"That is not Zara," whispered Clarice, smiling; "she appears as the Butterfly, you know."
"Then all I can say is that she ain't like the butterflies I've met with," said Mrs. Dumps, angrily, "me having chased them as a girl."
"Wait till Zara appears," was the reply of the charming, handsome young gentleman, whom the landlady of the Savoy Hotel took to be Mr. Ferdinand Baird, of The Laurels.
Mrs. Dumps sniffed aggressively, and sat very rigid, with the fullest intention of giving her daughter a good talking to for daring to lower the dignity of the Twine name. Meanwhile, the eyes of all were watching the pretty picture on the stage. A wind swept through the garden of flowers, and the blossoms withered under its blighting breath. In one moment the radiant Paradise of Roses took on a wintry aspect. Snow fell thickly, the trees shed their leaves, the sky turned dark, and the ungainly green chrysalis shivered and wriggled in a wonderful manner to the shrill blowing of flutes and trumpets in the orchestra. It was so realistic that the audience could almost--as one enthusiast declared--feel the cold.
Then came the mellow sound of flutes, and the delicate trilling of stringed instruments. The roses began to bloom again, the sky regained its brilliant blue, and the trees budded afresh, under the touch of sudden spring. The green worm writhed its way to the gigantic rose, and lay there exhausted and still, until the rising petals of the flower concealed it from sight. Then came a pause, and afterwards, with a triumphal burst of music, out of the closed rose sprang a light and airy figure, with glittering, glorious butterfly wings, scintillating and vast. Zara shot up to the flies like a rocket, and then swooped gracefully down to the front of the stage. Supported in her airy flights by invisible wires, she fluttered amongst the blossoms like an immense jewelled insect, coquetting and caressing and hovering marvellously on iridescent pinions. Over all played the ever-changing limelights, so that the girl floated lightly as thistle-down in the midst of a King-Opal of prismatic hues. Then she dropped lightly on to the stage, and began a dreamy, sensuous dance, which would have driven St. Anthony out of his senses. When the dance was at its height, and Zara whirled fast and furious in the radiant lights and colours, a dismal note sounded in the orchestra. The butterfly paused, and shivered, as a cold wind bent the flowers, and chilled them. Again the dance commenced, but this time it was slower. The music grew sadder, the many flowers began to fade once more, and finally the snow began to fall in feathery white flakes. Shortly the garden was again strewn in ruins, and the poor Butterfly, frozen and dying, sank weakly to the ground, while the snow piled a white mound over its short-lived beauty. When the dancer was completely buried, the curtain fell.
It rose again in answer to thunderous applause, and Zara appeared, leading by the hand her fellow-artiste, who had so wonderfully performed the Chrysalis. He had put aside his mask, and came to the front of the stage, where he could be plainly seen. Clarice looked at him indifferently, but when she glanced aside at Mrs. Dumps, she saw that the little woman's face was bloodless and pinched.
"Oh, Mr. Ferdinand," gasped Mrs. Dumps, clutching her companion's arm, "that's Osip--that's the murderer!"
[CHAPTER XIX]
ZARA, THE BUTTERFLY
In the noise of the applause which greeted Osip and Zara, the terrified whisper of Mrs. Dumps passed unnoticed. The girl naturally searched for her mother, and she smiled, on catching sight of her, next to the pretended Ferdy Baird. The eyes of Osip followed those of Zara, and alighted on the pallid face of the country landlady. At once he bowed abruptly to the audience, and walked hurriedly from the stage, leaving Butterfly, rather discourteously, to follow at her leisure. Clarice, who had immediately grasped the significance of Mrs. Dumps' whisper, half rose, and tried to shake off the detaining grasp of the little woman.