Chapter XXI: 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.