Painted Butterflies

Sun (Auckland), Volume IV, Issue 976, 20 May 1930, Page 5

Painted Butterflies

Published by Special Arrangement.

By

MRS PATRICK MACGILL

Author of “ Dancers io the Dark“ The Ukelele Girl.” " The Flame ol Life.' etc «t

CHAPTER 11. She was at the corner of Piccadilly Circus, waiting for a bus to take her to Camden Town, but she suddenly felt a hand, soft but urgent, upon her arm. “I say, you mustn’t miss all the fun tonight at the ball. Let me take you, will you? I can shake a mean foot, and I’ll show you how. What about it? I’ll call for you at nine o’clock in my car if you will give me the address.” James Read, Adela Creighton's fabulously rich uncle, kept his hand on Jennifer’s arm, and she had to exercise all her self-control to prevent herself from shaking it off with the fierceness born of her indignation. But she might easily offend Madame Elise if she treated a customer’s relative in such a fashion, so she refused as quietly and firmly as she could, and breathed an inward prayer of thanks that her bus, half empty, came along just at that moment, and she was on the step and inside almost before her elderly admirer realised that she had refused his invitation. Jennifer's bus put her down at the corner of Gayton Street, Camden Town, the part of London that had seen her own birth and education, and that of her only brother, Jack, a year younger than herself. She had no sisters. A stranger’s first impression of Gayton Street would be one of sordid, monotonous poverty, the sort of poverty that nourishes its children at the nearest fried fish and potato shop, while that which could fill their hungry little stomachs with good meat pudding was flung into the till which belonged to the ornate, plateglass and brass-railed establishment at the corner, known as the "King of Bohemia.” But a second and more careful glance w-ould have revealed homes such as the one Jennifer came from each morning and returned to each night with the feeling of gladness only associated with a real home, whether it be a tenement in a slum or a ducal mansion. Jennifer’s home was a little house on the corner, half hidden by an enormous hoarding advertising lung tonic, and the fact that beautiful pianos could be paid for out of income. But red and pink geraniums grew bravely in bark boxes at each of the windows of Mrs. Lome’s houS’e; the curtains were of snow-white muslin, and the windows shone with much rubbing, while an aerial spoke of wireless, and a fire in the room on the ground floor flickered redly between the curtains. Full of excitement, Jennifer burst into the parlour like sunshine in an old garden. The gas was not lit, but in the old horsehair armchair by the fire a boy’s long, sprawled-out figure revealed itself. “Hallo. Jack! Where’s mother?” asked Jennifer, in the soft, sweetly modulated voice that seemed much more suitable for the house she had just left than for the humble surroundings to which she had been born Jack Lome got up and lit the gas before he replied. “She's out at the back —as usual,” in a tone of such weary disgust that the sunny expression was wiped clean from Jennifer’s face, like a damp sponge drawn over a child's slate. The boy was startlingly like his sister; the same hair and colouring, the same type of features. And yet a physiognomist would have found a very real difference between the boy and girl. The former’s eyes lacked Sarsaparilla Herbs. —A packet makes a quart ol' the best Sarsaparilla Blood Purifier. Make your own and have it fresh. Packet posted for 2s 3d. —E. W. Hall, Herbalist, 117 Armagh Street, Christchurch. —4.

