The White Butterfly

OHN CHESTER had begun the conversation by addressing the sleek black cat upon the porch at his feet. Miss Puss had looked at him with her big, coldly unsympathetic eyes, and had gone out among the petunias and heliotrope, perhaps only because the sun had deserted the porch. At any rate, John Chester had finished the conversation by taking his brier into the circle of his confidence.

“Because a man is thirty, has an income that is sufficient, and is neither a cripple nor an imbecile, is that any reason that he should be hunted down by thoughtful mammas who have dutiful daughters, for all the world as if he were a beast in a jungle?”

Thus far had the consultation progressed when Miss Puss showed the warm, scarlet lining of her throat in a languid yawn, thrust her delicate finger nails for a brief, contented examination, and, dreaming dreams with her wide yellow eyes, went out into the tangle of the garden.

“Because a man is an old bachelor belonging to that class in which he is labeled 'desirable' without even being considered as an individual, is that any reason why he should allow himself to he bagged by an old woman with a thin nose, and cold hands, and a dutiful daughter?”

And then the brier pipe went out. John Chester emptied the ashes upon the floor; there is such a pleasure in homelike untidiness. Then he stood up, yawned luxuriously, and stretched his slender, clean-cut body very much as the velvety Miss Puss had done, and strolled out into the sunshine.

“We shall see,” he told the little green spider who was dancing upon a sprig of honeysuckle, “what we have caught in our trap.”

The little green spider danced over the edge of a leaf and hid his frail body behind the petal of a flower. And John Chester, feeling a faint twinge of something that he was afraid was loneliness, loitered down the narrow, winding walk to the Trap.

He passed slowly down a driveway over which the drooping branches of big elm trees interlaced. Then he turned to the left under a grapevine arbor, where a rustic sign said, “Visitors are welcome.” And the entered the mouth of the Trap.

It didn't look like a trap at all. Instead, it appeared to be merely a lazy, winding path with a thick hedge of Japanese cedar upon each side. The path twisted to right and left, branched here and there, and gradually the walls of Japanese cedar grew denser and higher. Somewhere ahead there was the plash and gurgle of a fountain. There would be rare water lilies there, a tiny emerald of lawn, a white statue with ivy clinging to it, a strip of blue sky through waving branches above. And ever and always the paths grew more numerous, twisting like green snakes in torment, leading by crooked ways to the fountain. And only slowly would it dawn upon the stranger here that he was in a labyrinth, a maze that led easily enough to the fountain, but refused to lead again to the street a hundred yards away.

But one would be content to rest for a while in the heart of the Trap before thinking of worming a way out. For the fountain was ringed about with white marble, and the statue was not the atrocity that is prone to flaunt its nudity in summer gardens. And the birds nested here, unafraid. The lilies had golden hearts, and nodded at each other sunnily.

Upon the tiny lawn, at the door of the little summerhouse, John Chester came upon the thing that he had trapped. It was like a cluster of scarlet and gold autumn leaves. It stirred as John Chester's foot fell upon the marble rim of the fountain. And as it stirred, the scarlet resolved itself into a cloak, the gold into tousled curls.

“Good morning,” said John Chester courteously.

Very big brown eyes were turned upon him.

“Good morning,” answered the thing he had trapped.

“May I sit down?” asked John Chester.

“Yes, sir.”

Whereupon he sat down upon the rustic seat and refilled his pipe.

“May I smoke?” he asked, smiling into the big brown eyes.

The tangled curls nodded, the dainty red lips pursed knowingly.

“Yes, sir. I don't smoke, though. I did once; father let me. Did you ever smoke a cigar?”

John Chester nodded.

“They make a man awful sick, don't they?”

Again he nodded.

“How old are you?” he demanded thoughtfully.

“Me? Oh, I'm five going on six. Or seven. I never can remember 'rithmetic. That's why I can't go to the theater. Cousin Billy said so.”

“What did Cousin Billy say about it?”

“He said I couldn't go 'cause I didn't have a good head for figures. My name's John Gordon, junior. What's your name?”

“John Chester,” replied John Chester. “We ought to be friends, don't you think?”

“Are you a junior, too?”

“No, John. I'm only an old bachelor.”

John Gordon, junior, wriggled about and sat up.

