THE BUTTERFLY’S FLIGHT.
“The Knight of the Pale Horse, he laid
His shadowy lance against the spell,
That hid her Self: As if afraid,
The cruel blackness shrank and fell.
Then, lifting slow her pleasant sleep,
He took her with him through the night,
And swam a river cold and deep
And vanished up an awful height.”
--_S. M. B. Piatt._
Some time, it may be, before the world is very much older, we shall
know well what now we but dimly discern, that thought is the substance
and will the operating force of the universe, and that both are
electric.
Then shall we understand the irresistible powers of attraction which
thought has for kindred thought; and we shall know why we seek
eternally our own kind of people, consciously or unconsciously, and
never know rest for the spirit until we find them, for only with them
is to be had the life-giving, soul-sustaining quality of sympathy,
through whose vibrations the universe was formed and is maintained.
In obedience to this law of attraction Cartice Doring continued to
search for persons awake to the joyful fact that there is no death, so
she might learn more of the laws which govern communion between life
here and beyond. She found believers, but because of the various fads
and diversified foolishness with which they frequently garnished their
belief they were of slight help to her.
Each gave his faith a name that revealed the fence he had built around
his mind, though he condemned all other fences. Some preached against
the phenomena of the spiritual philosophy and secretly reveled in it.
And there were the theosophists, who, as Mr. Stead says, can always
explain everything. From the proud eminence of their omniscience many
of them looked down on plain spiritualists, and advised against showing
any civility to spirits. Yet they patronized mediums and astrologers on
the sly, and frequently produced a little of the phenomena themselves,
merely to show their occult power.
Among these and sometimes outside the sacred pale, were
reincarnationists who make the plausible and beautiful theory of
progression through an eternity of existences distasteful and tiresome
by their “memories” of past human experiences. They had been princes of
high degree, invariably, never paupers or criminals. Napoleons, Cæsars,
Mahomets, Cleopatras and Sapphos were wearisomely plentiful; but
humbler types were rare. Many were so busy feeding their vanity with
these romantic hallucinations they had no time to learn anything useful.
Hypnotists were numerous, many of them claiming that their particular
science accounted for everything under the sun.
Then there were many who declared that in all the universe there is but
good; but they fell into factions represented by different leaders, and
fought many and many a bitter bout to prove it.
It was enough to make one cry out in anguish, “Where can wisdom be
found? And where is the place of understanding?”
Yet it had its hopeful side. It showed that many were thinking, and,
though thought took different trends, all roads eventually lead to the
truth.
Letters came often from Chrissalyn, but they contained no messages
from friends invisible, for she never gave them an opportunity to say
anything, after Cartice went away. She was afraid. Sometimes a picture
or vision flashed before her, in spite of her avoidance of everything
of the kind. If it pertained to her friend she told her; but that was
all.
Six years had passed with never a sight of the Butterfly’s beloved
face, and never a word from the dear people of the unseen world.
Cartice had felt their presence often, and knew that they were
faithful; but she was hungry for a word from them.
Now came a letter from Chrissalyn begging her to spend some weeks with
her. It was a particularly girlish and extravagant letter, almost a
photograph of the mind of the unregenerate Butterfly of old. She knew a
delightful little summer resort where they could go and be out of the
sight and sound of work and care of every hue. She had set her heart
upon it.
* * * * *
Arranging for a leave of absence Mrs. Doring soon was on her way. She
found her friend in extraordinarily good spirits, and their reunion was
of a school-girlish order of delight.
After a few hours the years of their separation seemed never to have
been. We have all had this experience and wondered at it. After long
absence we come back to a familiar spot, and in a little while find it
difficult to persuade ourselves that we have ever been away. Perhaps
this is a proof that to the true self there is neither separation nor
distance, nor past nor future. All is near and all is now.
* * * * *
The Butterfly had a new assortment of radiant wings--otherwise
garments--ready to spread gaily at the springs. One by one she
displayed them with childish pleasure, for personal adornment had ever
been her fetich.
“As we get on a little in years,” she said, “all we can do to head off
the enemy, Age, is to make believe we ignore him. Extra paint and
feathers are necessary. I’ve had it flung in my face that I’m not so
young as I was, but I won’t admit it. Anyhow I’m still young enough to
excite envy and jealousy.”
Here she laughed with diabolical pleasure.
