CHAPTER XVIII
GOLDEN BUTTERFLIES
If you are one of those captious people who mustverify by the calendar every new moon you read of ina book, and if you are pained to discover the historianlifting anchor and spreading sail contrary to the reckoningsof the nautical almanac, I beg to call your attentionto these items from the time-table of the Mid-Westernand Southern Railway for December, 1901.
The south-bound express passed Annandale at exactlyfifty-three minutes after four P. M. It was scheduledto reach Cincinnati at eleven o’clock sharp. Theseitems are, I trust, sufficiently explicit.
To the student of morals and motives I will say afurther word. I had resolved to practise deception inrunning away from Glenarm House to keep my promiseto Marian Devereux. By leaving I should forfeitmy right to any part of my grandfather’s estate; Iknew that and accepted the issue without regret; but Ihad no intention of surrendering Glenarm House toArthur Pickering, particularly now that I realized howcompletely I had placed myself in his trap. I felt,moreover, a duty to my dead grandfather; and—notleast—the attacks of Morgan and the strange ways ofBates had stirred whatever fighting blood there was inme. Pickering and I were engaged in a sharp contest,and I was beginning to enjoy it to the full, but I did notfalter in my determination to visit Cincinnati, hopingto return without my absence being discovered; so thenext afternoon I began preparing for my journey.
“Bates, I fear that I’m taking a severe cold and I’mgoing to dose myself with whisky and quinine and goto bed. I shan’t want any dinner,—nothing until yousee me again.”
I yawned and stretched myself with a groan.
“I’m very sorry, sir. Shan’t I call a doctor?”
“Not a bit of it. I’ll sleep it off and be as lively asa cricket in the morning.”
At four o’clock I told him to carry some hot waterand lemons to my room; bade him an emphatic goodnight and locked the door as he left. Then I packedmy evening clothes in a suit-case. I threw the bag anda heavy ulster from a window, swung myself out uponthe limb of a big maple and let it bend under me to itssharpest curve and then dropped lightly to the ground.
I passed the gate and struck off toward the villagewith a joyful sense of freedom. When I reached thestation I sought at once the south-bound platform, notwishing to be seen buying a ticket. A few other passengerswere assembling, but I saw no one I recognized.Number six, I heard the agent say, was on time; andin a few minutes it came roaring up. I bought a seatin the Washington sleeper and went into the dining-carfor supper. The train was full of people hurrying tovarious ports for the holidays, but they had, I reflected,no advantage over me. I, too, was bound on a definiteerrand, though my journey was, I imagined, less commonplacein its character than the homing flight ofmost of my fellow travelers.
I made myself comfortable and dozed and dreamed asthe train plunged through the dark. There was a wait,with much shifting of cars, where we crossed the Wabash,then we sped on. It grew warmer as we drewsouthward, and the conductor was confident we shouldreach Cincinnati on time. The through passengers aboutme went to bed, and I was left sprawled out in my opensection, lurking on the shadowy frontier between theknown world and dreamland.
“We’re running into Cincinnati—ten minutes late,”said the porter’s voice; and in a moment I was in thevestibule and out, hurrying to a hotel. At the St.Botolph I ordered a carriage and broke all recordschanging my clothes. The time-table informed me thatthe Northern express left at half-past one. There wasno reason why I should not be safe at Glenarm Houseby my usual breakfast hour if all went well. To avoidloss of time in returning to the station I paid the hotelcharge and carried my bag away with me.
“Doctor Armstrong’s residence? Yes, sir; I’ve alreadytaken one load there”
The carriage was soon climbing what seemed to be amountain to the heights above Cincinnati. To this dayI associate Ohio’s most interesting city with a lonelycarriage ride that seemed to be chiefly uphill, througha region that was as strange to me as a trackless junglein the wilds of Africa. And my heart began to performstrange tattoos on my ribs I was going to the houseof a gentleman who did not know of my existence, tosee a girl who was his guest, to whom I had never, asthe conventions go, been presented. It did not seemhalf so easy, now that I was well launched upon the adventure.
I stopped the cabman just as he was about to enteran iron gateway whose posts bore two great lamps.
“That is all right, sir. I can drive right in.”
“But you needn’t,” I said, jumping out. “Wait here.”
Doctor Armstrong’s residence was brilliantly lighted,and the strains of a waltz stole across the lawn cheerily.Several carriages swept past me as I followed the walk.I was arriving at a fashionable hour—it was nearlytwelve—and just how to effect an entrance without beingthrown out as an interloper was a formidable problem,now that I had reached the house. I must catchmy train home, and this left no margin for explanationto an outraged host whose first impulse would verylikely be to turn me over to the police.
I made a detour and studied the house, seeking adoor by which I could enter without passing the unfriendlyGibraltar of a host and hostess on guard towelcome belated guests.
A long conservatory filled with tropical plants gaveme my opportunity. Promenaders went idly throughand out into another part of the house by an exit Icould not see. A handsome, spectacled gentlemanopened a glass door within a yard of where I stood,sniffed the air, and said to his companion, as he turnedback with a shrug into the conservatory:
“There’s no sign of snow. It isn’t Christmas weatherat all.”
