
 reading this same selection from her own book. 
 He had not read Martha Wallingford s Hearts 
 Astray. He thought that the title was enough 
 for him. He knew that it must be one of the 
 womanish, hysterical, sentimental type of 
 things which he despised. But Margaret had 
 been so modest that she had held back from the 
 turning on the search-light of her own greater 
 glory. She had made the effort which had re 
 sulted so disastrously to obtain a lesser one, 
 and he had condemned her. He knew that 
 women always used circuitous ways toward 
 their results, just as men used sledge-hammer 
 ones. Why should a man criticise a woman s 
 method any more than a woman criticise a 
 man s! Wilbur, blushing like a girl with pride 
 and delight, listened to his wife and fairly 
 lashed himself. He was wholly unworthy of 
 such a woman, he knew. 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 203 
 
 When the reading was over and people 
 crowded around Margaret and congratulated 
 her, he stood aloof. He felt that he could not 
 speak of this stupendous thing with her until 
 they were alone. Then Doctor Sturtevant s 
 great hulk pressed against him and his son 
 orous voice said in his ear, "By Jove, old man, 
 your wife has drawn a lucky number. Con 
 gratulations." Wilbur gulped as he thanked 
 him. Then Sturtevant went on talking about 
 a matter which was rather dear to Wilbur s 
 own ambition and which he knew had been ten 
 tatively discussed: the advisability of his run 
 ning for State Senator in the autumn. Wil 
 bur knew it would be a good thing for him pro 
 fessionally, and at the bottom of his heart he 
 knew that his wife s success had been the last 
 push toward his own. Other men came in and 
 began talking, leading from his wife s success 
 toward his own, until Wilbur realised himself 
 as dazzled. 
 
 He did not notice what Von Eosen noticed, 
 because he had kept his attention upon the girl, 
 that Annie Eustace had turned deadly pale 
 when Margaret had begun her reading and that 
 
204: THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 Alice Mendon who was seated beside her had 
 slipped an arm around her and quietly and un 
 obtrusively led her out of the room. Von. 
 Eosen thought that Miss Eustace must have 
 turned faint because of the heat, and was con 
 scious of a distinct anxiety and disappoint 
 ment. . He had, without directly acknowledging 
 it to himself, counted upon walking home with 
 Annie Eustace, but yet he hoped that she might 
 return, that she had not left the home. When 
 the refreshments were served, he looked for 
 her, but Annie was long since at Alice Men- 
 ckm s house in her room. Alice had hurried 
 her there in her carriage. 
 
 "Come home with me, dear," she had whis 
 pered, "and we can have a talk together. iYour 
 people won t expect you yet." 
 
 Therefore, while Karl von Eosen, who had 
 gone to this annual meeting of the Zenith Club 
 for the sole purpose of walking home with 
 Annie, waited, the girl sat in a sort of dumb and 
 speechless state in Alice Mendon s room. 
 It seemed to her like a bad dream. 
 Alice herself stormed. She had a high temper, 
 but seldom gave way to it. Now she did. 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 205 
 
 There was something about this which roused 
 her utmost powers of indignation. 
 
 "It is simply an outrage," declared Alice, 
 marching up and down the large room, her rich 
 white gown trailing behind her, her chin high. 
 "I did not think her capable of it. It is 
 the worst form of thievery in the world, 
 stealing the work of another s brain. It is in 
 conceivable that Margaret Edes could have 
 done such a preposterous thing. I never liked 
 her. I don t care if I do admit it, but I never 
 thought she was capable of such an utterly ig 
 noble deed. It was all that I could do to master 
 myself, not to stand up before them all and de 
 nounce her. Well, her time will come." 
 
 " Alice," said a ghastly little voice from the 
 stricken figure on the couch, "are you sure? 
 Am I sure? Was that from my book?" 
 
 "Of course it was from your book. Why, 
 you know it was from your book, Annie Eus 
 tace," cried Alice and her voice sounded high 
 with anger toward poor Annie herself. 
 
 "I hoped that we might be mistaken after 
 all," said the voice, which had a bewildered 
 quality. Annie Eustace had a nature which 
 
206 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 could not readily grasp some of the evil of hu 
 manity. She was in reality dazed before this. 
 She was ready to believe an untruth rather than 
 the incredible truth. But Alice Mendon was 
 merciless. She resolved that Annie should 
 know once for all. 
 
 "We are neither of us mistaken, " she said. 
 "Margaret Edes read a chapter from your 
 book, The Poor Lady, and without stating in 
 so many words that she was the author, she 
 did what was worse. She made everybody 
 think so. Annie, she is bad, bad, bad. Call the 
 spade a spade and face it. See how black it is. 
 Margaret Edes has stolen from you your best 
 treasure." 
 
 "I don t care for that so much," said Annie 
 Eustace, "but I loved her, Alice." 
 
 "Then," said Alice, "she has stolen more 
 than your book. She has stolen the light by 
 which you wrote it. It is something hideous, 
 hideous." 
 
 Annie gave a queer little dry sob. "Mar 
 garet could not have done it," she moaned. 
 
 Alice crossed swiftly to her and knelt beside 
 her. "Darling," she said, "you must face it. 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 207 
 
 It is better. I do not say so because I do not 
 personally like Margaret Edes, but you must 
 have courage and face it." 
 
 "I have not courage enough," said Annie 
 and she felt that she had not, for it was one of 
 the awful tasks of the world which was before 
 her: The viewing the mutilated face of love 
 itself. 
 
 "You must," said Alice. She put an arm 
 around the slight figure and drew the fair head 
 to her broad bosom, her maternal bosom, which 
 served her friends in good stead, since it did 
 not pillow the heads of children. Friends in 
 distress are as children to the women of her 
 type. 
 
 "Darling," she said in her stately voice 
 from which the anger had quite gone. "Dar 
 ling, you must face it. Margaret did read that 
 chapter from your book and she told, or as good 
 as told everybody that she had written it." 
 
 Then Annie sobbed outright and the tears 
 came. 
 
 "Oh," she cried, "Oh, Alice, how she must 
 want success to do anything like that, poor, 
 poor Margaret ! Oh, Alice !" 
 
208 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 "How she must love herself," said Alice 
 [firmly. " Annie, you must face it. Margaret 
 is a self-lover; her whole heart turns in love 
 toward her own self, instead of toward those 
 whom she should love and who love her. 
 Annie, Margaret is bad, bad, with a strange 
 degenerate badness. She dates back to the 
 sins of the First Garden. You must turn your 
 back upon her. You must not love her any 
 more." 
 
 "No, I must not love her any more," agreed 
 Annie, "and that is the pity of it. I must not 
 love her, Alice, but I must pity her until I die. 
 Poor Margaret!" 
 
 "Poor Annie," said Alice. "You worked so 
 hard over that book, dear, and you were so 
 pleased. Annie, what shall you do about it?" 
 
 Annie raised her head from Alice s bosom 
 and sat up straight, with a look of terror. 
 
 "Alice," she cried, "I must go to-morrow 
 and see my publishers. I must go down on my 
 knees to them if necessary." 
 
 "Do you mean," asked Alice slowly, "never 
 to tell?" 
 
 "Oh, never, never, never!" cried Annie. 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 209 
 
 "I doubt, " said Alice, "if you can keep such 
 a matter secret. I doubt if your publishers 
 will consent. " 
 
 "They must. I will never have it known! 
 Poor Margaret!" 
 
 "I don t pity her at all," said Alice. "I do 
 pity her husband who worships her, and there 
 is talk of his running for State Senator and 
 this would ruin him. And I am sorry for the 
 children. 
 
 "Nobody shall ever know," said Annie. 
 
 "But how can you manage with the publish 
 ers?" 
 
 "I don t know. I will." 
 
 "And you will have written that really won 
 derful book and never have the credit for it. 
 You will live here and see Margaret Edes 
 praised for what you have done." 
 
 "Poor Margaret," said Annie. "I must go 
 now. I know I can trust you never to 
 speak." 
 
 "Of course, but I do not think it right." 
 
 "I don t care whether it is right or not," 
 said Annie. "It must never be known." 
 
 "You are better than I am," said Alice as 
 
210 THE BUTTEEFLY HOUSE 
 
 she rang the bell, which was presently an 
 swered. " Peter has gone home for the night, 
 Marie said," Alice told Annie, "but Marie and 
 I will walk home with you." 
 
 "Alice, it is only a step." 
 
 "I know, but it is late." 
 
 "It is not much after ten, and I would 
 rather go alone, if you don t mind, Alice. I 
 want to get settled a little before Aunt Harriet 
 sees me. I can do it better alone. 
 
 Alice laughed. "Well," she said, "Marie 
 and I will stand on the front porch until you 
 are out of sight from there and then we will go 
 to the front gate. We can see nearly to your 
 house and we can hear if you call." 
 
 It was a beautiful night. The moon was high 
 in a sky which was perceptibly blue. In the 
 west was still a faint glow, which was like a 
 memory of a cowslip sunset. The street and 
 the white house-front were plumy with soft 
 tree shadows wavering in a gentle wind. 
 Annie was glad when she was alone in the 
 night. She needed a moment for solitariness 
 and readjustment since one of the strongest 
 readjustments on earth faced her the reali- 
 
THE BUTTEKFLY HOUSE 211 
 
 sation that what she had loved was not. She 
 did not walk rapidly but lingered along the 
 road. She was thankful that neither of her 
 aunts had been to the annual meeting. She 
 would not need to account for her time so 
 closely. Suddenly she heard a voice, quite a 
 loud voice, a man s, with a music of gladness 
 in it. Annie knew instinctively whose it was, 
 and she stepped quickly upon a lawn and stood 
 behind a clump of trees. A man and woman 
 passed her Margaret Edes and her husband 
 and Wilbur was saying in his glad, loving 
 voice, "To think you should have done such a 
 thing, Margaret, my dear, you will never know 
 how proud I am of you." 
 
 Annie heard Margaret s voice in a whisper 
 hushing Wilbur. "You speak so loud, dear," 
 said Margaret, " everybody will hear you." 
 
 "I don t care if they do," said Wilbur. "I 
 should like to proclaim it from the housetops." 
 Then they passed and the rose scent of Mar 
 garet s garments was in Annie s face. She 
 was glad that Margaret had hushed her hus 
 band. She argued that it proved some lit 
 tle sense of shame, but oh, when all alone with 
 
212 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 her own husband, she had made no disclaimer. 
 Annie came out from her hiding and went on. 
 The Edes ahead of her melted into the shad 
 ows but she could still hear Wilbur s glad 
 voice. The gladness in it made her pity Mar 
 garet more. She thought how horrible it must 
 be to deceive love like that, to hear that joyful 
 tone, and know it all undeserved. Then sud 
 denly she heard footsteps behind and walked 
 to one side to allow whoever it was to pass, but 
 a man s voice said: "Good evening, Miss Eus 
 tace," and Von Rosen had joined her. He had 
 in truth been waiting like any village beau near 
 Alice Mendon s house for the chance of her 
 emerging alone. 
 
 Annie felt annoyed, and yet her heart beat 
 strangely. 
 
 6 1 Good evening, Mr. von Rosen, she said 
 and still lingered as if to allow him to pass, but 
 he slowed his own pace and sauntered by her 
 side. 
 
 "A fine evening," he remarked tritely. 
 
 "Very," agreed Annie. 
 
 "I saw you at the evening club," said Von 
 Rosen presently. 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 213 
 
 "Yes," said Annie, "I was there." 
 
 "You left early." 
 
 "Yes, I left quite early with Alice. I have 
 been with her since." 
 
 Annie wondered if Mr. von Rosen suspected 
 anything but his next words convinced her that 
 he did not. 
 