“Is it much fun being—that?” he queried anxiously.

John Chester looked at the little fellow through a shifting veil of smoke and sighed.

“I don't know, John,” he confessed. “I used to think so, but I don't know so well about it now.”

“Why? Is now different somehow?”

“Yes. Somehow. Your father'd understand.”

“Would he? Wouldn't mumsey? She's awful smart about understanding things.”

“Yes,” hesitatingly. “I suppose she would, but then she's a woman. There are some things that only men, like you, and your father, and me, can understand. Does your mother know that you are here?”

The child clasped his arms about his knees, and, with his head far back, stared up into the patches of blue through the waving branches.

“Yes,” he answered gently. “Mother always knows everything I do. That's why sometimes I don't do things I am going to do.”

“Where is she this morning?”

John Gordon, junior, brought his grave eyes back from the sky and bestowed a long look of surprise upon the ignorance of John Chester.

“Don't you know?” he asked at last. “Mother's dead. She's up there, 'way, 'way up.”

Again his big, soft-brown eyes went the way of the dancing strips of blue sky. John Chester looked at him curiously.

“Then who is mumsey?” he asked, after a moment.

“Oh, mumsey!” John Gordon, junior, laughed gleefully. “She's just mumsey, that's all. Did you think she was mother?”

“Is mumsey good to you, John?” John Chester hurried to ask.

“Yes, sir. She's awful good. She let me climb a tree after an eagle's nest one time. The eggs were all hatched, though. Mumsey says that all old ladies are good to little boys.”

“So mumsey is old?”

“Didn't you know that? My, there are lots of things you don't know. Why don't you go to school? I'm going some time. Mumsey says I can.”

“How old is she?”

John Gordon, junior, shook his head until the curls whipped one another across his rosy face.

“She's awful old. I think she's the oldest old lady in the world. She said so once. I guess,” thoughtfully, “she's ninety.”

John Chester whistled.

“Mother used to be older,” went on the child, without observing the impression he had created, “but she's younger now. And she has great, big, soft, white wings, and at nighttime, when the stars come out 'way up there to play, mother is somewhere with them. And she's awful happy, too; but she always thinks about me and father, and will be glad when we can come up, too, and watch the stars with her And some time, when I'm a big man like you, some night I'll go to sleep, and pretty soon I'll wake up and see mother reaching out her hands to me like she used to do when I was little. And then I'll just go with her, and we'll fly, and fly, and fly until we come to the sky; if I'm a good man and always remember that mother's watching me. 'Cause she watches just the same as she used to when I was little in the cradle. But it's awful hard to remember, sometimes.”

“Yes,” John Chester said very quietly. “It is very hard to remember.”

The head with its profusion of twisted gold, and the head with the short-cropped dark hair, shook in unison, and, as one breath, two sighs arose from John Gordon, junior, and John Chester, bachelor.

“I got in here and I couldn't get out, so I stayed,” John Gordon explained. “Do you think the man would care?”

“No. He wouldn't care. He likes little boys. He sometimes wishes he had a little boy of his own.”

John Gordon, junior, looked interested.

“Why doesn't he get him one, then?”

“There are reasons and reasons, my little man.”

“Is he very poor?” came with a puzzled frown. “Can't he afford a little boy?”

“It isn't that.” The old bachelor was finding the first opportunity of a life-time to unburden himself. “You see, he'd have to find a mother for his little boy first. Little boys have to have mothers. And he can't find anybody to marry that he wants to marry.”

The child's eyes had shown interest, but as the man's voice grew low-toned, the yellow curls shook slowly from side to side.

“Mumsey's going to marry some time. She said so. Is marrying awful bad?”

“I don't know. Why?”

“'Cause mumsey cried. And mumsey don't ever cry much.”

“Maybe it was because she was so very, very happy,” suggested John, the bachelor, a little bitterly.

Little John pursed out scornful lips.

“People laugh when they're happy,” he scoffed. “Mumsey's eyes were all red. So she was awful sad.”

“But I thought mumsey was awful old? Isn't she too old to marry?”

“But he's awful old, too, I guess. He looks almost as old as you, And he's got a 'mobile, and horses, and a watch, and a diamond ring.”