He strolled away through the palms, and I instantlythrew off my ulster and hat, cast them behind somebushes, and boldly opened the door and entered.
The ball-room was on the third floor, but the guestswere straggling down to supper, and I took my standat the foot of the broad stairway and glanced up carelessly,as though waiting for some one. It was a largeand brilliant company and many a lovely face passedme as I stood waiting. The very size of the gatheringgave me security, and I smoothed my gloves complacently.
The spectacled gentleman whose breath of night airhad given me a valued hint of the open conservatorydoor came now and stood beside me. He even put hishand on my arm with intimate friendliness.
There was a sound of mirth and scampering feet inthe hall above and then down the steps, between thelines of guests arrested in their descent, came a darklaughing girl in the garb of Little Red Riding Hood,amid general applause and laughter.
“It’s Olivia! She’s won the wager!” exclaimed thespectacled gentleman, and the girl, whose dark curlswere shaken about her face, ran up to us and threwher arms about him and kissed him. It was a charmingpicture,—the figures on the stairway, the pretty gracefulchild, the eager, happy faces all about. I was toomuch interested by this scene of the comedy to be uncomfortable.
Then, at the top of the stair, her height accented byher gown of white, stood Marian Devereux, hesitatingan instant, as a bird pauses before taking wing, and thenlaughingly running between the lines to where Oliviafaced her in mock abjection. To the charm of the girlin the woodland was added now the dignity of beautifulwomanhood, and my heart leaped at the thoughtthat I had ever spoken to her, that I was there becauseshe had taunted me with the risk of coming.
At the top of the stair, her height accented by her gown of white,stood Marian Devereux.]
Above, on the stair landing, a deep-toned clock beganto strike midnight and every one cried “Merry Christmas!”and “Olivia’s won!” and there was more hand-clapping,in which I joined with good will.
Some one behind me was explaining what had justoccurred. Olivia, the youngest daughter of the house,had been denied a glimpse of the ball; Miss Devereuxhad made a wager with her host that Olivia would appearbefore midnight; and Olivia had defeated the plotagainst her, and gained the main hall at the stroke ofChristmas.
“Good night! Good night!” called Olivia—the realOlivia—in derision to the company,
and turned and ranback through the applauding, laughing throng.
The spectacled gentleman was Olivia’s father, and hemockingly rebuked Marian Devereux for having encouragedan infraction of parental discipline, while shewas twitting him upon the loss of his wager. Then hereyes rested upon me for the first time. She smiledslightly, but continued talking placidly to her host.The situation did not please me; I had not traveled sofar and burglariously entered Doctor Armstrong’s housein quest of a girl with blue eyes merely to stand by whileshe talked to another man.
I drew nearer, impatiently; and was conscious thatfour other young men in white waistcoats and glovesquite as irreproachable as my own stood ready to claimher the instant she was free. I did not propose to bethwarted by the beaux of Cincinnati, so I stepped towardDoctor Armstrong.
“I beg your pardon, Doctor—,” I said with an assurancefor which I blush to this hour.
“All right, my boy; I, too, have been in Arcady!” heexclaimed in cheerful apology, and she put her handon my arm and I led her away.
“He called me ‘my boy,’ so I must be passing muster,”I remarked, not daring to look at her.
“He’s afraid not to recognize you. His inability toremember faces is a town joke.”
We reached a quiet corner of the great hall and Ifound a seat for her.
“You don’t seem surprised to see me,—you knew Iwould come. I should have come across the world forthis,—for just this.”
Her eyes were grave at once.
“Why did you come? I did not think you were sofoolish. This is all—so wretched,—so unfortunate. Youdidn’t know that Mr. Pickering—Mr. Pickering—”
She was greatly distressed and this name came fromher chokingly.
“Yes; what of him?” I laughed. “He is well on hisway to California,—and without you!”
She spoke hurriedly, eagerly, bending toward me.
“No—you don’t know—you don’t understand—he’shere; he abandoned his California trip at Chicago; hetelegraphed me to expect him—here—to-night! Youmust go at once,—at once!”
“Ah, but you can’t frighten me,” I said, trying torealize just what a meeting with Pickering in that housemight mean.
“No,”—she looked anxiously about,—”they were toarrive late, he and the Taylors; they know the Armstrongsquite well. They may come at any momentnow. Please go!”
“But I have only a few minutes myself,—youwouldn’t have me sit them out in the station downtown? There are some things I have come to say, andArthur Pickering and I are not afraid of each other!”
“But you must not meet him here! Think what thatwould mean to me! You are very foolhardy, Mr. Glenarm.I had no idea you would come—”
“But you wished to try me,—you challenged me.”
“That wasn’t me,—it was Olivia,” she laughed, moreat ease, “I thought—”
“Yes, what did you think?” I asked. “That I wastied hand and foot by a dead man’s money?”