 I suppose that you were as much surprised 
 as the rest of us, although you are her inti 
 mate friend, at Mrs. Edes announcement con 
 cerning the authorship of that successful 
 novel," said he. 
 
 "Yes," said Annie faintly. 
 
 "Of course you had no idea that she had 
 written it?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Have you read it?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "What do you think of it? I almost never 
 read novels but I suppose I must tackle that one. 
 Did you like it?" 
 
 "Quite well," said Annie. 
 
 "Tell me what is it all about?" 
 
 Annie could endure no more. "It will spoil 
 the book for you if I tell you, Mr. von Rosen," 
 
214 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 said she, and her voice was at once firm and 
 piteous. She could not tell the story of her 
 own book to him. She would be as deceitful 
 as poor Margaret, for all the time he would 
 think she was talking of Margaret s work and 
 not of her own. 
 
 Von Kosen laughed. After all he cared very 
 little indeed about the book. He had what he 
 cared for: a walk home with this very sweet 
 and very natural girl, who did not seem to care 
 whether he walked home with her or not. 
 
 "I dare say you are right," he said, "but I 
 doubt if your telling me about it would spoil 
 the book for me, because it is more than prob 
 able that I shall never read it after all. I may 
 if it comes in my way because I was somewhat 
 surprised. I had never thought of Mrs. Edes 
 as that sort of person. However, so many 
 novels are written nowadays, and some mighty 
 queer ones are successful that I presume I 
 should not be surprised. Anybody in Fair- 
 bridge might be the author of a successful 
 novel. You might, Miss Eustace, for all - 1 
 know. 
 
 Annie said nothing. 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 215 
 
 " Perhaps you are," said Von Eosen. He 
 had not the least idea of the thinness of the ice. 
 Annie trembled. Her truthfulness was as her 
 life. She hated even evasions. Luckily Von 
 Rosen was so far from suspicion that he did 
 not wait for an answer. 
 
 "Mrs. Edes reads well," he said. 
 
 " Very well indeed," returned Annie eagerly. 
 
 "I suppose an author can read more under- 
 standingly from her own work," said Von 
 Rosen. "Don t you think so, Miss Eustace?" 
 
 "I think she might," said Annie. 
 
 "I don t know but I shall read that book 
 after all," said Von Rosen. "I rather liked 
 that extract she gave us. It struck me as out 
 of the common run of women s books. I beg 
 your pardon, Miss Eustace. If you were a 
 writer yourself I could not speak so, but you 
 are not, and you must know as well as I do, that 
 many of the books written by women are sim 
 ply sloughs of oversweetened sentiment, and of 
 entirely innocent immorality. But that chap 
 ter did not sound as if it could belong to such 
 a book. It sounded altogether too logical for 
 the average woman writer. I think I will read 
 
216 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 it. Then after I have read it, yon will not re 
 fuse to discuss it with me, will you?" 
 
 "I do not think so," replied Annie tremu 
 lously. Would he never talk of anything ex 
 cept that hook? To her relief he did, to her re 
 lief and scarcely acknowledged delight. 
 
 "Are you interested in curios, things from 
 Egyptian tombs, for instance?" he inquired 
 with brutal masculine disregard of sequence. 
 
 Annie was bewildered, but she managed to 
 reply that she thought she might be. She had 
 heard of Von Rosen s very interesting collec 
 tion. 
 
 "I happened to meet your aunt, Miss Har 
 riet, this afternoon," said Von Rosen, "and I 
 inquired if she were by any chance interested 
 and she said she was." 
 
 "Yes," said Annie. She had never before 
 dreamed that her Aunt Harriet was in the least 
 interested in Egyptian tombs. 
 
 1 I ventured to ask if she and her sister, Miss 
 Susan, and you also, if you cared to see it, 
 would come some afternoon and look at my col 
 lection," said Von Rosen. 
 
 Nobody could have dreamed from his casual 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 217 
 
 tone how carefully he had planned it all out: 
 the visit of Annie and her aunts, the delicate 
 little tea served in the study, the possible little 
 stroll with Annie in his garden. Von Rosen 
 knew that one of the aunts, Miss Harriet, was 
 afflicted with rose cold, and therefore, would 
 probably not accept his invitation to view his 
 rose-garden, and he also knew that it was im 
 probable that both sisters would leave their 
 aged mother. It was, of course, a toss-up as to 
 whether Miss Harriet or Miss Susan would 
 come. It was also a toss-up as to whether or 
 not they might both come, and leave little Annie 
 as companion for the old lady. In fact, he had 
 to admit to himself that the latter contingency 
 was the more probable. He was well accus 
 tomed to being appropriated by elder ladies, 
 with the evident understanding that he pre 
 ferred them. He would simply have to make 
 the best of it and show his collection as grace 
 fully as possible and leave out the rose-garden 
 and the delicious little tete-a-tete with this 
 young rose of a girl and think of something 
 else. For Karl von Rosen in these days was 
 accustoming himself to a strange visage in 
 
218 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 own mental looking-glass. He had not altered 
 Ms attitude toward women but toward one wo 
 man, and that one was now sauntering beside 
 him in the summer moonlight, her fluffy white 
 garments now and then blowing across his sober 
 garb. He was conscious of holding himself in 
 a very tight rein. He wondered how long men 
 were usually about their love-making. He 
 wished to make love that very instant, but he 
 feared lest the girl might be lost by such im 
 petuosity. In all likelihood, the thought of love 
 in connection with himself had never entered 
 her mind. Why should it? Karl in love was 
 very modest and saw himself as a very insig 
 nificant figure. Probably this flower-like young 
 creature had never thought of love at all. She 
 had lived her sweet simple village life. She 
 had obeyed her grandmother and her aunts, 
 done her household tasks and embroidered. 
 He remembered the grimy bit of linen which 
 he had picked up and he could not see the very 
 slightest connection between that sort of thing 
 and love and romance. Of course, she had read 
 a few love stories and the reasoning by analogy 
 develops in all minds. She might have built a 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 219 
 
 few timid air castles for herself upon the foun 
 dations of the love stories in fiction, and 
 this brought him around to the fatal subject 
 again almost inevitably. 
 
 "Do you know, Miss Eustace," he said, 
 "that I am wishing a very queer thing about 
 you?" 
 
 "What, Mr. von Rosen?" 
 
 "I am wishing, you know that I would not 
 esteem you more highly, it is not that, but I am 
 wishing that you also had written a book, a 
 really good sort of love story, novel, you 
 know." 
 
 Annie gasped. 
 
 "I don t mean because Mrs. Edes wrote The 
 Poor Lady. It is not that. I am quite sure 
 that you could have written a book every whit 
 as good as hers but what I do mean is I feel 
 that a woman writer if she writes the best sort 
 of book must obtain a certain insight concern 
 ing human nature which requires a long time 
 for most women." Von Rosen was rather 
 mixed, but Annie did not grasp it. She was 
 very glad that they were nearing her own 
 home. She could not endure much more. 
 
220 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 "Is The Poor Lady a love story!" inquired 
 Von Rosen. 
 
 "There is a little love in it," replied Annie 
 faintly. 
 
 "I shall certainly read it," said Von Rosen. 
 He shook hands with Annie at her gate and 
 wanted to kiss her. She looked up in his face 
 like an adorably timid, trustful little child and 
 it seemed almost his duty to kiss her, but he did 
 not. He said good-night and again mentioned 
 his collection of curios. 
 
 "I hope you will feel inclined to come and see 
 them," he said, "with your aunts." 
 
 "Thank you," replied Annie, "I shall be 
 very glad to come, if both Aunt Harriet and 
 Aunt Susan do not. That would of course 
 oblige me to stay with grandmother." 
 
 "Of course," assented Von Rosen, but he 
 said inwardly, "Hang Grandmother." 
 
 In his inmost self, Von Rosen was not a 
 model clergyman. He, however, had no reason 
 whatever to hang grandmother, but quite the 
 reverse, although he did not so conclude, as he 
 considered the matter on his way home. It 
 seemed to him that this darling of a girl was 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 221 
 
 fairly hedged in by a barbed wire fence of femi 
 nine relatives. 
 
 He passed the Edes house on his way and 
 saw that a number of the upper windows were 
 still lighted. He even heard a masculine voice 
 pitched on a high cadence of joy and triumph. 
 He smiled a little scornfully. "He thinks his 
 wife is the most wonderful woman in the 
 world," he told himself, "and I daresay that a 
 novel is simply like an over-sweetened ice 
 cream, with an after taste of pepper, out of 
 sheer deviltry." Had he known it, Margaret 
 Edes herself was tasting pepper, mustard and 
 all the fierce condiments known, in her very 
 soul. It was a singular thing that Margaret 
 had been obliged to commit an ignoble deed in 
 order to render her soul capable of tasting to 
 the full, but she had been so constituted. As 
 Karl von Rosen passed that night, she was sit 
 ting in her room, clad in her white silk negligee 
 and looking adorable, and her husband was 
 fairly on his knees before her, worshipping 
 her, and she was suffering after a fashion 
 hitherto wholly uncornprehended by her. Mar 
 garet had never known that she could possibly 
 
222 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 be to blame for anything, that she could sit in 
 judgment upon herself. Now she knew it and 
 the knowledge brought a torture which had 
 been unimaginable by her. She strove not to 
 make her shrinking from her husband and his 
 exultation her terrified shrinking evident. 
 
 "Oh, Margaret, you are simply wonderful 
 beyond words," said Wilbur, gazing up into her 
 face. "I always knew you were wonderful, of 
 course, darling, but this ! Why, Margaret, you 
 have gained an international reputation from 
 that one book! And the reviews have been 
 unanimous, almost unanimous in their praise. 
 I have not read it, dear. I am so ashamed of 
 myself, but you know I never read novels, but 
 I am going to read my Margaret s novel. Oh, 
 my dear, my wonderful, wonderful dear!" 
 Wilbur almost sobbed. "Do you know what 
 it may do for me, too?" he said. "Do you 
 know, Margaret, it may mean my election as 
 Senator. One can never tell what may sway 
 popular opinion. Once, if anybody had told 
 me that I might be elected to office and my elec 
 tion might possibly be due to the fact that my 
 wife had distinguished myself, I should have 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 223 
 
 been humbled to the dust. But I cannot be 
 humbled by any success which may result from 
 your success. I did not know my wonderful 
 Margaret then." Wilbur kissed his wife s 
 hands. He was almost ridiculous, but it was 
 horribly tragic for Margaret. 
 
 She longed as she had never longed for any 
 thing in her life, for the power to scream, to 
 shout in his ears the truth, but she could not. 
 She was bound hard and fast in the bands of 
 her own falsehood. She could not so disgrace 
 her husband, her children. Why had she not 
 thought of them before? She had thought only 
 of herself and her own glory, and that glory 
 had turned to stinging bitterness upon her 
 soul. She was tasting the bitterest medicine 
 which life and the whole world contains. And 
 at the same time, it was not remorse 
 that she felt. That would have been easier. 
 What she endured was self-knowledge. The 
 reflection of one s own character under 
 unbiased cross-lights is a hideous thing for 
 a self-lover. She was thinking, while she 
 listened to Wilbur s rhapsodies. Finally she 
 scarcely heard him. Then her attention 
 
224 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 was suddenly keenly fixed. There were hor 
 rible complications about this which she had 
 not considered. Margaret s mind had no busi 
 ness turn. She had not for a moment thought 
 of the financial aspect of the whole. Wilbur 
 was different. What he was now saying was 
 very noble, but very disconcerting. "Of 
 course, I know, darling, that all this means a 
 pile of money, but one thing you must remem 
 ber: it is for yourself alone. Not one penny 
 of it will I ever touch and more than that it is 
 not to interfere in the least with my expendi 
 tures for you, my wife, and the children. 
 Everything of that sort goes on as before. 
 You have the same allowance for yourself and 
 the children as before. Whatever comes from 
 your book is your own to do with as you choose. 
 I do not even wish you to ask ray advice about 
 the disposal of it." 
 
