THE LADY OF THE WHITE BUTTERFLIES
TITANIA: And pluck the wings from painted butterflies,
To fan the moonbeams from his sleeping eyes:
Nod to him, elves, and do him courtesies.
PEASEBLOSSOM: Hail, mortal!
--_Midsummer Night's Dream_.
The twitter of swallows in the eaves wakened me to the first light of
day, and after I had taken a dip in the creek I still seemed to be sole
proprietor of the world, so quiet lay field and woodland. I followed
the lake shore to a fishermen's camp, where, in the good comradeship of
outdoors men the world over, I got bread and coffee and no questions
asked. I smoked a pipe with the fishermen to kill time, and it was
still but a trifle after six o'clock when I started for Red Gate. My
mood was not for the open road, and I sought woodland paths, that I
might loiter the more. With squirrels scampering before me, and
attended by bird-song and the morning drum-beat of the woodpecker, I
strode on until I came out upon a series of rough pastures, separated
by stake-and-rider fences that crawled sinuously through tangles of
blackberries and wild roses. As I tramped along a cow-path that
traversed these pastures, the dew sparkled on the short grass, and
wings whirred and dipped in salutation before me. My memories of the
night vanished in the perfection of the day; I went forth to no renewal
of acquaintance with shadows, or with the lurking figures in a dark
drama, but to enchantments that were fresh with life and light. Barred
gates separated these fallow fields, and I passed through one, crossed
the intermediate pasture, and opened the gate of the third. Before me
lay a field of daisies, bobbing amid wild grass, the morning wind
softly stirring the myriad disks, so that the whole had the effect of
quiet motion. The path led on again, but more faintly here. A line of
sycamores two hundred yards to my right marked the bed of the
Tippecanoe; and on my left hand, beyond a walnut grove, a little filmy
dust-cloud hung above the hidden highway. The meadow was a place of
utter peace; the very air spoke of holy things. I thrust my cap into
my jacket pocket and stood watching the wind crisp the flowers. Then
my attention wandered to the mad antics of a squirrel that ran along
the fence.
When I turned to the field again I saw Rosalind coming toward me along
the path, clad in white, hatless, and her hands lightly brushing the
lush grass that seemed to leap up to touch them. She had not seen me,
and I drew back a little for love of the picture she made. Three white
butterflies fluttered about her head, like an appointed guard of honor,
and she caught at them with her hands, turning her head to watch their
staggering flight.
[Illustration: Three white butterflies fluttered about her head.]
She paused abruptly midway of the daisies, and I walked toward her
slowly--it must have been slowly--and I think we were both glad of a
moment's respite in which to study each other. Then she spoke at once,
as though our meeting had been prearranged.
"I hoped I should see you," she said gravely.
"I had every intention of seeing you! I was killing time until I felt
I might decently lift the latch of Red Gate."
She inspected me with her hands clasped behind her.
"Please don't look at me like that!" I laughed. "I camped in a barn
last night for fear I shouldn't get here in time."
"I wish to speak to you for a few minutes--to tell you what you may
have guessed about us--my father and me."
"Yes; if you like; but only to help you if I can. It is not necessary
for you to tell me anything."
She turned and led the way across the daisy field. She walked swiftly,
holding back her skirts from the crowding flowers, traversed the garden
of Red Gate, and continued down to the house-boat.
"We can be quiet here," she said, throwing open the door. "My father
is at Tippecanoe village, shipping one of his canoes. We are early
risers, you see!"
The little sitting-room adjoining the shop was calm and cool, and the
ripple of the creek was only an emphasis of the prevailing rural quiet.
She sat down by the table in a red-cushioned wicker chair and folded
her hands in her lap and smiled a little as she saw me regarding her
fixedly. I suppose I had expected to find her clad in saffron robes or
in doublet and hose, but the very crispness of her white pique spoke
delightfully of present times and manners. My glance rested on the
emerald ring; then I looked into her eyes again.
"You see I am really very different," she smiled. "I'm not the same
person at all!"
"No; it's wonderful--wonderful!" And I still stared.
She grew grave again.
"I have important things to say to you, but it's just as well for you
to see me in the broadest of daylight, so that"--she pondered a moment,
as though to be sure of expressing herself clearly--"so that when you
see Helen Holbrook in an hour or so in that pretty garden by the lake
you will understand that it was not really Rosalind after all
that--that--amused you!"