Jennifer’s candour, and the superiority of intellect that was hers. The mouth was ■waiak, a fault that had nothing to do with immaturity, but an inherent defect of character. Jack Lome’s voice possessed the same soft tones as Jennifer’s, and his hands were wellkept and pale in colour. Tonight lie looked so drawn and wori’ied that he communicated his own unrest to Jennifer, who loved him next only to her mother, for whom adoration was the only word- to describe her feeling. It was characteristic of Jennifer’s understanding and wideness of vision that, in her struggle upward, she did not make the cruel blunder of ridiculing the taste, dress, grammar, and style of the mother who was too old, and anyhow was quite content to live and die as she had been born —a woman of the people, asking nothing more of life than to be allowed to make an honest living and to retain the love of her. children and the respect of her neighbours tp the end. Thus, the hideous, enlarged, oakframed portrait of her father and mother on their wedding day was not banished from the parlour walls, nor the red velvet drapery from the mantelpiece, nor the boxes covered with sea-shells, which had ‘‘A present from Margate” inscribed on their lids. It was in Jennifer’s bedroom, where she could do as she liked, that her own taste was revealed in the plain, cream-distempered walls, with the few reproductions of good pictures framed in simple black wood, the bookshelves which, besides the volumes that had assisted her selfeducation, contained books which had belonged to her working-man philosopher and dreamer of a father— Darwin’s “Origin of Species,” John Stuart Mill, Spencer’s “First Principles,” and all the books of poetry that had coloured his drab existence. Very early had both his children determined that they were not going to be as he; but, whereas Jennifer’s ambition included the securing of her mother’s comfort, Jack’s included no such thing; on the contrary, he appeared to be thoroughly and bitterly ashamed of the womau, who, after her husband’s death, had courageously bought herself an extra large washtub and taken in as much washing as she could get, in order to feed herself and her children. “I’m sick of this life, Jennifer! Look at this room, look at mother, look at everything!” Jack Lome slumped himself into the armchair again and stared moodily into the fire. The colour flamed into Jennifer’s vivid little face, and her eyes had a hint of anger. “Say what you like about the place. Jack, but keep your tongue off mother!” Jennifer warned, quietly. “Well, go into the kitchen and see if she’s anything to be proud of,” sneered the boy, who, like all male creatures spoiled to the best of their mothers’ ability, was unwilling to make the least allowance, and had no sympathy to spare, except for himself. “All right, I will!” Jennifer flashed into the clean but poky little back kitchen like a streak of lightning. By the fire sat her mother, a prematurely aged woman of 49, who looked 10 years older. Her elastic-sided cloth boots rested on the fender, and her skirt, carefully turned up, revealed a grey stuff petticoat that had started its life as a costume skirt. Through the open door leading into the yard Jennifer could see the moon shining on the track of cobble stones, worn smooth by her mother’s feet over the passage of many years, and as she saw her mother’s bowed shoulders, a passionate pity welled up in Jennifer's heart, and, flinging her strong, young arms around the tired body, she strained her mother to her-

self, and kissed her pale lips over and over again, promising her all sorts of wonderful things when she had made a little progress in her new job. “Ah, you’ll make a stir in the-world, as your poor father ’ud have done, if he’d a’ lived. Your dinner's in the oven, dear, nice an’ hot. Mind yon don’t burn yourself,” as Jennifer seized the hot plate with what appeared to be an entirely inadequate cloth. CHAPTER 111. The vast hall, balloon-hung, teemed with the hum of voices, laughter, and •the lower, deeper nates of men’s conversation. The lustre of rouged cheeks and reddened lips was universal; a hundred perfumes sighed together. The Duchess of Vardon, representing a Gainsborough picture, paused to look into Adela Creighton’s private box and boom her thanks for the “perfectly marvellous pluck” she was displaying in coming to the ball with her sprained ankle. As a matter of cold fact the invalid was thoroughly enjoying her share of the limelight. With a doctor, a nurse, Frank Yardley, her uncle, and two other men in attendance, and newspaper reporters coming into the box at intervals, the self-centred girl almost felt that her accident had been worth while. “I do hope Miss-er-what did you say her name was?” she turned a carelessly inquiring face toward Frank Yardley, who seemed rather restless, every now and then consulting his wrist-watch. “Miss Lome,”' answered the young and the old man both together. Adela laughed, a tinkling, tumourless laugh, that grated as it fell upon the ear. “How perfectly you remember!” she said, mockingly. Now and again both men left her for the dancing, when they were sure that the invalid would not miss them. But. no matter to whom she evas talking, her big china-blue eyes never left Frank Yardley’s figure while it circled within their range. At last came the time when the costumes were to be judged for the prizes. With the aid of a megaphone the entrants were instructed to repair to the dressing rooms behind the stage, when, as each name was called, they would appear before the judges, who were grouped around a table on the floor below. There was much shuffling and laughter, and shrieks of comic dismay, as the competitors hustled in to their respective rooms. Girls whose faces w-ere all young, but varying little in the hard, self-seeking expression that spoiled each one of them, crowded past Jennifer, hardly noticing her in her chair by the door, where she had been ready for the last half hour. She was not exactly nervous, but she felt keyed-up, and, back of the excitement, she felt deeply, genuinely worried about her brother. There was something on his mind she felt sure, something much more tangible than those things which, at present, neither of them were able to help—their poor home and lack of the refinements of life. He had been a clerk in a big city firm for over two years now-. Of course, there might be a girl in it . . . Jennifer w-ondered. “Number 14, please.” That was her number. Rising to her feet with a little inward prayer, and clutching the black rubber bulbs as if they had been the hands of somebody drowning, she walked lightly, easily, daintily, so gracefully that there was a loud murmur of admiration at her appearance on the velvet-hung stage. She stood poised long enough for the judges to examine the costume in detail, and then, by pre-arrangement which tvas conveyed to the audience by megaphone, the lights were turned out, and the illuminated butterflies displayed in all their enchanting loveliness. Loud, spontaneous, prolonged applause, mixed with “Oh’s” and “Ah’s” of admiration, and complimentary remarks on Jennifer’s beauty, made it easily apparent as to which dress had BLFERFLUOUS HAIR destroyeo oy “RUSMA" (Regd.). Signed, stamped, guaranteed cure. £5 12s 6d.— Florence Mullen, C.M.D., 7 Courtenay Place, Wellington. Send stamped addressed envelope for particulars.