 Margaret was quite pale as she looked at 
 him. She remembered now the sum which 
 Annie had told her she was to receive. She 
 made no disclaimer. Her lips felt stiff. 
 While Wilbur wished for no disclaimer, she 
 could yet see that he was a little surprised at 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 225 
 
 receiving none, but she could not speak. She 
 merely gazed at him in a helpless sort of fash 
 ion. The grapes which hung over her friend s 
 garden wall were not very simple. They were 
 much beside grapes. Wilbur returned her 
 look pityingly. 
 
 "Poor girl," he said, kissing her hands 
 again; "she is all tired out and I must let her 
 go to bed. Standing on a pedestal is rather 
 tiresome, if it is gratifying, isn t it, sweet 
 heart?" 
 
 "Yes," said Margaret, with a weary sigh 
 from her heart. How little the poor man knew 
 of the awful torture of standing upon the ped 
 estal of another, and at the same time holding 
 before one s eyes that looking-glass with all 
 the cross-lights of existence full upon it! 
 
 Margaret went to bed, but she could not 
 sleep. All night long she revolved the prob 
 lem of how she should settle the matter with 
 Annie Eustace. She did not for a second fear 
 Annie s betrayal, but there was that matter of 
 the publishers. Would they be content to al 
 low matters to rest? 
 
 The next morning Margaret endeavoured to 
 
226 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 get Annie on the telephone but found that she 
 had gone to New York. Annie s Aunt Harriet 
 replied. She herself had sent the girl on sev 
 eral errands. 
 
 Margaret could only wait. She feared lest 
 Annie might not return before Wilbur and in 
 such a case she could not discuss matters with 
 her before the next day. Margaret had a hor 
 rible time during the next six hours. The mail 
 was full of letters of congratulation. A local 
 reporter called to interview her. She sent 
 word that she was out, but he was certain that 
 he had seen her. The children heard the news 
 and pestered her with inquiries about her book 
 and wondering looks at her. Callers came in 
 the afternoon and it was all about her book. 
 Nobody could know how relieved she was after 
 hearing the four-thirty train, to see little Annie 
 Eustace coming through her gate. Annie 
 stood before her stiffly. The day was very 
 warm and the girl looked tired and heated. 
 
 "No, thank you," she said, "I can not sit 
 down. I only stopped to tell you that I have ar 
 ranged with the publishers. They will keep 
 the secret. I shall have rather a hard task ar- 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 227 
 
 ranging about the checks, because I fear it will 
 involve a little deceit and I do not like deceit." 
 
 Annie, as she spoke, looked straight at Mar 
 garet and there was something terrible in that 
 clear look of unsoiled truth. Margaret put out 
 a detaining hand. 
 
 "Sit down for a minute, please, " she said 
 cringingly. "I want to explain ?" 
 
 " There is nothing whatever to explain, " re 
 plied Annie. "I heard." 
 
 "Can you ever forgive me?" 
 
 "I do not think," said Annie, "that this is 
 an ordinary offence about which to talk of for 
 giveness. I do pity you, Margaret, for I realise 
 how dreadfully you must have wanted what did 
 not belong to you." 
 
 Margaret winced. "Well, if it is any satis 
 faction to you, I am realising nothing but mis 
 ery from it," she said in a low voice. 
 
 "I don t see how you can help that," replied 
 Annie simply. Then she went away. 
 
 It proved Margaret s unflinching trust in the 
 girl and Annie s recognition of no possibility 
 except that trust, that no request nor promise 
 as to secrecy had been made. Annie, after she 
 
228 THE BUTTEKFLY HOUSE 
 
 got home, almost forgot the whole for a time, 
 since her Aunt Harriet, and Aunt Harriet was 
 the sister who was subject to rose-colds, an 
 nounced her determination to call at Mr. von 
 Bosen s the next afternoon with Annie and see 
 his famous collection. 
 
 "Of course," said she, "the invitation was 
 meant particularly for me, since I am one of 
 his parishioners, and I think it will he improv 
 ing to you, Annie, to view antiquities." 
 
 "Yes, Aunt Harriet," said Annie. She was 
 wondering if she would be allowed to wear her 
 pale blue muslin and the turquoise necklace 
 which was a relic of her grandmother s girl 
 hood. Aunt Susan sniffed delicately. 
 
 "I will stay with Mother," she said with a 
 virtuous air. 
 
 The old lady, stately in her black satin, with 
 white diamonds gleaming on her veinous hands, 
 glanced acutely at them. The next day, when 
 her daughter Harriet insisted that the cross 
 barred muslin was not too spoiled to wear to 
 the inspection of curios, she declared that it 
 was simply filthy, and that Annie must wear 
 her blue, and that the little string of turquoise 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 229 
 
 beads was not in the least too dressy for the 
 occasion. 
 
 It therefore happened that Annie and her 
 Aunt Harriet set forth at three o clock in the 
 afternoon, Annie in blue, and her aunt in thin 
 black grenadine with a glitter of jet and a little 
 black bonnet with a straight tuft of green ris 
 ing from a little wobble of jet, and a black- 
 fringed parasol tilted well over her eyes. 
 Annie s charming little face was framed in a 
 background of white parasol. Margaret saw 
 them pass as she sat on her verandah. She 
 had received more congratulatory letters that 
 day, and the thief envied the one from whom 
 she had taken. Annie bowed to Margaret, and 
 her Aunt Harriet said something about the 
 heat, in a high shrill voice. 
 
 "She is a wonderful woman, to have written 
 that successful novel, " said Aunt Harriet, 
 "and I am going to write her a congratulatory 
 note, now you have bought that stationery at 
 Tiffany s. I feel that such a subject demands 
 special paper. She is a wonderful woman and 
 her family have every reason to be proud of 
 her." 
 
230 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 "Yes," said Annie. 
 
 "It is rather odd, and I have often thought 
 so," said Aunt Harriet, moving alongside with 
 stately sweeps of black skirts, "that you have 
 shown absolutely no literary taste. As you 
 know, I have often written poetry, of course 
 not for publication, and my friends have been 
 so good as to admire it." 
 
 "Yes, Aunt Harriet," said Annie. 
 
 "I realise that you have never appreciated 
 my poems," said Aunt Harriet tartly. 
 
 "I don t think I understand poetry very 
 well, little Annie said with meekness. 
 
 "It does require a peculiar order of mind, 
 and you have never seemed to me in the least 
 poetical or imaginative," said her aunt in an 
 appeased voice. "For instance, I could not 
 imagine your writing a book like Mrs. Edes, 
 and The Poor Lady was anonymous, and any 
 body might have written it as far as one knew. 
 But I should never have imagined her for a 
 moment as capable of doing it." 
 
 "No," said Annie. 
 
 Then they had come to the parsonage and 
 Jane Riggs, as rigid as starched linen could 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 231 
 
 make a human being, admitted them, and pres 
 ently after a little desultory conversation, the 
 collection, which was really a carefully made 
 one, and exceedingly good and interesting, was 
 being displayed. Then came the charming little 
 tea which Von Eosen had planned ; then the sug 
 gestion with regard to the rose-garden and 
 Aunt Harriet s terrified refusal, knowing as 
 she knew the agony of sneezes and sniffs sure 
 to follow its acceptance ; and then Annie, a vis 
 ion in blue, was walking among the roses with 
 Von Eosen and both were saying things which 
 they never could remember afterward about 
 things in which neither had the very slightest 
 interest. It was only when they had reached 
 the end of the pergola, trained over with climb 
 ers, and the two were seated on a rustic bench 
 therein, that the conversation to be remem 
 bered began. 
 
CHAPTER 
 
 THE conversation began, paradoxically, with a 
 silence. Otherwise, it would have begun with 
 platitudes. Since neither Von Rosen nor Annie 
 Eustace were given usually to platitudes, 
 the silence was unavoidable. Both instinct 
 ively dreaded with a pleasureable dread the 
 shock of speech. In a way this was the first 
 time the two had been alone with any chance 
 of a seclusion protracted beyond a very few 
 minutes. In the house was Aunt Harriet 
 Eustace, who feared a rose, as she might have 
 feared the plague, and, moreover, as Annie 
 comfortably knew, had imparted the knowledge 
 to Von Rosen as they had walked down the per 
 gola, that she would immediately fall asleep. 
 
 "Aunt Harriet always goes to sleep in her 
 chair after a cup of tea," Annie had said and 
 had then blushed redly. 
 
 "Does she?" asked Von Rosen with appar 
 ent absent-mindedness but in reality, keenly. 
 He excused himself for a moment, left Annie 
 
 233 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 233 
 
 standing in the pergola and hurried back to 
 the house, where he interviewed Jane Riggs, 
 and told her not to make any noise, as Miss 
 Eustace in the library would probably fall 
 asleep, as was her wont after a cup of tea. 
 Jane Riggs assented, but she looked after him 
 with a long, slow look. Then she nodded her 
 head stiffly and went on washing cups and sau 
 cers quietly. She spoke only one short sen 
 tence to herself. "He s a man and it s got to 
 be somebody. Better be her than anybody 
 else." 
 
 When the two at the end of the pergola be 
 gan talking, it was strangely enough about the 
 affair of the Syrian girl. 
 
 "I suppose, have always supposed, that the 
 poor young thing s husband came and stole his 
 little son," said Von Rosen. 
 
 "You would have adopted him?" asked 
 Annie in a shy voice. 
 
 "I think I would not have known any other 
 course to take," replied Von Rosen. 
 
 "It was very good of you," Annie said. She 
 cast a little glance of admiration at him. 
 
 Von Rosen laughed. "It *is not goodness 
 
234 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 which counts to one s credit when one is simply 
 chucked into it by Providence/ he returned. 
 
 Annie laughed. "To think of your speaking 
 of Providence as * chucking. " 
 
 "It is rather awful," admitted Von Eosen, 
 "but somehow I never do feel as if I need be 
 quite as straight-laced with you." 
 
 "Mr. von Eosen, you have talked with me ex 
 actly twice, and I am at a loss as to whether I 
 should consider that remark of yours as a com 
 pliment or not. " 
 
 "I meant it for one," said Von Eosen 
 earnestly. "I should not have used that ex 
 pression. What I meant was I felt that I 
 could be myself with you, and not weigh words 
 or split hairs. A clergyman has to do a lot 
 of that, you know, Miss Eustace, and some 
 times (perhaps all the time) he hates it; it 
 makes him feel like a hypocrite." 
 
 "Then it is all right," said Annie rather 
 vaguely. She gazed up at the weave of leaves 
 and blossoms, then down at the wavering car 
 pet of their shadows. 
 
 "It is lovely here," she said. 
 
 The young man looked at the slender young 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 235 
 
 creature in the blue gown and smiled with utter 
 content. 
 
 "It is very odd/ he said, "but nothing ex 
 cept blue and that particular shade of blue 
 would have harmonised/ 
 
 "I should have said green or pink." 
 
 "They would surely have clashed. If you 
 can t melt into nature, it is much safer to try 
 for a discord. You are much surer to chord. 
 That blue does chord, and I doubt if a green 
 would not have been a sort of swear word in 
 colour here." 
 
 "I am glad you like it," said Annie like a 
 school girl. She felt very much like one. 
 
 "I like you," Von Rosen said abruptly. 
 
 Annie said nothing. She sat very still. 
 
 "No, I don t like you. I love you," said 
 Von Rosen. 
 
 "How can you? You have talked with me 
 only twice." 
 
 "That makes no difference with me. Does 
 it with you?" 
 
 "No," said Annie, "but I am not at all sure 
 about" 
 
 "About what, dear?" 
 