"But the daylight is not helping that idea. You are marvelously alike,
and yet--" I floundered miserably in my uncertainty.
"Then,"--and she smiled at my discomfiture, "if you can't tell us
apart, it makes no difference whether you ever see me again or not.
You see, Mr.--but _did_ you ever tell me what your name is? Well, I
know it, anyhow, Mr. Donovan."
The little work-table was between us, and on it lay the foil which her
father had snatched from the wall the night before. I still stood,
gazing down at Rosalind. Fashion, I saw, had done something for the
amazing resemblance. She wore her hair in the pompadour of the day,
with exactly Helen's sweep; and her white gown was identical with that
worn that year by thousands of young women. She had even the same
gestures, the same little way of resting her cheek against her hand
that Helen had; and before she spoke she moved her head a trifle to one
side, with a pretty suggestion of just having been startled from a
reverie, that was Helen's trick precisely.
She forgot for a moment our serious affairs, to which I was not in the
least anxious to turn, in her amusement at my perplexity.
"It must be even more extraordinary than I imagined. I have not seen
Helen for seven years. She is my cousin; and when we were children
together at Stamford our mothers used to dress us alike to further the
resemblance. Our mothers, you may not know, were not only sisters;
they were twin sisters! But Helen is, I think, a trifle taller than I
am. This little mark"--she touched the peak--"is really very curious.
Both our mothers and our grandmother had it. And you see that I speak
a little more rapidly than she does--at least that used to be the case.
I don't know my grown-up cousin at all. We probably have different
tastes, temperaments, and all that."
"I am positive of it!" I exclaimed; yet I was really sure of nothing,
save that I was talking to an exceedingly pretty girl, who was
amazingly like another very pretty girl whom I knew much better.
"You are her guardian, so to speak, Mr. Donovan. You are taking care
of my Aunt Pat and my cousin. Just how that came about I don't know."
"They were sent to St. Agatha's by Father Stoddard, an old friend of
mine. They had suffered many annoyances, to put it mildly, and came
here to get away from their troubles."
"Yes; I understand. Uncle Henry has acted outrageously. I have not
ranged the country at night for nothing. I have even learned a few
things from you," she laughed. "And you must continue to serve Aunt
Patricia and my cousin. You see,"--and she smiled her grave smile--"my
father and I are an antagonistic element."
"No; not as between you and Miss Patricia! I'm sure of that. It is
Henry Holbrook that I am to protect her from. You and your father do
not enter into it."
"If you don't mind telling me, Mr. Donovan, I should like to know
whether Aunt Pat has mentioned us."
"Only once, when I first saw her and she explained why she had come.
She seemed greatly moved when she spoke of your father. Since then she
has never referred to him. But the day we cruised up to Battle Orchard
and Henry Holbrook's man tried to smash our launch, she was shaken out
of herself, and she declared war when we got home. Then I was on the
lake with her the night of the carnival. Helen did not go with us.
And when you paddled by us, Miss Pat was quite disturbed at the sight
of you; but she thought it was an illusion, and--I thought it was
Helen!"
"I have been home only a few weeks, but I came just in time to be with
father in his troubles. My uncle's enmity is very bitter, as you have
seen. I do not understand it. Father has told me little of their
difficulties; but I know," she said, lifting her head proudly, "I know
that my father has done nothing dishonorable. He has told me so, and I
am content with that."
I bowed, not knowing what to say.
"I have been here only once or twice before, and for short visits only.
Most of the time I have been at a convent in Canada, where I was known
as Rosalind Hartridge. Rosalind, you know, is really my name: I was
named for Helen's mother. The Sisters took pity on my loneliness, and
were very kind to me. But now I am never going to leave my father
again."
She spoke with no unkindness or bitterness, but with a gravity born of
deep feeling. I marked now the lighter _timbre_ of her voice, that was
quite different from her cousin's; and she spoke more rapidly, as she
had said, her naturally quick speech catching at times the cadence of
cultivated French. And she was a simpler nature--I felt that; she was
really very unlike Helen.
"You manage a canoe pretty well," I ventured, still studying her face,
her voice, her ways, eagerly.
"That was very foolish, wasn't it?--my running in behind the procession
that way!" and she laughed softly at the recollection. "But that was
professional pride! That was one of my father's best canoes, and he
helped me to decorate it. He takes a great delight in his work; it's
all he has left! And I wanted to show those people at Port Annandale
what a really fine canoe--a genuine Hartridge--was like. I did not
expect to run into you or Aunt Pat."