A little sneer came up in John Chester's heart. Always that, always buying and selling, the bartering of name for money, of a fair body for a diamond ring. Holy matrimony!

“I am afraid, my little fellow, that I shall never have a little boy of my own,” he said, so harshly that the big brown eyes came back to his face with a start.

“And mumsey don't like him very well, either,” went on the younger John thoughtfully. “I heard her tell father so one time.”

“Oh, that doesn't matter.” The harsh laugh again brought the wondering eyes to the elder John's face. And then, after a pause: “And this mumsey of yours, who is going to marry, and have a 'mobile, and diamonds—is she the same one who told you about your mother watching and waiting for you?”

“Yes, sir. There isn't but one mumsey, you know.”

“No. I thought that there might be two. Come here, John Gordon, junior, and I'll show you where a little white butterfly is trying to get herself entangled in a spider's web.”

The little fellow scrambled to his feet, his face flushed and eager, his eyes dancing. And as he got to his feet and scurried across the strip of lawn, the soul of John Chester was shocked. For John Gordon, junior, who had seemed a perfect, beautiful, graceful baby, dragged one crippled leg painfully, and one withered arm hung, swinging like a dead thing, at his side. There was so much of beauty in the pure little face that the maimed side made the man shiver.

“Does your side hurt you, John?” he asked, almost softly, as he put his two strong arms about the frail little body.

“Sometimes,” admitted the little cripple cheerfully. “Where is the butterfly and the spider? Will he eat her up?”

“I don't know. We'll see in a minute. Has a doctor tried to make your side well?”

John Gordon, junior, snuggled into the arms which drew a trifle closer about him.

“No, sir. But mumsey says that pretty soon she'll have lots of money, and then she will make me all well. It's awful good to have money, isn't it?”

“I hadn't thought of the matter, but I dare say you are right. Yes, it is awful good to have lots of money. I'd like to know your mumsey, John.”

“Don't you know mumsey?” It was hard to say whether there was more of surprise or of incredulity in the tones.

“I thought I did. I am not sure now.”

“You don't know lots of things, do you? I think you'd better go to school.”

“Maybe I had better go to school.”

“And the white butterfly and the spider, please?” insisted John Gordon, junior.

“First tell me about the man with the 'mobile and the diamond. What does he look like?”

“Well, he isn't very pretty. His nose is red and sort of blue, and his chin looks like he had another one inside his collar, and his eyes look like Benny's.”

“And who is Benny?”

“Don't you know? Why, Benny's my little pet pig!”

“Oh!” said John Chester.

“And the white butterfly?”

John Chester heard a light footfall upon the walk at the other side of the Japanese cedar hedge. So he answered hastily:

“If you will run over there and look about that old tree you might be able to save the butterfly. Now run.”

The little lame figure sidled away eagerly. And John Chester turned to greet the other thing that had come into his trap. She was slight—girlishly slight—and bright, and nineteen. The dark brown of her hair was shot with waves of light. Her eyes were big, and gray, and at once both merry and tender. Her own fingers had made her dress, he knew. And he knew that it was remarkably becoming. No, as yet there was no ring upon her finger.

“Good morning,” he said quietly. And then: “So you are mumsey, are you?”

Her smile spilled over from her eyes, and made pretty curves of her red lips, setting twin dimples at the corners of her mouth.

“So John has been visiting you?” She said.

“Yes. I am John Chester. He has told me about you. Can nothing be done for the poor little fellow? Pardon me,” as he saw the pain in her eyes; “you see, I have taken a very great interest in him.”

“Yes.” Her tone was lifeless. He felt like a brute. “We are going to have him treated by a great German specialist. He will be cured—soon.”

“And you are going to sell yourself, body and soul, and eternal happiness, that he may be made strong?”

“John has been telling you things? How does a child know so much? Yes, I am going to sell myself body and soul, and eternal happiness. It is the only way. It doesn't matter.”

There was no bitterness in her voice, no surprise, even, that he was asking her such things, that she was answering. Only a dull, dead, hopeless monotone.

“You are a very fine girl, mumsey,” he told her frankly. “But, after all, you are only a little girl. You should have some one to tell you that you must not do this thing.”

And as frankly she answered him:

“I am more than a little girl, John Chester. I am a woman. And he is a baby. Don't you see?”