236 THE BUTTERFLY HOIISE 
 
 " About what my aunts and grandmother will 
 say." 
 
 "Do you think they will object to me?" 
 
 "No-o." 
 
 "What is it makes you doubtful? I have a 
 little fortune of my own. I have an income 
 besides my salary. I can take care of you. 
 They can trust you to me." 
 
 Annie looked at him with a quick flush of re 
 sentment. "As if I would even think of such 
 a thing as that!" 
 
 "What then?" 
 
 "You will laugh, but grandmother is very 
 old, although she sits up so straight, and she 
 depends on me, and " 
 
 "And what?" 
 
 "If I married you, I could not, of course, 
 play pinocle with grandmother on Sunday." 
 
 "Oh, yes, you could. I most certainly should 
 not object." 
 
 "Then that makes it hopeless." 
 
 Von Kosen looked at her in perplexity. "1 
 am afraid I don t understand you, dear little 
 soul." 
 
 "No, you do not. You see, grandmother is 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 237 
 
 in reality very good, almost too good to live, 
 and thinking she is being a little wicked play 
 ing pinocle on Sunday when Aunt Harriet and 
 Aunt Susan don t know it, sort of keeps her 
 going. I don t just know why myself, but I 
 am sure of it. Now the minute she was sure 
 that you, who are the minister, did not object, 
 she would not care a bit about pinocle and it 
 would hurt her." 
 
 Annie looked inconceivably young. She 
 knitted her candid brows and stared at him 
 with round eyes of perplexity. Karl yon 
 Eosen shouted with laughter. 
 
 "Oh, well, if that is all," he said, "I object 
 strenuously to your playing pinocle with your 
 grandmother on Sunday. The only way you 
 can manage will be to play hookey from 
 church." 
 
 "I need not do that always, " said Annie, 
 "My aunts take naps Sunday afternoons, but 
 I am sure grandmother could keep awake if 
 she thought she could be wicked." 
 
 "Well, you can either play hookey from 
 church, or run away Sunday afternoons, or if 
 you prefer and she is able, I will drive your 
 
238 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 grandmother over here and you can play 
 pinocle in my study." 
 
 "Then I do think she will live to be a hun 
 dred," said Annie with a peal of laughter. 
 
 "Stop laughing and kiss me," said Von 
 Eosen. 
 
 "I seldom kiss anybody." 
 
 "That is the reason." 
 
 When Annie looked up from her lover s 
 shoulder, a pair of topaz eyes were mysteri 
 ously regarding her. 
 
 "The cat never saw me kiss anybody," said 
 Von Rosen. 
 
 "Do you think the cat knows?" asked Annie, 
 blushing and moving away a little. 
 
 "Who knows what any animal knows or does 
 not know?" replied Von Rosen. "When we 
 discover that mystery, we may have found the 
 key to existence." 
 
 Then the cat sprang into Annie s blue lap 
 and she stroked his yellow back and looked at 
 Von Rosen with eyes suddenly reflective, rather 
 coolly. 
 
 "After all, I, nor nobody else, ever heard of 
 such a thing as this," said she. "Do you mean 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 239 
 
 that you consider this an engagement ?" she 
 asked in astonishment. 
 
 "I most certainly do." 
 
 " After we have only really seen and talked 
 to each other twice!" 
 
 "It has been all our lives and we have just 
 found it out," said Von Rosen. "Of course, 
 it is unusual, but who cares? Do you?" 
 
 "No, I don t," said Annie. They leaned to 
 gether over the yellow cat and kissed each 
 other. 
 
 "But what an absurd minister s wife I shall 
 be," said Annie. "To think of your marrying 
 a girl who has staid at home from church and 
 played cards with her grandmother!" 
 
 "I am not at all sure," said Von Rosen, 
 "that you do not get more benefit, more spirit 
 ual benefit, than you would have done from my 
 sermons." 
 
 "I think," said Annie, "that you are just 
 about as funny a minister as I shall be a 
 minister s wife." 
 
 "I never thought I should be married at all." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "I did not care for women." 
 
240 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 "Then why do you now?" 
 
 "Because you are a woman." 
 
 Then there was a sudden movement in front 
 of them. The leaf-shadows flickered; the cat 
 jumped down from Annie s lap and ran away, 
 his great yellow plume of tail waving angrily, 
 and Margaret Edes stood before them. She was 
 faultlessly dressed as usual. A woman of her 
 type cannot be changed utterly by force of cir 
 cumstances in a short time. Her hat was loaded 
 with wisteria. She wore a wisteria gown of 
 soft wool. She held up her skirts daintily. A 
 great amethyst gleamed at her throat, but her 
 face, wearing a smile like a painted one, was 
 dreadful. It was inconceivable, but Margaret 
 Edes had actually in view the banality of con 
 fessing her sin to her minister. Of course, 
 Annie was the one who divined her purpose. 
 Von Rosen was simply bewildered. He rose, 
 and stood with an air of polite attention. 
 
 "Margaret," cried Annie, "Margaret!" 
 
 The man thought that his sweetheart was 
 simply embarrassed, because of discovery. He 
 did not understand why she bade him peremp 
 torily to please go in the house and see if Aunt 
 
They leaned together over the yellow cat and 
 kissed each other 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 241 
 
 Harriet were awake, that she wished to speak 
 to Mrs. Edes. He, however, went as bidden, 
 already discovering that man is as a child to a 
 woman when she is really in earnest. 
 
 When he was quite out of hearing, Annie 
 turned upon her friend. "Margaret," she 
 said, " Margaret, you must not." 
 
 Margaret turned her desperate eyes upon 
 Annie. "I did not know it would be like this," 
 she said. 
 
 "You must not tell him." 
 
 "I must." 
 
 "You must not, and all the more now." 
 
 "Why, now?" 
 
 "I am going to marry him." 
 
 "Then he ought to know." 
 
 "Then he ought not to know, for you have 
 drawn me into your web of deceit also. He 
 has talked to me about you and the book. I 
 have not betrayed you. You cannot betray 
 me." 
 
 "It will kill me. I did not know it would 
 be like this. I never blamed myself for any 
 thing before." 
 
 "It will not kill you, and if it does, you must 
 
242 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 bear it. You must not do your husband and 
 children such an awful harm." 
 
 "Wilbur is nominated for Senator. He 
 would have to give it up. He would go away 
 from Fairbridge. He is very proud," said 
 Margaret in a breathless voice, "but I must 
 tell." 
 
 "You cannot tell." 
 
 "The children talk of it all the time. They 
 look at me so. They wonder because they 
 think I have written that book. They tell all 
 the other children. Annie, I must confess to 
 somebody. I did not know it would be like 
 this." 
 
 "You cannot confess to anybody except 
 God," said Annie. 
 
 "I cannot tell my husband. I cannot tell 
 poor Wilbur, but I thought Mr. von Eosen 
 would tell him." 
 
 "You can not tell Mr. von Rosen. iYou have 
 done an awful wrong, and now you can not es 
 cape the fact that you have done it. You can 
 not get away from it." 
 
 "You are so hard." 
 
 "No, I am not hard," said Annie. "I did not 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 243 
 
 betray you there before them all, and neither 
 did Alice." 
 
 "Did Alice Mendon know!" asked Margaret 
 in an awful voice. 
 
 "Yes, I had told Alice. She was so hurt for 
 me that I think she might have told." 
 
 "Then she may tell now. I will go to her." 
 
 "She will not tell now. And I am not hard. 
 It is you who are hard upon yourself and that 
 nobody, least of all I, can help. You will have 
 to know this dreadful thing of yourself all your 
 life and you can never stop blaming yourself. 
 There is no way out of it. You can not ruin 
 your husband. You can not ruin your chil 
 dren s future and you cannot, after the wrong 
 you have done me, put me in the wrong, as you 
 would do if you told. By telling the truth, you 
 would put me to the lie, when I kept silence for 
 your sake and the sakes of your husband and 
 children." 
 
 "I did not know it would be like this," said 
 Margaret in her desperate voice. "I had done 
 nothing worth doing all my life and the hunger 
 to do something had tormented me. It seemed 
 easy, I did not know how I could blame myself. 
 
244 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 I have always thought so well of myself; I did 
 not know. Annie, for God s sake, let me tell. 
 You can t know how keenly I suffer, Annie. 
 Let me tell Mr. von Eosen. People always tell 
 ministers. Even if he does not tell Wilbur, 
 but perhaps he can tell him and soften it, it 
 would be a relief. People always tell min 
 isters, Annie." 
 
 It seemed improbable that Margaret Edes in 
 her wisteria costume could be speaking. Annie 
 regarded her with almost horror. She pitied 
 her, yet she could not understand. Margaret 
 had done something of which she herself was 
 absolutely incapable. She had the right to 
 throw the stone. She looked at a sinner whose 
 sin was beyond her comprehension. She pitied 
 the evident signs of distress, but her pity, al 
 though devoid of anger, was, in spite of herself, 
 coldly wondering. Moreover, Margaret had 
 been guilty in the eyes of the girl of a much 
 worse sin than the mere thievery of her book; 
 she had murdered love. Annie had loved Mar 
 garet greatly. No, she loved her no longer, 
 since the older woman had actually blasphemed 
 against the goddess whom the girl had shrined. 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 245 
 
 Had Margaret stolen from another, it would 
 have made no difference. The mere act had 
 destroyed herself as an image of love. Annie, 
 especially now that she was so happy, cared 
 nothing for the glory of which she had been de 
 prived. She had, in truth, never had much 
 hunger for fame, especially for herself. 
 She did not care when she thought how pleased 
 her lover would have been and her relatives, 
 but already the plan for another book was in 
 her brain, for the child was a creator, and no 
 blow like this had any lasting power over her 
 work. What she considered was Margaret s 
 revelation of herself as something else than 
 Margaret, and what she did resent bitterly was 
 being forced into deception in order to shield 
 her. She was in fact hard, although she did 
 not know it. Her usually gentle nature had 
 become like adamant before this. She felt un 
 like herself as she said bitterly: 
 
 "People do not always tell ministers, an3 
 you cannot tell Mr. von Rosen, Mar 
 garet. I forbid it. Go home and keep 
 still." 
 
 "I cannot bear it." 
 
246 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 "Yon must bear it." 
 
 "They are going to give me a dinner, the 
 Zenith Club/ said Margaret. 
 
 "You will have to accept it." 
 
 "I cannot, Annie Eustace, of what do you 
 think me capable? I am not as bad as you 
 think. I cannot and will not accept that dinner 
 and make the speech which they will expect and 
 hear all the congratulations which they will 
 offer. I cannot." 
 
 "You must accept the dinner, but I don t see 
 that you need make the speech," said Annie, 
 who was herself aghast over such extremity of 
 torture. 
 
 "I will not," said Margaret. She was very 
 pale and her lips were a tight line. Her eyes 
 were opaque and lustreless. She was in real 
 ity suffering what a less egotistical nature 
 could not even imagine. All her life had Mar 
 garet Edes worshipped and loved Margaret 
 Edes. Now she had done an awful thing. 
 The falling from the pedestal of a friend is 
 nothing to hurling oneself from one s height of 
 self-esteem and that she had done. She stood, 
 as it were, over the horrible body of her once 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 247 
 
 beautiful and adored self. She was not actu 
 ally remorseful and that made it all the worse. 
 She simply could not evade the dreadful glare 
 of light upon her own imperfections ; she who 
 had always thought of herself as perfect, but 
 the glare of knowledge came mostly from her 
 appreciation of the attitude of her friends and 
 lovers toward what she had done. Suppose 
 she went home and told Wilbur. Suppose she 
 said, "I did not write that book. My friend, 
 Annie Eustace, wrote it. I am a thief, and 
 worse than a thief." She knew just how he 
 would look at her, his wife, his Margaret, who 
 had never done wrong in his eyes. For the 
 first time in her life she was afraid, and yet 
 how could she live and bear such torture and 
 not confess? Confession would be like a per 
 son ill unto death, giving up, and seeking the 
 peace of a sick chamber and the rest of bed and 
 the care of a physician. She had come to feel 
 like that and yet, confession would be like a 
 fiery torture. Margaret had in some almost 
 insane fashion come to feel that she might con 
 fess to a minister, a man of God, and ease her 
 soul, without more. And she had never been 
 
248 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 religious, and would have formerly smiled in 
 serene scorn at her own state of mind. And 
 Ihere was the other woman whom she had 
 wronged, forbidding her this one little possi 
 bility of comfort. 
 
