Slippy McGee, Sometimes Known as the Butterfly Man Part 29

"Six head o' young ones we'd had, me an' him. An' they'd all dropped off. Come spring, an' one'd be gone. I kep' a-comfortin' that man best I could they was better off, angels not bein' pindlin' an' hungry an'

barefoot, an' thanks be, they ain't no mills in heaven. But their pa he couldn't see it thataway nohow. He was turrible sot on them children, like us pore folks gen'rally is. They was reel fine-lookin'

at first.

"When all the rest of 'em had went, her pa he sort o' sot his heart on Louisa here. 'For we ain't got nothin' else, ma,' says he. 'An' please the good Lord, we're a-goin' to give this one book-learnin' an' sich, an' so be she'll miss them mills,' he says. 'Ma, less us aim to make a lady o' our Louisa. Not that the Lord ain't done it a'ready,' says her pa, 'but we got to he'p Him keep on an' finish the job thorough.' An'

here's him an' her both gone, an' me without a G.o.d's soul belongin' to me this day! My G.o.d, Mr. Flint, ain't it something turrible the things happens to us pore folks?"

The b.u.t.terfly Man looked from her to Westmoreland and me: doctor of bodies, doctor of souls, naturalist, what had we to say to this woman stripped of all? But she, with the greater wisdom of the poor, spoke for herself and for us. A sort of veiled light crept into her sodden face.

"It ain't I ain't grateful to you-all," said she. "G.o.d knows I be. You was good to Louisa. Doctor, you remember that day you give her a ride in your ottermobile an' forgot to bring her home for more 'n a hour?

My, but that child was happy!"

"'Ma,' says she when I come home that night, 'you know what heaven is?'

"'Child,' says I, 'folks like me mostly knows what it ain't.'

"'I beat you, ma!' says she, clappin' her hands. 'Heaven ain't nothin'

much but country an' roads an' trees an' b.u.t.terflies, an' things like that,' says she. 'An' G.o.d's got ottermobiles, plenty an' plenty ottermobiles, an' you ride free in 'em long's you feel like it, 'cause that's what they's _for_. An', ma,' says she, 'G.o.d's, showfers is all of 'em Dr. Westmorelands and Mr. Flints.' Yea, suh, you-all been mighty kind to Louisa. But I reckon," she drawled, "it was Mr. Flint Louisa loved best, him bein' a childern's kind o' man, an' on account o' Loujaney." She laid a hand upon the rag doll lying on the little girl's arm.

"From the first day you give her that doll, Mr. Flint--which she named Loujaney, for her an' me both--that child ain't been parted from it."

She smiled down at the two. I could almost have prayed she would weep instead. It would have been easier to bear.

"The King's Daughters, they give her a mighty nice doll off their Christmas tree last year, but Louisa, she didn't take to it like she done to Loujaney.

"'_That_ doll's jest a visitin' lady,' says she, 'but Loujaney, she's _my child_. Mr. Flint made her a-purpose for me, same's G.o.d made me for you, ma, an' she's mine by bornation. I can live with Loujaney. I ain't a mite ashamed afore her when we ain't got nothin', but I turn 'tother's face to the wall so she won't know. Loujaney's pore folks same's you an' me, an' she knows prezac'ly how 't is. That's why I love her so much.

"An' day an' night," resumed the drawling voice, "them two's been together. She jest lived an' et an' slept with that doll. If ever a doll gits to grow feelin's, Loujaney's got 'em. I s'pose I'd best give that visitin' doll to some child that wants it bad, but I ain't got the heart to take Loujaney away from her ma. I'm a-goin' to let them two go right on sleepin' together.

"Mr. Flint, suh, seein' Louisa liked you so much, an' it's you she'd want to have it--" she leaned over, pushed the thick fair hair aside, and laid her finger upon a very whimsy of a curl, shorter, paler, fairer than the others, just above the little right ear.

"Her pa useter call that the wis.h.i.+n' curl," said she, half apologetically. "You see, suh, he was a comical sort of man, an' a great hand for pertendin' things. I never could pertend. Things is what they is an' pertendin' don't change 'em none. But him an' her was different.

That's how come him to pertend the Lord'd put the rainbow's pot o' gold in Louisa's hair with a wish in it, an' that ridic'lous curl one side her head, like a mark, was the wis.h.i.+n' curl. He'd pertend he could pull it twict an' say whisperin', '_Bickery-ickery-ee--my wish is comin' to me_,' an' he'd git it. An' she liked to pertend 'twas so an' she could wish things on it for me an' git 'em.... Clo'es an' shoes an' fire an'

cake an' beefsteak an' b.u.t.ter an' stayin' home.... Just pertendin', you see.

"Mr. Flint, suh, _I_ ain't got a G.o.d's thing any more to wish for, but you bein' the sort o' man you are, I'd rather 'twas you had Louisa's wis.h.i.+n' curl, to remember her by." Snip! went the scissors; and there it lay, pale as the new gold of spring sunlight, curling as young grape-tendrils, in the b.u.t.terfly Man's open palm.

"_Silver and gold have I none; but such as I have give I thee_," said the great Apostle to the lame man who lay beside the gate of the temple that is called, Beautiful.

"I ain't got nothin' else," said the common mill-woman; and laid in John Flint's hand Louisa's wis.h.i.+ng-curl.

He stared at it, and turned as pale as the child on her pillow. The human pity of the thing, its sheer stark piercing simplicity, squeezed his heart as with a great hand.