“No, it wasn’t that wretched fortune; but I enjoyedplaying the child before you—I really love Olivia—andit seemed that the fairies were protecting me and thatI could play being a child to the very end of the chapterwithout any real mischief coming of it. I wishI were Olivia!” she declared, her eyes away from me.
“That’s rather idle. I’m not really sure yet whatyour name is, and I don’t care. Let’s imagine that wehaven’t any names,—I’m sure my name isn’t of anyuse, and I’ll be glad to go nameless all my days ifonly—”
“If only—” she repeated idly, opening and closingher fan. It was a frail blue trifle, painted in goldenbutterflies.
“There are so many ‘if onlies’ that I hesitate tochoose; but I will venture one. If only you will comeback to St. Agatha’s! Not to-morrow, or the next day,but, say, with the first bluebirds. I believe they arethe harbingers up there.”
Her very ease was a balm to my spirit; she was nowa veritable daughter of repose. One arm in its longwhite sheath lay quiet in her lap; her right hand heldthe golden butterflies against the soft curve of her cheek.A collar of pearls clasped her throat and accented theclear girlish lines of her profile. I felt the appeal ofher youth and purity. It was like a cry in my heart,and I forgot the dreary house by the lake, and Pickeringand the weeks within the stone walls of my prison.
“The friends who know me best never expect me topromise to be anywhere at a given time. I can’t tell;perhaps I shall follow the bluebirds to Indiana; butwhy should I, when I can’t play being Olivia anymore?”
“No! I am very dull. That note of apology youwrote from the school really fooled me. But I haveseen the real Olivia now. I don’t want you to go toofar—not where I can’t follow—this flight I shall hardlydare repeat.”
Her lips closed—like a rose that had gone back to bea bud again—and she pondered a moment, slowly freeingand imprisoning the golden butterflies.
“You have risked a fortune, Mr. Glenarm, very, veryfoolishly,—and more—if you are found here. Why,Olivia must have recognized you! She must have seenyou often across the wall.”
“But I don’t care—I’m not staying at that ruin upthere for money. My grandfather meant more to methan that—”
“Yes; I believe that is so. He was a dear old gentleman;and he liked me because I thought his jokes adorable.My father and he had known each other. Butthere was—no expectation—no wish to profit by hisfriendship. My name in his will is a great embarrassment,a source of real annoyance. The newspapershave printed dreadful pictures of me. That is why Isay to you, quite frankly, that I wouldn’t accept a centof Mr. Glenarm’s money if it were offered me; andthat is why,”—and her smile was a flash of spring,—“Iwant you to obey the terms of the will and earn yourfortune.”
She closed the fan sharply and lifted her eyes to mine.
“But there isn’t any fortune! It’s all a myth, a joke,”I declared.
“Mr. Pickering doesn’t seem to think so. He hadevery reason for believing that Mr. Glenarm was a veryrich man. The property can’t be found in the usualplaces,—banks, safety vaults, and the like. Then wheredo you think it is,—or better, where do you thinkMr. Pickering thinks it is?”
“But assuming that it’s buried up there by the lakelike a pirate’s treasure, it isn’t Pickering’s if he findsit. There are laws to protect even the dead from robbery!”I concluded hotly.
“How difficult you are! Suppose you should fallfrom a boat, or be shot—accidentally—then I mighthave to take the fortune after all; and Mr. Pickeringmight think of an easier way of getting it than by—”
“Stealing it! Yes, but you wouldn’t—!”
Half-past twelve struck on the stairway and I startedto my feet.
“You wouldn’t—” I repeated.
“I might, you know!”
“I must go,—but not with that, not with any hint ofthat,—please!”
“If you let him defeat you, if you fail to spend youryear there,—we’ll overlook this one lapse,”—she lookedme steadily in the eyes, wholly guiltless of coquetry butinfinitely kind,—“then,—”
She paused, opened the fan, held it up to the lightand studied the golden butterflies.
“Yes—”
“Then—let me see—oh, I shall never chase anotherrabbit as long as I live! Now go—quickly—quickly!”
“But you haven’t told me when and where it was wemet the first time. Please!”
She laughed, but urged me away with her eyes.
“I shan’t do it! It isn’t proper for me to remember,if your memory is so poor. I wonder how it would seemfor us to meet just once—and be introduced! Goodnight! You really came. You are a gentleman of yourword, Squire Glenarm!”
She gave me the tips of her fingers without lookingat me.
A servant came in hurriedly.
“Miss Devereux, Mr. and Mrs. Taylor and Mr. Pickeringare in the drawing-room.”
“Yes; very well; I will come at once.”
Then to me:
“They must not see yo
u—there, that way!” and shestood in the door, facing me, her hands lightly touchingthe frame as though to secure my way.
I turned for a last look and saw her waiting—hereyes bent gravely upon me, her arms still half-raised,barring the door; then she turned swiftly away into thehall.
Outside I found my hat and coat, and wakened mysleeping driver. He drove like mad into the city, andI swung upon the north-bound sleeper just as it wasdrawing out of the station.