 She said again humbly, "Let me tell him, 
 [Annie. He will only think the more of you be 
 cause you shielded me." 
 
 But Annie was full of scorn which Margaret 
 Could not understand since her nature was not 
 so fine. "Do you think I wish him to!" she 
 said, but in a whisper because she heard voices 
 and footsteps. "You cannot tell him, Mar 
 garet." 
 
 Then Von Eosen and Aunt Harriet, whose 
 eyes were dim with recent sleep, came in sight, 
 and Harriet Eustace, who had not seen Mar 
 garet since the club meeting, immediately 
 seized upon her two hands and kissed her and 
 congratulated her. 
 
 "You dear, wonderful creature," she said, 
 "we are all so proud of you. Fairbridge is so 
 proud of you and as for us, we can only feel 
 honoured that our little Annie has such a 
 friend. We trust that she will profit by your 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 249 
 
 friendship and we realise that it is such a privi 
 lege for her." 
 
 " Thank you," said Margaret. She turned 
 her head aside. It was rather dreadful, and 
 Annie realised it. 
 
 Von Rosen stood by smiling. "I am glad to 
 join in the congratulations," he said. "In 
 these days of many books, it is a great achieve 
 ment to have one singled out for special notice. 
 I have not yet had the pleasure of reading the 
 book, but shall certainly have it soon." 
 
 " Thank you," said Margaret again. 
 
 "She should give you an autograph copy," 
 said Harriet Eustace. 
 
 "Yes," said Margaret. She drew aside 
 Annie and whispered, "I shall tell my hus 
 band then. I shall." 
 
 Then she bade them good afternoon in her 
 usually graceful way; murmured something 
 about a little business which she had with 
 Annie and flitted down the pergola in a cloud 
 of wisteria. 
 
 "It does seem wonderful," said Harriet 
 Eustace, "that she should have written that 
 book." 
 
250 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 Von Rosen glanced at Annie with an inquir 
 ing expression. He wondered whether she 
 wished him to announce their engagement to 
 her aunt. The amazing suddenness of it all 
 had begun to daunt him. He was in consider 
 able doubt as to what Miss Harriet Eustace, 
 who was a most conservative lady, who had al 
 ways done exactly the things which a lady 
 under similar circumstances might be expected 
 to do, who always said the things to be ex 
 pected, would say to this, which must, of course, 
 savour very much of the unexpected. Von 
 Rosen was entirely sure that Miss Harriet 
 Eustace would be scarcely able to conceive of a 
 marriage engagement of her niece especially 
 with a clergyman without all the formal pre 
 liminaries of courtship, and he knew well that 
 preliminaries had hardly existed, in the us 
 ual sense of the term. He felt absurdly shy, 
 and he was very much relieved when 
 finally Miss Harriet and Annie took their 
 leave and he had said nothing about the en 
 gagement. Miss Harriet said a great deal 
 about his most interesting and improving col 
 lection. She was a woman of a patronising 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 251 
 
 turn of mind and she made Von Eosen feel like 
 a little boy. 
 
 "I especially appreciate the favour for the 
 sake of my niece," she said. "It is so desir 
 able for the minds of the young to be im 
 proved." Von Rosen murmured a polite ac 
 quiescence. She had spoken of his tall, lovely 
 girl as if she were in short skirts. Miss Har 
 riet continued: 
 
 "When I consider what Mrs. Edes has 
 done," she said, "written a book which has 
 made her famous, I realise how exceedingly 
 important it is for the minds of the young to 
 be improved. It is good for Annie to know 
 Mrs. Edes so intimately, I think." 
 
 For the first time poor Annie was conscious 
 of a distinct sense of wrath. Here she herself 
 had written that book and her mind, in order to 
 have written it, must be every whit as improved 
 as Margaret Edes and her Aunt Harriet was 
 belittling her before her lover. It was a strug 
 gle to maintain silence, especially as her aunt 
 went on talking in a still more exasperating 
 manner. 
 
 "I always considered Mrs. Wilbur Edes as 
 
252 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 a very unusual woman," said she, "but of 
 course, this was unexpected. I am so thank 
 ful that Annie has the great honour of her 
 friendship. Of course, Annie can never do what 
 Mrs. Edes has done. She herself knows that 
 she lacks talent and also concentration. Annie, 
 you know you have never finished that daisy 
 centre piece which you begun surely six months 
 ago. I am quite sure that Mrs. Edes would 
 have finished it in a week." 
 
 Annie did lose patience at that. "Margaret 
 just loathes fancy work, Aunt Harriet," said 
 she. "She would never even have begun that 
 centre piece." 
 
 "It is much better never to begin a piece of 
 work than never to finish it," replied Aunt 
 Harriet, "and Mrs. Edes, my dear, has been 
 engaged in much more important work. If you 
 had written a book which had made you fa 
 mous, no one could venture to complain of your 
 lack of industry with regard to the daisy centre 
 piece. But I am sure that Mrs. Edes, in order 
 to have written that book of which everybody 
 is talking, must have displayed much industry 
 and concentration in all the minor matters of 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 253 
 
 life. I think you must be mistaken, my dear. 
 I am quite sure that Mrs. Edes has not neg 
 lected work." 
 
 Annie made no rejoinder, but her aunt did 
 not seem to notice it. 
 
 "I am so thankful, Mr. von Rosen," said she, 
 "that my niece has the honour of being counted 
 among the friends of such a remarkable wo 
 man. May I inquire if Mrs. Edes has ever 
 seen your really extraordinary collection, Mr. 
 von Rosen." 
 
 "No, she has not seen it," replied Von Rosen, 
 and he looked annoyed. Without in the least 
 understanding the real trend of the matter, he 
 did not like to hear his sweetheart addressed 
 after such a fashion, even though he had no 
 inkling of the real state of affairs. To his 
 mind, this exquisite little Annie, grimy daisy 
 centre piece and all, had accomplished much 
 more in simply being herself, than had Mar 
 garet Edes with her much blazoned book. 
 
 "I trust that she will yet see it," said Miss 
 Harriet Eustace. Harriet Eustace was tall, dull 
 skinned and wide mouthed, and she had a fash 
 ion, because she had been told from childhood 
 
254 THE BUTTEEFLY HOUSE 
 
 that her mouth was wide, of constantly pucker 
 ing it as if she were eating alum. 
 
 "I shall be of course pleased to show Mrs. 
 Edes my collection at any time," said Von 
 Eosen politely. 
 
 "I hope she will see it," said Harriet, puck 
 ering, "it is so improving, and if anything is 
 improving to the ordinary mind, what must it 
 be to the mind of genius 1 9 
 
 The two took leave then, Annie walking be 
 hind her aunt. The sidewalk which was en 
 croached upon by grass was very narrow. 
 Annie did not speak at all. She heard her aunt 
 talking incessantly without realising the sub 
 stance of what she said. Her own brain was 
 overwhelmed with bewilderment and happiness. 
 Here was she, Annie Eustace, engaged to be 
 married and to the right man. The combina 
 tion was astounding. Annie had been con 
 scious ever since she had first seen him, that 
 Karl von Eosen dwelt at the back of her 
 thoughts, but she was rather a well disciplined 
 girl. She had not allowed herself the luxury 
 of any dreams concerning him and herself. 
 She had not considered the possibility of his 
 
,THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 255 
 
 caring for her, not because she underestimated 
 herself, but because she overestimated him. 
 Now, she knew he cared, he cared, and he 
 wanted to marry her, to make her his wife. 
 After she had reached home, when they were 
 seated at the tea table, she did not think of tell 
 ing anybody. She ate and felt as if she were 
 in a blissful crystal sphere of isolation. It did 
 not occur to her to reveal her secret until she 
 went into her grandmother s room rather late 
 to bid her good night. Annie had been sitting 
 by herself on the front piazza and allowing her 
 self a perfect feast in future air-castles. She 
 could see from where she sat, the lights from 
 the windows of the Edes house, and she heard 
 Wilbur s voice, and now and then his laugh. 
 Margaret s voice, she never heard at all. 
 Annie went into the chamber, the best in the 
 house, and there lay her grandmother, old Ann 
 Maria Eustace, propped up in bed, reading a 
 novel which was not allowed in the Fairbridge 
 library. She had bidden Annie buy it for her, 
 when she last went to New York. 
 
 "I wouldn t ask a girl to buy such a book," 
 the old lady had said, "but nobody will know 
 
256 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 you and I have read so many notices about its 
 wickedness, I want to see it for myself. 
 
 Now she looked up when Annie entered. 
 "It is not wicked at all," she said in rather a 
 disappointed tone. "It is much too dull. In 
 order to make a book wicked, it must be, at 
 least, somewhat entertaining. The writer 
 speaks of wicked things, but in such a very 
 moral fashion that it is all like a sermon. I 
 don t like the book at all. At the same time a 
 girl like you had better not read it and you had 
 better see that Harriet and Susan don t get a 
 glimpse of it. They would be set into fits. It 
 is a strange thing that both my daughters 
 should be such old maids to the bone and mar 
 row. You can read it though if you wish, 
 Annie. I doubt if you understand the wicked 
 ness anyway, and I don t want you to grow up 
 straight-laced like Harriet and Susan. It is 
 really a misfortune. They lose a lot." 
 
 Then Annie spoke. "I shall not be an old 
 maid, I think," said she. "I am going to be 
 married. 
 
 "Married! Who is going to marry you? I 
 haven t seen a man in this house except the 
 
BUTTERFLY HOUSE 257 
 
 doctor and the minister for the last twenty 
 years/ 
 
 "I am going to marry the minister, Mr. von 
 Rosen." 
 
 "Lord/ said Annie s grandmother, and 
 stared at her. She was a queer looking old lady 
 propped up on a flat pillow with her wicked 
 book. She had removed the front-piece which 
 she wore by day and her face showed large and 
 rosy between the frills of her night cap. Her 
 china blue eyes were exceedingly keen and 
 bright. Her mouth as large as her daughter 
 Harriet s, not puckered at all, but frankly open 
 in an alarming slit, in her amazement. 
 
 "When for goodness sake has the man 
 courted you?" she burst forth at last. 
 
 "I don t know." 
 
 "Well, I don t know, if you don t. You 
 haven t been meeting him outside the house. 
 No, you have not. You are a lady, if you have 
 been brought up by old maids, who tell lies 
 about spades." 
 
 "I did not know until this afternoon," said 
 Annie. "Mr. von Rosen and I went out to see 
 his rose-garden, while Aunt Harriet " 
 
258 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 Then the old lady shook the bed with mirth. 
 