He shook his head.

“A man is not necessarily a fool. He knows love as well as a woman. Yes, and the same kind of love! If he be a man, he is father and mother as well as husband to the woman he marries. There is the same yearning, the same protection, the same tenderness, that the woman feels for her baby, or for babies that are motherless. For all natural women, be they good or bad, are the mothers of all motherless babies. I know how you feel. But it is wrong.”

“I did not think that a man would understand,” she said simply. “I am glad that you do. And, please, where is John now?”

“John is playing over yonder where you see the top branches of the big elm tree. He is all right. And I want to talk with you.”

He marveled at the way in which the sauciness of her chased away the shadows of a moment ago; those deep shadows that sometimes drift suddenly upon the youngest face in the world, as if they were grim reminders that old age, after all, lurks very near. And he wondered at the quick gesture of the little rosy hands, the flowerlike poise of the delicate, graceful, tiptilted face upon the slender white throat.

“You force me to stupid, necessary platitudes, John Chester. We really haven't been introduced, you know. We must not forget!”

“No. We must remember. We must remember that we have been introduced. That John Gordon, junior, has made us known to each other. He will be a man some day, a strong, good man, thanks to you. Won't he?”

He said the words sternly, almost angrily. His eyes held hers steadily. She put her head back—he could see lines of firmness about the rounded chin—and answered him quietly:

“Yes. He will be a strong man, as well and perfect physically as you are. And I pray God that he will be a good man—for his mother's sake.”

“He will be. Then, some day, when the one conclusion comes to such a marriage as you are making, he will know. He will be a man who can never be happy because he will know that there is a woman who, too, might have been happy but that she sacrificed her soul and her body, and her eternal happiness, that he might not have a crooked back! Do you know how he will feel, mumsey?”

She shook her head.

“He will never know all that. No one will know. And he will be all that his mother wanted her boy to be. I know.”

“Would you like to know,” he went on relentlessly, “that your own health and chance for happiness had been bought by a woman paying as you are paying? Would you?”

His own earnestness surprised him as he stood waiting for her answer. Her loveliness was as pure, as sweet a thing as the beauty of a flower. She was builded for light, and laughter, and love. What though he had never seen her before, would never see her again

It takes some men a year to know when they have found the right woman. It was taking John Chester considerably less.

“But I will see you again,” he told himself positively. And he told her, with the same positiveness: “You must not do this thing. I shall not allow you to do it!”

“You have been very kind, or very forward, to talk to me as you have done,” she replied very quietly. “And in either case I have been very foolish to listen to you. And now I am going.”

She turned and moved toward the big elm tree.

“You have not answered my question yet,” he insisted.

“No,” she told him in the same quiet tones. “I have not. And there is no reason why I should answer your questions. Besides, there is no use.”

“No use,” he cried triumphantly. “No use, because I know the answer as well as you do!”

“And if you do? There is no other way.” She had paused and was facing him, her chin slightly lifted.

“There is another way!” His words took fire from the emotions that flared up within him as he thought of the poor little twisted body, and of her own delicate loveliness. “There is a way! Do you know that there are thousands of men who have more money than they want? Do you know that, although money builds a shell around a man, it does not harden his heart? Do you know that there are men, rich men, who, if they but caught a sight of that brave, crippled little fellow, would buy his health back for him? Do you know that?”

“No.” There was something of despair in the monosyllable, much of surety. “For I have tried. And unless”—her face and voice grew bitter together—“unless I had something to give for the money, I could not get it.”

“You did not come to me!”

“You mean?” Her voice faltered and broke. She took a single step toward him, raised her hands a little, and let them fall to her side.

“I mean,” said John Chester bluntly, “that I am going to look out for my namesake. And for any other motherless children I find losing their way in a tangle of paths. And now you are going to meet Mrs. Beldon, who keeps house for me, and then we shall have tea together upon my porch. John!”

Through the hedge came a flicker of scarlet and gold.

“I can't find the white butterfly!” came John Gordon, junior's voice, quivering as it reached them. “Did the spider eat her up?”

“No,” answered John Chester, almost in a whisper, it would seem to the grave, wet gray eyes before him. “The white butterfly is free again.”