secured the first prize. There was nothing to compare with “Painted Butterflies,” and Jennifer was the centre of an admiring, excited crowd, directly she left the stage. “Oh, she’s one of the girls from my dressmaker’s establishment. Lucky that she was the type to show off the dress, wasn’t it? The illuminating was Frank’s idea, and the frock wouldn’t have been a quarter as effective without it. We’ll have to divide, the prize—chop the bangle in half,” laughed Adele Creighton, all eager, childish excitement. “I say, Adela, wnat about giving it to the little girl who wore it? She never had anything like it. I’ll bet, and now that we’ve won, we don’t want the bangle, do we?” It was Frank Yardley speaking. If she had possessed a single thought outside her own immediate desires, Adela Creighton wuuld have yielded the bangle prettily and made a good impression. But her cook had not lied regarding her meanness, notwithstanding her wealth. It was the reference to the monetary value of the prize that jarred the shipbuilder’s son. “Give away a bangle worth £150? Don’t be silly, Frank. I’ll send the girl a cheque for three guineas “tomorrow, and she’ll consider herself well rewarded,” replied Adela Creighton, very decidedly, “All right,” replied Frank, with apparent nonchalance, but a moment afterward he left the box to go in search of Jennifer. He meant to have a dance with her if he could. But she was not in the hall. “Just seen a little lady answering that description drive off in a Hispano, with an elderly gent,” the commissionaire at the main entrance told him. It might or might not be Jennifer. What a wholly delightful name! Both names were delightful. “Miss Jennifer Lome, appearing in ‘Painted Butterflies’ on behalf of the Honourable Adela Creighton,” had been the announcement preceding Jennifer’s appearance. The strength of the ancient law of earth was yet hidden from Frank Yardley, but faint stirrings in the direction of its fulfilment were making -themselves felt as he went back to the hall. In the meantime, Adela Creighton’s uncle was certainly doing his best to make himself pleasant to Jennifer, whom he had pursuaded into his car for the journey back to Camden Town, pointing out what was perfectly ■true, namely, that it had turned out an appallingly wet night, that her last bus had long since gone, and that every available' taxi was booked for thOse at the ball who did not possess private cars. Jennifer did not see what she could do, except walk home and risk catching a violent cold. But, half way there, she wished that she had risked it, for, quite suddenly, was seized in a pair of arms that were capable of almost crushing her ribs, even if the arms were not in their first youth. “You lovely little witch, you went to my head the moment you stepped into my niece’s room tonight! Do you know that?” “Let me go! Let me go!” Jennifer gasped rather than said, striving futilely to free herself from the strong arms that held her so tightly that she could not move. As such trifles sometimes obtrude in moments of great stress. Jennifer’s frightened eyes noted that the silken blinds of the car were drawn over the windows. “Don’t be such a beast!” she managed to articulate.' when she succeeded in jerking her head clear. “I’m not a beast, my dear, and I’ll piove it if you'll let me," came the quick reply, and Jennifer sickened at the kisses which were pressed upon her cheek, her neck, her ear—anywhere that the greedy lips could reach. “I'll give you anything you like if only you’ll be good to me. I’ve never been anything but a friend to those who are good to me. I suppose you don’t happen to want anything now, do you? You can have it, if you do.” The man seemed possessed, beside himself. Happily for Jennifer, the uupleasant situation solved itself by the sudden stopping of the car. In the excitement the ground had been speedily covered. The sight of the light burning in