 "I see," said she. " Harriet is scared to 
 death of roses and she went to sleep in the 
 house and you got your chance. Good for you. 
 I am thankful the Eustace family won t quite 
 sputter out in old maids." The old lady con 
 tinued to chuckle. Annie feared lest her aunts 
 might hear. Beside the bed stood a table with 
 the collection of things which was Ann Maria 
 Eustace s nightly requirement. There were a 
 good many things. First was a shaded read 
 ing lamp, then a candle and a matchbox; there 
 was a plate of thin bread and butter carefully 
 folded in a napkin. A glass of milk, covered 
 with a glass dish ; two bottles of medicine ; two 
 spoons; a saucer of sugared raspberries; ex 
 actly one square inch of American cheese on a 
 tiny plate ; a pitcher of water, carefully covered ; 
 a tumbler ; a glass of port wine and a bottle of 
 camphor. Old Ann Maria Eustace took most 
 of her sustenance at night. Night was really 
 her happy time. When that worn, soft old 
 bulk of hers was ensconsed among her soft pil 
 lows and feather bed and she had her eatables 
 and drinkables and literature at hand, she was 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 259 
 
 in her happiest mood and she was none the less 
 happy from the knowledge that her daughters 
 considered that any well conducted old woman 
 should have beside her bed, merely a stand with 
 a fair linen cloth, a glass of water, a candle 
 and the Good Book, and that if she could not 
 go immediately to sleep, she should lie quietly 
 and say over texts and hymns to herself. All 
 Ann Maria s spice of life was got from a hid 
 den antagonism to her daughters and quietly 
 flying in the face of their prejudices, and she 
 was the sort of old lady who could hardly have 
 lived at all without spice. 
 
 "Your Aunt Harriet will be hopping," said 
 the perverse old lady with another chuckle. 
 
 "Why, grandmother?" 
 
 "Harriet has had an eye on him herself." 
 
 Annie gasped. "Aunt Harriet must be at 
 least twenty-five years older," said she. 
 
 "Hm," said the old lady, "that doesn t 
 amount to anything. Harriet didn t put on 
 her pearl breast-pin and crimp her hair unless 
 she had something in her mind. Susan has 
 given up, but Harriet hasn t given up." 
 
 Annie still looked aghast. 
 
260 THE BUTTEKFLY HOUSE 
 
 "When are you going to get married! " 
 
 asked the old lady. 
 
 "I don t know." 
 
 "Haven t settled that yet? Well, when you 
 do, there s the white satin embroidered with 
 white roses that I was married in and my old 
 lace veil. I think he s a nice young man. All 
 I have against him is his calling. You will 
 have to go to meeting whether you want to or 
 not and listen to the same man s sermons. 
 But he is good looking and they say he has 
 money, and anyway, the Eustaces won t peter 
 out in old maids. There s one thing I am 
 sorry about. Sunday is going to be a pretty 
 long day for me, after you are married, and I 
 suppose before. If you are going to marry 
 that man, I suppose you will have to begin go 
 ing to meeting at once." 
 
 Then Annie spoke decidedly. "I am always 
 going to play pinocle with you Sunday fore 
 noons as long as you live, grandmother," said 
 she. 
 
 "After you are married?" 
 
 "Yes, I am." 
 
 "After you are married to a minister?" 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 261 
 
 "Yes, grandmother. " 
 
 The old lady sat up straight and eyed Annie 
 with her delighted china blue gaze. 
 
 "Mr. von Eosen is a lucky man," said she. 
 "Enough sight luckier than he knows. You 
 are just like me, Annie Eustace, and your 
 grandfather set his eyes by me as long as he 
 lived. A good woman who has sense enough 
 not to follow all the rules and precepts and 
 keep good, isn t found every day, and she can 
 hold a man and holding a man is about as tough 
 a job as the Almighty ever set a woman. I ve 
 got a pearl necklace and a ring in the bank. 
 Harriet has always wanted them but what is 
 the use of a born old maid decking herself out? 
 I always knew Harriet and Susan would be old 
 maids. Why, they would never let their doll- 
 babies be seen without all their clothes on, 
 seemed to think there was something indecent 
 about cotton cloth legs stuffed with sawdust. 
 When you see a little girl as silly as that you 
 can always be sure she is cut out for an old 
 maid. I don t care when you get married 
 just as soon as you want to and you shall 
 have a pretty wedding and you shall 
 
262 THE BUTTEKFLY HOUSE 
 
 have your wedding cake made after my old re 
 cipe. You are a good girl, Annie. You look 
 like me. You are enough sight better than you 
 would be if you were better, and you can make 
 what you can out of that. Now, you must go 
 to bed. You haven t told Harriet and Susan 
 yet, have you!" 
 
 "No, grandmother." 
 
 "I ll tell them myself in the morning," said 
 the old lady with a chuckle which made her 
 ancient face a mask of mirth and mischief, 
 "Now, you run along and go to bed. This book 
 is dull, but I want to see how wicked the writer 
 tried to make it and the heroine is just making 
 an awful effort to run away with a married 
 man. She won t succeed, but I want to see how 
 near she gets to it. Good-night, Annie. iYou 
 can have the book to-morrow." 
 
 Annie went to her own room but she made no 
 preparation for bed. She had planned to work 
 as she had worked lately until nearly morning. 
 She was hurrying to complete another book 
 which she had begun before Margaret Edes 
 announcement that she had written The Poor 
 Lady. The speedy completion of this book had 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 263 
 
 been the condition of secrecy with her publish 
 ers. However, Annie, before she lit the lamp 
 on her table could not resist the desire to sit 
 for a minute beside her window and gaze out 
 upon the lovely night and revel in her wonder 
 ful happiness. The night was lovely enough 
 for anyone, and for a girl in the rapture of her 
 first love, it was as beautiful as heaven. The 
 broad village gleaming like silver in the moon 
 light satisfied her as well as a street of gold 
 and the tree shadows waved softly over every 
 thing like wings of benediction. Sweet odours 
 came in her face. She could see the soft pallor 
 of a clump of lilies in the front yard. The 
 shrilling of the night insects seemed like the 
 calls of prophets of happiness. The lights had 
 gone out of the windows of the Edes house, but 
 suddenly she heard a faint, very faint, but very 
 terrible cry and a white figure rushed out of 
 the Edes gate. Annie did not wait a second. 
 She was up, out of her room, sliding down the 
 stair banisters after the habit of her childhood 
 and after it. 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 MABGABET EDES, light and slender and supple 
 as she was, and moreover rendered swift with 
 the terrible spur of hysteria, was no match for 
 [Annie Eustace who had the build of a racing 
 human, being long-winded and limber* Annie 
 caught up with her, just before they reached 
 Alice Mendon s house, and had her held by one 
 arm. Margaret gave a stifled shriek. Even in 
 hysteria, she did not quite lose her head. She 
 had unusual self-control. 
 
 "Let me go," she gasped. Annie saw that 
 Margaret carried a suit-case, which had prob 
 ably somewhat hindered her movements. "Let 
 me go, I shall miss the ten-thirty train," Mar 
 garet said in her breathless voice. 
 
 "Where are you going?" 
 
 "I am going." 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 "Anywhere,=^away from it all." 
 
 The two struggled together as far as Alice s 
 gate, and to Annie s great relief, a tall figure 
 
 264 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 265 
 
 appeared, Alice herself. She opened the gate 
 and came on Margaret s other side. 
 
 "What is the matter f " she asked. 
 
 "I am going to take the ten-thirty train/ 
 said Margaret. 
 
 " Where are you going 1" 
 
 " To New York. 
 
 "Where in New York!" 
 
 "I am going." 
 
 "You are not going," said Alice Mendon; 
 "you will return quietly to your own home like 
 a sensible woman. You are running away, and 
 you know it." 
 
 "Yes, I am," said Margaret in her desper 
 ate voice. "You would run away if you were 
 in my place, Alice Mendon." 
 
 "I could never be in your place," said Alice, 
 "but if I were, I should stay and face the situa 
 tion." She spoke with quite undisguised scorn 
 and yet with pity. 
 
 "You must think of your husband and chil 
 dren and not entirely of yourself," she added. 
 
 "If," said Margaret, stammering as she 
 spoke, "I tell Wilbur, I think it will kill him. 
 If I tell the children, they will never really; 
 
266 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 have a mother again. They will never forget. 
 But if I do not tell, I shall not have myself. It 
 is a horrible thing not to have yourself, Alice 
 Mendon." 
 
 "It is the only way." 
 
 "It is easy for you to talk, Alice Mendon. 
 You have never been tempted." 
 
 "No," replied Alice, "that is quite true. I 
 have never been tempted because I cannot be 
 tempted." 
 
 "It is no credit to you. You were made 
 so." 
 
 "Yes, that is true also. I was made so. It 
 is no credit to me." 
 
 Margaret tried to wrench her arm free from 
 Annie s grasp. 
 
 "Let me go, Annie Eustace," she said. "I 
 hate you." 
 
 "I don t care if you do," replied Annie. "I 
 don t love you any more myself. I don t hate 
 you, but I certainly don t love you." 
 
 "I stole your laurels," said Margaret, and 
 she seemed to snap out the words. 
 
 "You could have had the laurels," said 
 Annie, "without stealing, if I could have given 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 267 
 
 them to you. It is not the laurels that matter. 
 It is you." 
 
 "I will kill myself if it ever is known," said 
 Margaret in a low horrified whisper. She 
 cowered. 
 
 It will never be known unless you yourself 
 tell it, said Annie. 
 
 "I cannot tell," said Margaret. "I have 
 thought it all over. I canot tell and yet, how 
 can I live and not tell?" 
 
 "I suppose," said Alice Mendon, "that al 
 ways when people do wrong, they have to endure 
 punishment. I suppose that is your punish 
 ment, Margaret. You have always loved your 
 self and now you will have to despise yourself. 
 I don t see any way out of it." 
 
 "I am not the only woman who does such 
 things," said Margaret, and there was defiance 
 in her tone. 
 
 "No douht, you have company," said Alice. 
 "That does not make it easier for you." 
 Alice, large and fair in her white draperies, 
 towered over Margaret Edes like an embodied 
 conscience. She was almost unendurable, like 
 the ideal of which the other woman had fallen 
 
268 THE BU.TTEBFLY HOUSE 
 
 short. Her mere presence was maddening. 
 Margaret actually grimaced at her. 
 
 "It is easy for you to preach," said she," very 
 easy, Alice Mendon. You have not a nerve in 
 your whole body. You have not an ungrati- 
 fied ambition. You neither love nor hate your 
 self, or other people. You want nothing on 
 earth enough to make the lack of it disturb 
 you." 
 
 "How well you read me," said Alice and she 
 smiled a large calm smile as a statue might 
 smile, could she relax her beautiful marble 
 mouth. 
 
 "And as for Annie Eustace," said Margaret, 
 "she has what I stole, and she knows it, and 
 that is enough for her. Oh, both of you look 
 down upon me and I know it." 
 
 "I look down upon you no more than I have 
 always done," said Alice; but Annie was silent 
 because she could not say that truly. 
 
 "Yes, I know you have always looked down 
 upon me, Alice Mendon," said Margaret, "and 
 you never had reason." 
 
 "I had the reason," said Alice, "that your 
 own deeds have proved true." 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 269 
 
 "You could not know that I would do such a 
 thing. I did not know it myself. Why, I 
 never knew that Annie Eustace could write a 
 book." 
 
 "I knew that a self-lover could do anything 
 and everything to further her own ends," said 
 Alice in her inexorable voice, which yet con 
 tained an undertone of pity. 
 
 She pitied Margaret far more than Annie 
 could pity her for she had not loved her so 
 much. She felt the little arm tremble in her 
 clasp and her hand tightened upon it as a 
 mother s might have done. 
 
 "Now, we have had enough of this," said 
 she, "quite enough. Margaret, you must posi 
 tively go home at once. I will take your suit 
 case, and return it to you to-morrow. I shall 
 be out driving. You can get in without being 
 seen, can t you?" 
 
 "I tell you both, I am going," said Margaret; 
 "I cannot face what is before me." 
 
 "All creation has to face what is before. 
 Running makes no difference," said Alice. 
 "You will meet it at the end of every mile. 
 Margaret Edes, go home. Take care of your 
 
270 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 husband, and your children and keep your se 
 cret and let it tear you for your own good." 
 