"You should have gone on and claimed the prize. It was yours of right.
When your star vanished I thought the world had come to an end."
"It hadn't, you see! I put out the lights so that I could get home
unseen."
"You gave us a shock. Please don't do it again; and please, if you and
your cousin are to meet, kindly let it be on solid ground. I'm a
little afraid, even now, that you are a lady of dreams."
"Not a bit of it! I enjoy a sound appetite; I can carry a canoe like a
Canadian guide; I am as good a fencer as my father; and I'm not afraid
of the dark. You see, in the long vacations up there in Canada I lived
out of doors and I shouldn't mind staying on here always. I like to
paddle a canoe, and I know how to cast a fly, and I've shot ducks from
a blind. You see how very highly accomplished I am! Now, my cousin
Helen--"
"Well--?" and I was glad to hear her happy laugh. Sorrow and
loneliness had not stifled the spirit of mischief in her, and she
enjoyed vexing me with references to her cousin.
I walked the length of the room and looked out upon the creek that ran
singing through the little vale. They were a strange family, these
Holbrooks, and the perplexities of their affairs multiplied. How to
prevent further injury and heartache and disaster; how to restore this
girl and her exiled father to the life from which they had vanished;
and how to save Miss Pat and Helen,--these things possessed my mind and
heart. I sat down and faced Rosalind across the table. She had taken
up a bright bit of ribbon from the work-basket and was slipping it back
and forth through her fingers.
"The name Gillespie was mentioned here last night. Can you tell me
just how he was concerned in your father's affairs?" I asked.
"He was the largest creditor of the Holbrook bank. He lived at
Stamford, where we all used to live."
"This Gillespie had a son. I suppose he inherits his father's claims."
She laughed outright.
"I have heard of him. He is a remarkable character, it seems, who does
ridiculous things. He did as a child: I remember him very well as a
droll boy at Stamford, who was always in mischief. I had forgotten all
about him until I saw an amusing account of him in a newspaper a few
months ago. He had been arrested for fast driving in Central Park; and
the next day he went back to the park with a boy's toy wagon and team
of goats, as a joke on the policeman."
"I can well believe it! The fellow's here, staying at the inn at
Annandale."
"So I understand. To be frank, I have seen him and talked with him.
We have had, in fact, several interesting interviews,"--and she laughed
merrily.
"Where did all this happen?"
"Once, out on the lake, when we were both prowling about in canoes. I
talked to him, but made him keep his distance. I dared him to race me,
and finally paddled off and left him. Then another time, on the shore
near St. Agatha's. I was taking an observation of the school garden
from the bluff, and Mr. Gillespie came walking through the woods and
made love to me. He came so suddenly that I couldn't run, but I saw
that he took me for Helen, in broad daylight, and I--I--"
"Well, of course you scorned him--you told him to be gone. You did
that much for her."
"No, I didn't. I liked his love-making; it was unaffected and simple."
"Oh, yes! It would naturally be simple!"
"That is brutal. He's clever, and earnest, and amusing. But--" and
her brow contracted, "but if he is seeking my father--"
"Rest assured he is not. He is in love with your cousin--that's the
reason for his being here."
"But that does not help my father's case any."
"We will see about that. You are right about him; he's really a most
amusing person, and not a fool, except for his own amusement. He is
shrewd enough to keep clear of Miss Pat, who dislikes him intensely on
his father's account. She feels that the senior Gillespie was the
cause of all her troubles, but I don't know just why. She's strongly
prejudiced against the young man, and his whimsicalities do not appeal
to her."
"I suppose Helen cares nothing for him; he acted toward me as though
he'd been crushed, and I--I tried to be nice to him to make up for it."
"That was nice of you, very nice of you, Rosalind. I hope you will
keep right on the way you've begun. Now I must ask you not to leave
here, and not to allow your father to leave unless I know it."
"But you have your hands full without us. Your first obligation is to
Aunt Pat and Helen. My father and I have merely stumbled in where we
were not invited. You and I had better say good-by now."
"I am not anxious to say good-by," I answered lamely, and she laughed
at me.