"My G.o.d!" he choked. "My--G.o.d!" and a rending sob tore loose from his throat. For the first time in his life he had to weep; uncontrolled, unashamed, childlike, fatherly, brotherly. For he had experienced, unselfishly, on account of one of the humblest of G.o.d's creatures, one of the great divine emotions. And when that happens to a man it is as if his soul were winnowed by the wind of an archangel's wings.

Westmoreland and I slipped out and left him with the woman. She would know what further thing to say to him.

Outside in the bleak bitter street, the Doctor laid his hand on my shoulder. He winked his eyes rapidly. "Father," said he, earnestly, "when I witness such a thing as we've seen this morning, I do not lose faith. I gain it." And he gripped me heartily with his big gloved hand. "Tell John Flint," he added, "that sometimes a rag doll is a mighty big thing for a man to have to his credit." Then he was gone, with a tear freezing on his cheek.

"Angels," John Flint had said more than once, "are not middle-aged doctors with shoulders on them like a barn-door, and ribs like a dray; angels don't have bald heads and wear a red tie and tan shoes. But I'd pa.s.s them all up, from Gabriel down, wings and tailfeathers, for one Walter Westmoreland."

I would, too. And I walked along, thinking of what I had just witnessed; sensing its time value. To those slight and fragile things which had, for John Flint, outweighed the scales of evil--a gray moth, a b.u.t.terfly's wing, a bird's nest--I added a child's fair hair, and a rag doll that was going to sleep with its ma.

There were but few people on the freezing streets, for folks preferred to stay indoors and hug the fire. Fronting the wind, I walked with a lowered head, and thus collided with a lady who turned a corner at the same time I did.

"Don't apologize, Padre," said Mary Virginia, for it was she. "It was my fault--I wasn't looking where I was going."

"Are you by any chance bound for the Parish House? Because my mother will be on her way to a poor thing that's just lost her only child.

Where have you been these past weeks? I haven't seen you for ages."

"Oh, I've been rather busy, too, Padre. And I haven't been quite well--" she hesitated. I thought I understood. For, possibly from some servant who had overheard Mrs. Eustis expostulating with her daughter, the news of Mary Virginia's unannounced engagement had sifted pretty thoroughly throughout the length and breadth of Appleboro; a town where an unfledged and callow rumor will start out of a morning and come home to roost at night with talons and tailfeathers.

That Mary Virginia had all James Eustis's own quiet will-power, everybody knew. She would not, perhaps, marry Laurence in the face of her mother's open opposition. Neither would she marry anybody else to please her mother in defiance of her own heart. There was a pretty struggle ahead, and Appleboro took sides for and against, and settled itself with eager expectancy to watch the outcome.

So I concluded that Mary Virginia had not been having a pleasant time.

Indeed, it struck me that she was really unwell. One might even suspect she had known sleepless nights, from the shadowed eyes and the languor of her manner.

Just then, swinging down the street head erect, shoulders square, the freezing weather only intensifying his glowing fairness, came Howard Hunter. The man was clear red and white. His gold hair and beard glittered, his bright blue eyes snapped and sparkled. He seemed to rejoice in the cold, as if some Viking strain in him delighted in its native air.

As he paused to greet us a coldness not of the weather crept into Mary Virginia's eyes. She did not speak, but bowed formally. Mr. Hunter, holding her gaze for a moment, lifted his brows whimsically and smiled; then, bowing, he pa.s.sed on. She stood looking after him, her lips closed firmly upon each other.

Tucking her hand in my arm, she walked with me to the Parish House gate. No, she said, she couldn't come in. But I was to give her regards to the b.u.t.terfly Man, and her love to Madame.

"Parson," the b.u.t.terfly Man asked me that night, "have you seen Mary Virginia recently?"

"I saw her to-day."

"I saw her to-day, too. She looked worried. She hasn't been here lately, has she?"

"No. She hasn't been feeling well. I hear Mrs. Eustis has been very outspoken about the engagement, and I suppose that's what worries Mary Virginia."

"I don't think so. She knew she had to go up against that, from the first. She's more than a match for her mother. There's something else.

Didn't I tell you I had a hunch there was going to be trouble? Well, I've got a hunch it's here."

"Nonsense!" said I, shortly.

"I know," said he, stubbornly. And he added, irrelevantly: "It's generally known, parson, that Eustis will be nominated. Inglesby's managed to gain considerable ground, thanks to Hunter, and folks say if it wasn't for Eustis he'd win. As it is, he'll be swamped. I hear he was thunderstruck when he got wind of what Mayne was going to play against him--for he knows Laurence brought Eustis out. Inglesby's mighty sore. He's the sort that hates to have to admit he can't get what he wants."

"Then he'd better save himself the trouble of having to put it to the test," said I.

"I'm wondering," said John Flint. "I wish I hadn't got that hunch!"

I did not see Mary Virginia again for some time. Just then I moved breathlessly in a horrid round of sickbeds, for the wave had reached its height; already it had swept seventeen of my flock out of time into eternity.

I came home on one of the last of those heavy evenings, to find Laurence waiting for me in my study. He was standing in the middle of the room, his hands clasped behind his back.

"Padre," said he by way of greeting, "have you seen Mary Virginia lately? Has Madame?"

"No, except for a chance meeting one morning on the street. But she has been sending me help right along, bless her."