 "They are to nominate Wilbur for Senator," 
 said Margaret. "If they knew, if he knew, 
 Wilbur would not run. He has always had am 
 bition. I should kill it." 
 
 "You will not kill it," said Alice. "Here, 
 give me that suit-case, I will set it inside the 
 gate here. Now Annie and I will walk with 
 you and you must steal in and not wake any 
 body and go to bed and to sleep." 
 
 "To sleep," repeated Margaret bitterly. 
 
 "Then not to sleep, but you must go." 
 
 The three passed down the moon-silvered 
 road. When they had reached Margaret s 
 door, Alice suddenly put an arm around her 
 and kissed her. 
 
 "Go in as softly as you can, and to bed," she 
 whispered. 
 
 "What made you do that, Alice?" asked 
 Annie in a small voice when the door had closed 
 behind Margaret. 
 
 "I think I am beginning to love her," whis 
 pered Alice. "Now you know what we must 
 do, Annie?" 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 271 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "We must both watch until dawn, until after 
 that train to New York which stops here at 
 three-thirty. You must stand here and I will 
 go to the other door. Thank God, there are 
 only two doors, and I don t think she will try 
 the windows because she won t suspect our be 
 ing here. But I don t trust her, poor thing. 
 She is desperate. You stay here, Annie. Sit 
 down close to the door and you won t be 
 afraid?" 
 
 "Oh, no!" 
 
 "Of course, there is nothing to be afraid of," 
 said Alice. "Now I will go to the other door." 
 
 Annie sat there until the moon sank. She 
 did not feel in the least sleepy. She sat there 
 and counted up her joys of life and almost for 
 got poor Margaret who had trampled hers in 
 the dust raised by her own feet of self-seeking. 
 Then came the whistle and roar of a train and 
 Alice stole around the house. 
 
 "It is safe enough for us to go now," said 
 she. "That was the last train. Do you think 
 you can get in your house without waking any 
 body?" 
 
272 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 " There is no danger unless I wake grand 
 mother. She wakes very early of herself and 
 she may not be asleep and her hearing is very 
 quick. 
 
 "What will she say!" 
 
 "I think I can manage her." 
 
 "Well, we must hurry. It is lucky that my 
 room is away from the others or I should not 
 he sure of getting there unsuspected. Hurry, 
 Annie." 
 
 The two sped swiftly and noiselessly down 
 the street, which was now very dark. The vil 
 lage houses seemed rather awful with their 
 dark windows like sightless eyes. When they 
 reached Annie s house Alice gave her a swift 
 kiss. "Good-night," she whispered. 
 
 "Alice." 
 
 "Well, little Annie?" 
 
 "I am going to be married, to Mr. Von 
 Eosen." 
 
 Alice started ever so slightly. "You are a 
 lucky girl," she whispered, "and he is a lucky 
 man." 
 
 Alice flickered out of sight down the street 
 like a white moonbeam and Annie stole into 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 273 
 
 the house. She dared not lock the door behind 
 her lest she arouse somebody. She tip-toed 
 upstairs, but as she was passing her grand 
 mother s door, it was opened, and the old wo 
 man stood there, her face lit by her flaring 
 candle. 
 
 "You just march right in here," said she so 
 loud that Annie shuddered for fear she 
 would arouse the whole house. She followed 
 her grandmother into her room and the old wo 
 man turned and looked at her, and her face was 
 white. 
 
 "Where have you been, Miss?" said she. 
 "It is after three o clock in the morning." 
 
 "I had to go, grandmother, and there was 
 no harm, but I can t tell you. Indeed, I can t," 
 replied Annie, trembling. 
 
 "Why can t you? I d like to know." 
 "I can t, indeed, I can t, grandmother." 
 "Why not, I d like to know. Pretty doings, 
 I call it." 
 
 "I can t tell you why not, grandmother." 
 The old woman eyed the girl. "Out with a 
 man I don t care if you are engaged to him 
 till this time!" said she. 
 
274 THE BUTTEEFLY HOUSE 
 
 Annie started and crimsoned. "Oh, grand 
 mother!" she cried. 
 
 "I don t care if he is a minister. I am going 
 to see him to-morrow, no, to-day, right after 
 breakfast and give him a piece of my mind. I 
 don t care what he thinks of me." 
 
 "Grandmother, there wasn t any man." 
 
 "Are you telling me the truth?" 
 
 "I always tell the truth." 
 
 "Yes, I think you always have since that 
 time when you were a little girl and I spanked 
 you for lying," said the old woman. "I rather 
 think you do tell the truth, but sometimes when 
 a girl gets a man into her head, she goes round 
 like a top. You haven t been alone, you needn t 
 tell me that." 
 
 "No, I haven t been alone." 
 
 "But, he wasn t with you? There wasn t 
 any man?" 
 
 "No, there was not any man, grandmother." 
 
 "Then you had better get into your own 
 room as fast as you can and move still or you 
 will wake up Harriet and Susan." 
 
 Annie went. 
 
 "I am thankful I am not curious," said the 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 275 
 
 old woman clambering back into bed. She lit 
 her lamp and took up her novel again. 
 
 The next morning old Ann Maria Eustace 
 announced her granddaughter s engagement at 
 the breakfast table. She waited until the meal 
 was in full swing, then she raised her voice. 
 
 "Well, girls," she said, looking first at Har 
 riet, then at Susan, "I have some good news 
 for you. Our little Annie here is too modest, 
 so I have to tell you for her." 
 
 Harriet Eustace laughed unsuspiciously. 
 "Don t tell us that Annie has been writing a 
 great anonymous novel like Margaret Edes," 
 she said, and Susan laughed also. "Whatever 
 news it may be, it is not that," she said. "No 
 body could suspect Annie of writing a book. 
 I myself was not so much surprised at Mar 
 garet Edes." 
 
 To Annie s consternation, her grandmother 
 turned upon her a long, slow, reading look. 
 She flushed under it and swallowed a spoon 
 ful of cereal hastily. Then her grandmother 
 chuckled under her breath and her china blue 
 eyes twinkled. 
 
 "Annie has done something a deal better 
 
276 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 than to write a book," said she, looking away 
 from the girl, and fixing unsparing eyes upon 
 her daughters. "She has found a nice man to 
 marry her." 
 
 Harriet and Susan dropped their spoons and 
 stared at their mother. 
 
 "Mother, what are you talking about?" said 
 Harriet sharply. "She has had no attention." 
 
 "Sometimes," drawled the old lady in a way 
 she affected when she wished to be exasperat 
 ing, "sometimes, a little attention is so strong 
 that it counts and sometimes attention is at 
 tention when nobody thinks it is." 
 
 ( Who is it 1 " asked Harriet in rather a hard 
 voice. Susan regarded Annie with a bewil 
 dered, yet kindly smile. Poor Susan had never 
 regarded the honey pots of life as intended 
 for herself, and thus could feel a kindly interest 
 in their acquisition by others. 
 
 "My granddaughter is engaged to be mar 
 ried to Mr. von Rosen," said the old lady. 
 Then she stirred her coffee assiduously. 
 
 Susan rose and kissed Annie. "I hope you 
 will be happy, very happy," she said in an 
 awed voice. Harriet rose, to follow her sis- 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 277 
 
 ter s example but she looked viciously at her 
 mother. 
 
 "He is a good ten years older than Annie, " 
 she said. 
 
 "And a good twenty-five younger than you," 
 said the old lady, and sipped her coffee deli 
 cately. "He is just the right age for Annie." 
 
 Harriet kissed Annie, but her lips were cold 
 and Annie wondered. It never occurred to her 
 then, nor later, to imagine that her Aunt Har 
 riet might have had her own dreams which 
 had never entirely ended in rainbow mists. 
 She did not know how hardly dreams die. 
 They are sometimes not entirely stamped out 
 during a long lifetime. 
 
 That evening Von Rosen came to call on 
 Annie and she received him alone in the best 
 parlour. She felt embarrassed and shy, but 
 very happy. Her lover brought her an engage 
 ment ring, a great pearl, which had been his 
 mother s and put it on her finger, and Annie 
 eyed her finger with a big round gaze like a 
 bird s. Von Rosen laughed at the girl holding 
 up her hand and staring at the beringed finger. 
 
 "Don t you like it, dear?" he said. 
 
278 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 1 It is the most beautiful ring I ever saw," 
 said Annie, "but I keep thinking it may not 
 be true." 
 
 "The truest things in the world are the 
 things which do not seem so," he said, and 
 caught up the slender hand and kissed the ring 
 and the finger. 
 
 Margaret on the verandah had seen Von 
 Rosen enter the Eustace house and had guessed 
 dully at the reason. She had always thought 
 that Von Rosen would eventually marry Alice 
 Mendon and she wondered a little, but not much. 
 Her own affairs were entirely sufficient to oc 
 cupy her mind. Her position had become more 
 impossible to alter and more ghastly. That 
 night Wilbur had brought home a present to 
 celebrate her success. It was something which 
 she had long wanted and which she knew he 
 could ill afford: a circlet of topazes for 
 her hair. She kissed him and put it on to 
 please him, but it was to her as if she were 
 crowned because of her infamy and she longed 
 to snatch the thing off and trample it. And 
 yet always she was well aware that it was not 
 remorse which she felt, but a miserable humilia- 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 279 
 
 tion that she, Margaret Edes, should have cause 
 for remorse. The whole day had been hideous. 
 The letters and calls of congratulation had been 
 incessant. There were brief notices in -a few 
 papers which had been marked and sent to her 
 and Wilbur had brought them home also. Her 
 post-office box had been crammed. There were 
 requests for her autograph. There were re 
 quests for aid from charitable institutions. 
 There were requests for advice and assistance 
 from young authors. She had two packages 
 of manuscripts sent her for inspection concern 
 ing their merits. One was a short story, and 
 came through the mail; one was a book and 
 came by express. She had requests for work 
 from editors and publishers. Wilbur had 
 brought a letter of congratulation from his 
 partner. It was absolutely impossible for her 
 to draw back except for that ignoble reason: 
 the reinstatement of herself in her own esteem. 
 She could not possibly receive all this unde 
 served adulation and retain her self esteem. 
 It was all more than she had counted upon. 
 She had opened Pandora s box with a ven 
 geance and the stinging things swarmed over 
 
280 THE BUTTEKFLY HOUSE 
 
 her. Wilbur sat on the verandah with her and 
 scarcely took his eyes of adoring wonder from 
 her face. She had sent the little girls to bed 
 early. They had told all their playmates and 
 talked incessantly with childish bragging. 
 They seemd to mock her as with peacock eyes, 
 symbolic of her own vanity. 
 
 "You sent the poor little things to bed very 
 early," Wilbur said. "They did so enjoy talk 
 ing over their mother s triumph. It is the 
 greatest day of their lives, you know, Mar 
 garet." 
 
 "I am tired of it," Margaret said sharply, 
 but Wilbur s look of worship deepened. 
 
 "You are so modest, sweetheart," he said and 
 Margaret writhed. Poor Wilbur had been 
 reading The Poor Lady instead of his beloved 
 newspapers and now and then he quoted a pas 
 sage which he remembered, with astonishing ac 
 curacy. 
 
 "Say, darling, you are a marvel," he would 
 remark after every quotation. "Now, how in 
 the world did you ever manage to think that 
 up? I suppose just this minute, as you sit 
 there looking so sweet in your white dress, just 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 281 
 
 such things are floating through your brain, 
 eht" 
 
 "No, they are not," replied Margaret. Oh, 
 if she had only understood the horrible depth 
 of a lie ! 
 
 "Suppose Von Rosen is making up to little 
 Annie f" said Wilbur presently. 
 
 "I don t know." 
 
