The Butterfly House | Page 4

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 Friday, in
preference to any other day in 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 alighting from the train. Sometimes they did
not even open the carriage doors, but they, however, saw to it that they
were closed when once the passenger was within, and that was
something. 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 Fitzgerald, or Witless was driving
with an utter indifference to the tightening of lines at dangerous places,
and also realised that it was Friday, some strength of character was
doubtless required.
One Friday in January, two young women, one married, one single, one
very pretty, and both well-dressed (most of the women who belonged
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, 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 coupé. Jim had not sufficient
energy to tuck it in firmly, although the wind was sharp from the
northwest.
Alice Mendon paid no attention to it, but her companion, Daisy Shaw,
otherwise Mrs. Sumner 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.
"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 querulously. "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 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 affected by the passing years.
She had had rather an eventful life, but not an event, pleasant or
otherwise, had left its mark upon the smooth oval of her face. There
was not a side nor retrospective glance to disturb the serenity 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 plumes and one red one curled down toward the soft
spikes of the fur. Between, the two great blue eyes, the soft oval of the
cheeks, and the pleasant red fullness 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,