"The thistles show beyond the brookDust on their down and bloom,And out of many a weed-grown nookThe aster flowers lookWith eyes of tender gloom."—W. D. Howells.
"The thistles show beyond the brookDust on their down and bloom,And out of many a weed-grown nookThe aster flowers lookWith eyes of tender gloom."
—W. D. Howells.
Master Percival returned Bee's visit the very next day.
"What did you do with that butterfly that you caught?" he asked as he seated himself. "Why did you catch it anyway?"
"Father thought it an unusually fine one, and wished it for his collection," replied Bee. "You cannot see it now because it is not ready to set up yet, but I can show you some others, if you care to see them."
"I do care," he answered. "I never noticed those things until I saw you catching them."
"You didn't?" asked Bee in surprise, as she led the way to the laboratory. "How could you help noticing them?"
"I don't know. Maybe it's because I have not been in the country very much. What makes you like them?"
"They are so beautiful, Percival, for one thing. Then my father likes them. They are his specialty."
Percival gave a cry of delight as they entered the laboratory, and some butterflies rose from the thistles upon which they were resting. Like autumn leaves released from their moorings they floated about, brilliant bits of color. Soaring, curving, dropping into the depths of the corners of the room, the butterflies rose and fell, rose and circled higher, higher, up to the very ceiling; then they came tumbling down among the thistles, settling and unsettling themselves airily, noiselessly, making their selection of resting places slowly and daintily.
"This is the very last one to burst its chrysalis," remarked Bee, indicating a queenly Swallowtail whose flutterings denoted weakness. "Soon it will circle about in its first flight. See the lustre of its wings, Percival. Did you ever see anything more beautiful?"
"They are like flowers," cried the boy enthusiastically, all the artist in him revelling in the beauty and daintiness of the insects. "Flying flowers! They—Gee! Look at the worms!"
"They are not worms; they are caterpillars," explained Bee. "See how they are feeding upon the leaves? When the time comes that they have eaten enough they will spin a bed for themselves like this," showing him a cocoon. "After a short sleep they burst forth into beautiful butterflies."
"Do they feed on the different colored plants so as to have different colors?" he queried.
"Why, Percival, that is a sweet fancy," she cried. "I never thought of that. I'll ask father if that is what makes them the pretty colors. You like them too, don't you?"
"I like the butterflies, but I don't like those creepy, crawly things from which they come."
"That is the most beautiful part of it, father says," said Bee. "They are humble, earth-bound creatures at first; then after a period of preparation they become beautiful winged insects, basking in the sunshine and sipping sweets from flowers."
"I like that part of it," said the boy again. "But those hairy things give me the creeps. Let's get out of this."
So they adjourned to the veranda forthwith.
"Do you know, my mother said that she rather fancied you?" announced Percival presently. "She said that you were very pleasant, and that such a nice girl would be good for me to be with this summer. So I am to cultivate your acquaintance."
"Indeed!" Beatrice laughed merrily, and then became grave. "Percival, you are terrible," she said reprovingly. "You ought not to tell everything that your mother says. I am quite sure that she would not like it."
"She doesn't," he answered promptly, a sparkle of mischief in his eyes. "But she can't help herself."
"Why can't she? She could punish you. That might do some good."
"I'd like to see anybody raise a hand to me," said the boy pompously, reaching down and plucking a blade of grass which he bit into nonchalantly. "They don't dare do it. You see, I am the head of the family. I make all the money in concerts. If it were not for me mamma and old Heinrich would not have a cent. So I do just as I please. Sometimes," he laughed a malicious little laugh, "if I want anything real bad I throw a fit just before the performance. My! My! but isn't there some tall hustling then?"
He laughed again, but the girl regarded him with shocked, pained eyes. Her disapproval was so evident that he moved about restlessly under her glance.
"If my mother were living," spoke Bee slowly, "and I could provide for her by playing, or in any other way, I would be so glad to have her that I would do anything I could for her. And I would try not to cause her pain by being naughty."
"Oh, I don't mind playing," confessed he. "I like to take care of my mother, and she is all right. We are great friends, but she doesn't always give me what I want. I have to get it someway."
"If I were she I wouldn't give in to you," spoke the girl severely. "If she would not you would go on and play anyway when you found that you could not have what you wished. Now wouldn't you?"
"I never thought about it just that way," observed the Prodigy thoughtfully, "but—yes; I guess I would. You needn't go tell my mother though. I'd have no end of trouble in getting the things I want, and old Heinrich is bad enough now."
"I am not a tattletale," exclaimed Bee indignantly. "I don't repeat things which I know people would rather I would not tell."