their parlour window was like a breath or salt sea air to Jennifer’s spirit, bracing it just as it would have braced her body could she have enjoyed it in reality. Her mother would be there, waiting up for her, she knew. She stumbled out of the car, unheeding the chauffeur’s outstretched hand, leaving James Read hunched back in a corner, glowering at her, but impotent to speak in front of his servant. CHAPTER IV. But it was not her mother who was waiting up for her. It was her brother, sitting in the same attitude as when she had left him hours before. Apparently he had not moved. Jennifer stopped short. ‘ Jack:’’ she called softly, doing her best to control her fear of the strange, unfamiliar expression on the boyish face. Her brother did not move. She went to him then, and, kindly and yearningly, as their mother might have done, slipped to her knees and passed her arm around the bowed shoulders. “Jack dear. Look up at me,” she begged him. The boy- lifted his face at once, obedient as a child, and there was that in his eyes which made his sister wince, and turn her own away, while her heart seemed to miss a beat. “What have you done?” The young voice was a hoarse, terrified whisper, and when at length the boy’s reply came, the number of his thefts, the period over which they had stretched, the sheer audacity of them, made Jennifer gasp. “You have stolen two hundred

pounds in all, did you say-? Ever since you have been working for the firm you have been pilfering? Oh. ; Jack, whatever made you do it?” The agony in the sweet young face, the piteous note in the soft voice, seemed to goad the boy to madness. He leaned forward, his eyes blaz- : ing, his figure suddenly taut, rigid j with emotion that need no longer be repressed. "I told you tonight what ! made me do it!” he said, harshly, i . indicating his surroundings with a' ' wide-flung gesture. “All this squalor and misery, this low life, this never meeting with decent people on their own level. I —it was a girl, of course ' —a niece of the boss, who called at j the office one day to see him.” The young voice broke. The pale hand clenched itself in an impotent fashion that was indicative of the lack of iron in the boy's composition. “Yes?” probed the white-faced girl. in her gentle voice nothing but pity, in her exquisite face an understanding as deep as love itself, and as wide "She let me take her out to tea : first, and she flattered me by asking if I was any relation to Sir Peter j Lome, and I swanked I was his nephew. Then she introduced me to some of her crowd, and they invited j me to a night club—the Florida —the one that's just been closed,” he elaborated, with the minuteness of detail belonging to the mentally overwrought. “I lost my head,” the miserable boy finished, drearily. “The manager or somebody else has found out about the pilfering, I suppose?” Jennifer ventured, after a minute's silence that seemed like an hour. “If I don’t find the two hundred by five o'clock tomorrow, I shall be ar-

rested,” was the reply. Then, without warning, the boy broke down, and he clutched at his sister's hands, sobbing. “I—l wish that I had p-pluck enough to kill myself. B-but I cannot face it —death, I mean —and I cannot face prison, either —being branded as a gaolbird all my life!” “Darling, don’t cry so. Perhaps there is a way out.” said Jennifer, soothing and petting her tall brother as if he had been a little child. The boy looked up. a great light transfiguring bis swollen face. “What do you mean?” he asked, hoarsely, a thin little thread of brightness creeping into his voice in spite of himself. Jennifer did not answer; her face was turned away. She was not beside her brother at that moment, except in a physical sense. Her soul was wandering far. far away into a land of misery, a land which not only she but the mother whose happiness she would willingly die to secure, would have to inhabit as well. Every fibre shrank from the intention that she had conceived, but Jack was weeping again. "For God's sake, if you know anybody who'll lend you the money, go to them—go to them, dear. I haven't a friend in all the world but you.” The miserable boy spoke more truly | than he knew "Not one of those who helped me to I spend the money will lend me a penny!" he groaned. “Xo, that sort of company is usually better at spending than lending,” said Jennifer, bitterly. (To be Continued Tomorrow.)