The Butterfly House | Page 8

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 to hesitate for a second.
Then a look of calm determination overspread her face. She whispered
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 Fairbridge, 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 denominations 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
eligible from a matrimonial point of view, when he gained a certain

fleeting distinction. Otherwise 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
admittedly engaged in a cause worthy of the highest respect and
veneration. The Cause commanded it, not they. They had always lacked
social prestige in Fairbridge, except, as before stated, in the cases of the
matrimonially eligible.
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 Fairbridge. He was,
seemingly, quite oblivious to its importance. Karl von Rosen was bored
to the verge of physical illness by Fairbridge functions. Even a church
affair found him wearily to the front. Therefore his presence at the
Zenith Club was unprecedented and confounding. He had often been
asked to attend its special meetings but had never accepted. 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 Fairbridge, 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 the wool of
rainbow sheep in distant pastures.
If there was anything in which Karl von Rosen 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 whenever he was sure that he was unobserved he took a boyish
run and long slide. During his walk he had reached Mrs. Slade's house,
and since he worked in his pastoral calls whenever he could, by
applying a sharp spur to his disinclination, 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 unimportant, 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 assumed a slightly mincing attitude. Her
thin hands trembled more, the hot, red spots on her thin cheeks
deepened. Reading the club reports before the minister was an epoch in
an epochless life, but Karl von Rosen was oblivious of her