 "Well, she is a nice little thing, sweet tem 
 pered, and pretty, although of course her men 
 tal calibre is limited. She may make a good 
 wife, though. A man doesn t expect his wife 
 always to set the river on fire as you have done, 
 sweetheart." 
 
 Then Wilbur fished from his pockets a lot 
 of samples. "Thought I must order a new 
 suit, to live up to my wife," he said. "See 
 which you prefer, Margaret." 
 
 "I should think your own political outlook 
 would make the new suit necessary," said Mar 
 garet tartly. 
 
 "Not a bit of it. Get more votes if you look 
 a bit shabby from the sort who I expect may 
 get me the office," laughed Wilbur. "This 
 new suit is simply to enable me to look worthy, 
 
282 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 as far as my clothes are concerned, of my 
 famous wife. 7 
 
 "I think you have already clothes enough," 
 said Margaret coldly. 
 
 Wilbur looked hurt. " Doesn t make much 
 difference how the old man looks, does it, 
 dear?" said he. 
 
 "Let me see the samples," Margaret re 
 turned with an effort. There were depths be 
 yond depths ; there were bottomless quicksands 
 in a lie. How could she have known? 
 
 That night Wilbur looked into his wife s bed 
 room at midnight. " Awake I" he asked in his 
 monosyllabic fashion. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Say, old girl, Von Eosen has just this min 
 ute gone. Guess it s a match fast enough." 
 
 "I always thought it would be Alice," re 
 turned Margaret wearily. Love affairs did 
 seem so trivial to her at this juncture. 
 
 "Alice Mendon has never cared a snap about 
 getting married any way," returned Wilbur. 
 "Some women are built that way. She is." 
 
 Margaret did not inquire how he knew. If 
 Wilbur had told her that he had himself asked 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 283 
 
 Alice in marriage, it would have been as if she 
 had not heard. All such things seemed very 
 unimportant to her in the awful depths of her 
 lie. She said good-night in answer to Wilbur s 
 and again fell to thinking. There was no way 
 out, absolutely no way. She must live and die 
 with this secret self-knowledge which abased 
 her, gnawing at the heart. Wilbur had told 
 her that he believed that her authorship of The 
 Poor Lady might be the turning point of his 
 election. She was tongue-tied in a horrible 
 spiritual sense. She was disfigured for the rest 
 of her life and she could never once turn away; 
 her eyes from her disfigurement. 
 
 The light from Annie Eustace s window 
 shone in her room for two hours after that. 
 She wondered what she was doing and guessed 
 Annie was writing a new novel to take the place 
 of the one of which she had robbed her. An 
 acute desire which was like a pain to be herself 
 the injured instead of the injurer possessed her. 
 Oh, what would it mean to be Annie sitting 
 there, without leisure to brood over her new 
 happiness, working, working, into the morning 
 hours and have nothing to look upon except 
 
284 THE BUTTEBFLY HOUSE 
 
 moral and physical beauty in her mental look 
 ing-glass. She envied the poor girl, who was 
 really working beyond her strength, as she had 
 never envied any human being. The envy 
 stung her, and she could not sleep. The next 
 morning she looked ill and then she had to en 
 dure Wilbur s solicitude. 
 
 "Poor girl, you overworked writing your 
 splendid book," he said. Then he suggested 
 that she spend a month at an expensive sea 
 shore resort and another horror was upon Mar 
 garet. Wilbur, she well knew, could not afford 
 to send her to such a place, but was innocently, 
 albeit rather shamefacedly, assuming that she 
 could defray her own expenses from the reve 
 nue of her book. He would never call her to 
 account as to what she had done with the wealth 
 which he supposed her to be reaping. She was 
 well aware of that, but he would naturally won 
 der within himself. Any man would. She 
 said that she was quite well, that she hated a 
 big hotel, and much preferred home during the 
 hot season, but she heard the roar of these new 
 breakers. How could she have dreamed of the 
 lifelong disturbance which a lie" could cause? 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 285 
 
 Night after night she saw the light in Annie s 
 windows and she knew what she was doing. 
 She knew why she was not to be married until 
 next winter. That book had to be written first. 
 Poor Annie could not enjoy her romance to the 
 full because of over-work. The girl lost flesh 
 and Margaret knew why. Preparing one s 
 trousseau, living in a love affair, and writing 
 a book, are rather strenuous, when undertaken 
 at the same time. 
 
 It was February when Annie and Von Eosen 
 were married and the wedding was very quiet. 
 Annie had over-worked, but her book was pub 
 lished, and was out-selling The Poor Lady. It 
 also was published anonymously, but Margaret 
 knew, she knew even from the reviews. Then 
 she bought the book and read it and was con 
 vinced. The book was really an important 
 work. The writer had gone far beyond her 
 first flight, but there was something unmistak 
 able about the style to such a jealous reader as 
 Margaret. Annie had her success after all. 
 She wore her laurels, although unseen of men, 
 with her orange blossoms. Margaret saw in 
 every paper, in great headlines, the notice of 
 
286 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 the great seller. The best novel for a twelve 
 month The Firm Hand. Wilbur talked much 
 about it. He had his election. He was a Sena 
 tor, and was quietly proud of it, but nothing 
 mattered to him as much as Margaret s book. 
 That meant more than his own success. 
 
 "I have read that novel they are talking so 
 much about and it cannot compare with yours, " 
 he told her. "The publishers ought to push 
 yours a little more. Do you think I ought to 
 look in on them and have a little heart-to-heart 
 talk?" 
 
 Margaret s face was ghastly. "Don t do 
 anything of the sort," she said. 
 
 "Well, I won t if you don t want me to, 
 but" 
 
 "I most certainly don t want you to." Then 
 Margaret never had a day of peace. She 
 feared lest Wilbur, who seemed nightly more 
 incensed at the flaming notices of The Firm 
 Hand might, in spite of her remonstrances, go 
 to see the publishers, and would they keep the 
 secret if he did? 
 
 Margaret continued to live as she had done 
 before. That was part of the horror. She 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 287 
 
 dared not resign from the Zenith Club. How 
 ever, she came in time to get a sort of comfort 
 from it. Meeting all those members, presiding 
 over the meetings, became a sort of secret flag 
 ellation, which served as a counter irritation, 
 for her tormented soul. All those women 
 thought well of her. They admired her. The 
 acute torture which she derived from her 
 knowledge of herself, as compared with their 
 opinion of her, seemed at times to go a little 
 way toward squaring her account with her bet 
 ter self. And the club also seemd to rouse 
 within her a keener vitality of her better self. 
 Especially when the New Year came and Mrs. 
 Slade was elected president in her stead. Once, 
 Margaret would have been incapable of accept 
 ing that situation so gracefully. She gave a 
 reception to Mrs. Slade in honour of her elec 
 tion, and that night had a little return of her 
 lost peace. Then during one of the meetings, 
 a really good paper was read, which set her 
 thinking. That evening she played dominoes 
 with Maida and Adelaide, and always after that 
 a game followed dinner. The mother became 
 intimate with her children. She really loved 
 
288 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 them because of her loss of love for herself, 
 and because the heart must hold love. She 
 loved her husband too, but he realised no dif 
 ference because he had loved her. That cold 
 ness had had no headway against such doting 
 worship. But the children realised. 
 
 " Mamma is so much better since she wrote 
 that book that I shall be glad when you are old 
 enough to write a book too," Adelaide said 
 once to Maida. 
 
 But always Margaret suffered horribly, al 
 though she gave no sign. She took care of her 
 beauty. She was more particular than ever 
 about her dress. She entertained, she accepted 
 every invitation, and they multiplied since Wil 
 bur s flight in politics and her own reputed 
 authorship. She was Spartan in her courage, 
 but she suffered, because she saw herself as she 
 was and she had so loved herself. It was not 
 until Annie Eustace was married that she ob 
 tained the slightest relief. Then she ascer 
 tained that the friend whom she had robbed of 
 her laurels had obtained a newer and greener 
 crown of them. She went to the wedding and 
 saw on a table, Annie s new book. She glanced 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 289 
 
 at it and she knew and she wondered if Von 
 Rosen knew. He did not. 
 
 Annie waited until after their return from 
 their short wedding journey when they were 
 settled in their home. Then one evening, 
 seated with her husband before the fire in the 
 study, with the yellow cat in her lap, and the 
 bull terrier on the rug, his white skin rosy in 
 the firelight, she said : 
 
 "Karl, I have something to tell you." 
 
 Von Rosen looked lovingly at her. "Well, 
 Heart" 
 
 "It is nothing, only you must not tell, for the 
 publishers insist upon its being anonymous, I 
 e wrote Tlie Firm Hand." 
 
 Von Rosen made a startled exclamation and 
 looked at Annie and she could not understand 
 the look. 
 
 6 1 Are you displeased f she faltered. Don *t 
 you like me to write? I will never neglect you 
 or our home because of it. Indeed I will not." 
 
 "Displeased," said Von Rosen. He got up 
 and deliberately knelt before her. "I am 
 proud that you are my wife," he said, "prouder 
 than I am of anything else in the wor.ld." 
 
290 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 "Please get up, dear," said Annie, "but I 
 am so glad, although it is really I who am 
 proud, because I have you for my husband. I 
 feel all covered over with peacock s eyes." 
 
 "I cannot imagine a human soul less like a 
 peacock," said Von Rosen. He put his arms 
 around her as he knelt, and kissed her, and the 
 yellow cat gave an indignant little snarl and 
 jumped down. He was jealous. 
 
 "Sit down," said Annie, laughing. "I 
 thought the time had come to tell you and I 
 hoped you would be pleased. It is lovely, isn t 
 it? You know it is selling wonderfully." 
 
 "It is lovely," said Von Rosen. "It would 
 have been lovely anyway, but your success is a 
 mighty sweet morsel for me." 
 
 "You had better go back to your chair and 
 smoke and I will read to you," said Annie. 
 
 "Just as if you had not written a successful 
 novel," said Von Rosen. But he obeyed, the 
 more readily because he knew, and pride and 
 reverence for his wife fairly dazed him. Von 
 Rosen had been more acute than the critics and 
 Annie had written at high pressure, and one 
 can go over a book a thousand times and be 
 
THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 291 
 
 blind to things which should be seen. She had 
 repeated one little sentence which she had writ 
 ten in The Poor Lady. Von Rosen knew, but 
 he never told her that he knew. He bowed be 
 fore her great, generous silence as he would 
 have bowed before a shrine, but he knew that 
 she had written The Poor Lady, and had al 
 lowed Margaret Edes to claim unquestioned the 
 honour of her work. 
 
 As they sat there, Annie s Aunt Susan came 
 in and sat with them. She talked a good deal 
 about the wedding presents. Wedding pres 
 ents were very wonderful to her. They were 
 still spread out, most of them on tables in the 
 parlour because all Fairbridge was interested 
 in viewing them. After a while Susan went 
 into the parlour and gloated over the presents. 
 When she came back, she wore a slightly dis 
 gusted expression. 
 
 "You have beautiful presents," said she, 
 "but I have been looking all around and the 
 presents are not all on those tables, are they?" 
 
 "No," said Annie. 
 
 Von Rosen laughed. He knew what was com 
 ing, or thought that he did. 
 
292 THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 
 
 "I see," said Aunt Susan, "that you have 
 forty-two copies of Margaret .Edes book, The 
 Poor Lady, and I have always thought it was 
 a very silly book, and you can t exchange them 
 for every single one is autographed." 
 
 It was quite true. Poor Margaret Edes had 
 autographed the forty-two. She had not even 
 dreamed of the incalculable depths of a lie. 
 
 THE END 
 
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 WILL INCREASE TO SO CENTS ON THE FOURTH 
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 OVERDUE. 
 
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 DEC 9 1936 
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