Helen, I reflected, did not laugh so readily. Rosalind was beautiful,
she was charming; and yet her likeness to Helen failed in baffling
particulars. Even as she came through the daisy meadow there had been
a difference--at least I seemed to realize it now. The white
butterflies symbolized her Ariel-like quality; for the life of me I
could not associate those pale, fluttering vagrants with Helen Holbrook.
"We met under the star-r-rs, Mr. Donovan" (this was impudent; my own
_r's_ trill, they say), "at the stone seat and by the boat-house, and
we talked Shakespeare and had a beautiful time,--all because you
thought I was Helen. In your anxiety to be with her you couldn't see
that I haven't quite her noble height,--I'm an inch shorter. I gave
you every chance there at the boat-house, to see your mistake; but you
wouldn't have it so. And you let me leave you there while I went back
alone across the lake to Red Gate, right by Battle Orchard, which is
haunted by Indian ghosts. You are a most gallant gentleman!"
"When you are quite done, Rosalind!"
"I don't know when I shall have a chance again, Mr. Donovan," she went
on provokingly. "I learned a good deal from you in those interviews,
but I did have to do a lot of guessing. That was a real inspiration of
mine, to insist on playing that Helen by night and Helen by day were
different personalities, and that you must not speak to the one of the
other. That saved complications, because you did keep to the compact,
didn't you?"
I assented, a little grudgingly; and my thoughts went back with
reluctant step to those early affairs of mine, which I have already
frankly disclosed in this chronicle, and I wondered, with her
counterpart before me, how much Helen really meant to me. Rosalind
studied me with her frank, merry eyes; then she bent forward and
addressed me with something of that prescient air with which my sisters
used to lecture me.
"Mr. Donovan, I fear you are a little mixed in your mind this morning,
and I propose to set you straight."
"About what, if you please?"
The conceit in man always rises and struts at the approach of a woman's
sympathy. My body ached, the knife slash across my ribs burnt, and I
felt myself a sadly abused person as Rosalind addressed me.
"I understand all about you, Mr. Donovan."
My plumage fell; I did not want to be understood, I told myself; but I
said:
"Please go on."
"I can tell you exactly why it is that Helen has taken so strong hold
of your imagination,--why, in fact, you are in love with her."
"Not that--not that."
She snatched the foil from the table and cut the air with it several
times as I started toward her. Then she stamped her foot and saluted
me.
"Stand where you are, sir! Your race, Mr. Donovan, has a bad
reputation in matters of the heart. For a moment you thought you were
in love with me; but you are not, and you are not going to be. You
see, I understand you perfectly."
"That's what my sisters used to tell me."
"Precisely! And I'm another one of your sisters--you must have scores
of them!--and I expect you to be increasingly proud of me."
"Of course I admire Helen--" I began, I fear, a little sheepishly.
"And you admire most what you don't understand about her! Now that you
examine me in the light of day you see what a tremendous difference
there is between us. I am altogether obvious; I am not the least bit
subtle. But Helen puzzles and thwarts you. She finds keen delight in
antagonizing you; and she as much as says to you, 'Mr. Donovan, you are
a frightfully conceited person, and you have had many adventures by sea
and shore, and you think you know all about human nature and women, but
I--_I_--am quite as wise and resourceful as you are, and whether I am
right or wrong I'm going to fight you, fight you, fight you!' There,
Mr. Laurance Donovan, is the whole matter in a nut-shell, and I should
like you to know that I am not at all deceived by you. You did me a
great service last night, and you would serve me again, I am confident
of it; and I hope, when all these troubles are over, that we shall
continue--my father, and you and I--the best friends in the world."
I can not deny that I was a good deal abashed by this declaration
spoken without coquetry, and with a sincerity of tone and manner that
seemed conclusive.
I began stammering some reply, but she recurred abruptly to the serious
business that hung over us.
"I know you will do what you can for Aunt Pat. I wish you would tell
her, if you think it wise, that father is here. They should understand
each other. And Helen, my splendid, courageous, beautiful cousin,--you
see I don't grudge her even her better looks, or that intrepid heart
that makes us so different. I am sure you can manage all these things
in the best possible way. And now I must find my father, and tell him
that you are going to arrange a meeting with Aunt Pat, and talk to him
of our future."
She led the way up to the garden, and as I struck off into the road she
waved her hand to me, standing under the overhanging sign that
proclaimed Hartridge, the canoe-maker, at Red Gate.