“I intend to make the best of this world and stay in it as long
as I can, notwithstanding it’s no paradise. But I have lost some
illusions in regard to it. For instance, that of my own irresistible
attractiveness. I can draw moths yet, but formerly I thought I could
attract men, providing I ever encountered such beings.”
Again, night after night, Chrissalyn sat as of old, calling up for her
friend’s delight the unseen people who were always ready to respond.
When Cartice spoke of the long time that had passed with never a word
from one of them, Moreau said:
“No time has passed. There is no time. To the spirit a thousand years
are as one day.”
The last evening in the city came. They were to start for the springs
early next day. The luggage was carefully packed and so their minds
were easy on that score. When they went upstairs the house was
perfectly still, all save themselves being asleep.
They sat down in Chrissalyn’s room to chat. Cartice thought she never
had seen the Butterfly look so young, so beautiful, so hopeful, so
happy.
Preparing the table for Planchette they eagerly awaited the messages
that would surely come over that inexplicable telephone.
Now something passing strange occurred. From the empty air beside them
music burst forth--music the like of which they had never heard--music
made by instruments unknown to them, but of unearthly sweetness, with
power to thrill to the depths of their being.
Awed and amazed the two friends looked at each other, in silence. Then,
as its heavenly sweet vibrations shook their souls, the tears ran from
their eyes, they knew not why.
Again and again the unseen musicians made marvelous melody for the
two enchanted listeners. Sometimes the chords were plaintively sad,
sometimes joyous, but always penetrating the deepest recesses of
being, the inner sanctuary where poetry and dreams have their high and
heavenly dwelling-place.
The two entranced listeners sat facing each other, lost in the
delicious spell of the melody.
Suddenly an electric breeze enveloped Cartice, sending over her that
creepy thrill we are all familiar with, which resembles fear, but
is not fear. There, before her eyes, just back of Chrissalyn, stood
Prescott, looking exactly the same as when with them in material form.
Somehow she was made to understand that she must not cry out--nor tell
Chriss that he was there. Spellbound and silent she watched him. He
laid his hand on the Butterfly’s shining head, smiled and spoke. She
saw his lips move, and the glitter of his teeth, but heard no sound,
understood no word. Then, while her eyes were still upon him, he
vanished.
“You look very pale, Cartice. Are you frightened?” Chrissalyn asked, as
the music ceased.
Mrs. Doring shook her head, for her tongue, dry and powerless, was no
longer a willing servant.
The music came back no more. After talking of the wonderful phenomenon
awhile, they bade each other good-night and parted.
Cartice could not sleep. The strange events of the evening drove away
repose. Again and again she recalled the expression on Prescott’s face,
trying to translate it into words, but in vain. Only one thing was
plain. It was something pertaining to the Butterfly, and he didn’t want
her to know it.
After hours of wakefulness she slept and dreamed. She and Chrissalyn
were dancing in a great and fantastic company. Everybody else wore
masks, but their faces were uncovered. Chrissalyn was the partner of a
graceful knight in black velvet who whirled her on and on, endlessly.
At last they rose into the air together, and Chriss became a veritable
butterfly, with beautiful silvery wings. The knight also developed
wings, but they were black, like his garments.
Cartice called to her friend to come down, but she only laughed and
rose higher, and finally flew out of sight. With a wildly beating heart
Cartice awoke.
Rising, she dressed for the journey. Knocking on Chrissalyn’s door, she
received no answer. Then she called her, and with light and jesting
words bade her make haste.
Still no answer. Opening the door she entered, but started back with a
cry whose thrill of horror went to the heart like a knife.
The Butterfly had, indeed, spread silvery wings and flown, for there
lay her chrysalis, cold, white and pulseless. The black knight of death
had taken her out of sight. The delicate, long-ailing lungs had given
way, and the inevitable end had come. She who loved the world and its
foolish, fleeting pleasures had gone suddenly out of it. Whither?
It was a sad heart that Mrs. Doring carried back to New York, in spite
of her knowledge that the Butterfly had but spread her wings.
Sometimes in the darkness and silence of night she talked aloud to her
vanished, yet ever-present, friend.
“Where are you, Butterfly? Can you hear me and see me? Do you know how
heavy is my heart sometimes? And are you happy in your new world? Is
life more beautiful, more perfect there? And do you love me still?”
No voice replied, but the light, caressing, electric touches came
sometimes, and the stricken heart was comforted.