"You mean that for me, Beatrice Raymond," cried the boy rising. "I won't trouble you by telling you anything more; that's certain. You may come over to see my mother if you want to. I won't be at home to you. You are entirely too dicta—dicta—" He struggled valiantly with the word for a moment, then gave it up, and bowing stiffly, stalked majestically away.
Beatrice's impulse was to call him back and apologize. Then, as she saw him give a quick backward glance at her, a light broke upon her mind, and she coolly retreated into the house.
"The rogue! he is just too spoiled for anything," she laughed. "He did that, thinking that I would run after him. Well, I won't. A little judicious snubbing will do him good."
"Has Joel come back from town, Aunt Fanny?" she asked as she entered the kitchen.
"Yes'm; he done kum back, Joel is. He brung a lettah from yer pa, I 'specs. Hit ain't from no lady nohow, an' no udder gem'mens gwine ter write dat I knows anything erbout."
"Certainly it is from father," said Bee, breaking the seal eagerly. "Although I might have a half dozen gem'mens writing to me for all you know," she added, teasingly.
"No, yer ain't, honey. Dey may kum in time, but yer too 'voted ter yer pa right now for hit."
And so she talked while Beatrice perused her letter. It was short, and ran as follows:
"My dear Daughter:"I am writing in haste to inform you that I shall be home Saturday morning, and shall bring with me four of the Faculty of the University. They are enthusiastic Lepidopterists, and I am sure that you will enjoy meeting with them. Now, my child, they will remain for dinner, and while you manage very nicely indeed with Aunt Fanny, I fear that this may tax your ability too far. Could you not get some capable person to assist you for the day?"I hope that you have not been very lonesome, and assuring you that it will afford me the greatest pleasure to be with you again, I am as ever,"Your affectionate father,"William Raymond."
"My dear Daughter:
"I am writing in haste to inform you that I shall be home Saturday morning, and shall bring with me four of the Faculty of the University. They are enthusiastic Lepidopterists, and I am sure that you will enjoy meeting with them. Now, my child, they will remain for dinner, and while you manage very nicely indeed with Aunt Fanny, I fear that this may tax your ability too far. Could you not get some capable person to assist you for the day?
"I hope that you have not been very lonesome, and assuring you that it will afford me the greatest pleasure to be with you again, I am as ever,
"Your affectionate father,
"William Raymond."
Bee sat still for a long time gazing at the letter. Something about the tone of it chilled her heart, and she could not but contrast it with that other letter which also told of his homecoming. How full of love, and tenderness, and longing, that had been; while this—Oh! would he never, never care for her? Her eyes filled with a quick rush of tears.
"Am hit bad news, honey?" queried Aunt Fanny anxiously.
"No; no, indeed." Bee dashed away her tears, and tried to speak cheerfully. "Father is coming home Saturday, and he will bring company for dinner. There will be four scientific men with him, and he fears that we shall not be able to manage by ourselves. What do you think?"
"Huh!" snorted the negress scornfully. "I'se cooked for more'n dat many. Dey's nuffin but mens what ebber elsen dey is. I reckon dey feeds like udder gem'mens if dey is satanic."
"Scientific, Aunt Fanny," corrected the girl with a quick transition from melancholy to mirth. "Satanic means—"
"Nebber you min' what hit means, chile. I doesn't want no udder worman a-trapesin' erbout my kitchen. You heah me? No'm; we'll manage, Miss Bee. Jes' yer think what ter hab, an' I'll cook hit. We'll git ole Rachel's Tillie ter wait on de table, an' dat's all de help we'll need. She's a likely gal!"
"All right, Aunt Fanny. We will try it, and if we find that we are not going to succeed we will get help. I'll think what to have, and we will surprise father by giving a nice dinner."
Resolutely putting from her all thought of her father's coldness Bee bent her whole energy to a study of a tempting menu for the dinner.
"When Aunt Annie was going to have company she always studied to please them," she mused. "Some way her dinners always just suited the guests. If I could have this dinner not only nice but distinctive, I should be pleased. Father is susceptible to the influence of a good dinner. I guess that all men are even if they are satanic." She laughed at the recollection of Aunt Fanny's mistake, then concentrated her mind anew upon the problem. Presently she jumped up, clapping her hands in glee.
"I have it! I have it!" she exclaimed joyfully. "They are Lepidopterists. I'll give them a Butterfly dinner."
With a definite purpose in view she could proceed to better advantage. Still, it took hours and a great deal of anxious thought to perfect her plan. The next few days were busy ones, but when at length Saturday came, everything was in readiness for the guests.
It was an exceedingly warm July day, and the old vine-covered house presented an inviting appearance. The walnut trees cast a grateful shade over the wide veranda, and along the broad drive that ran down to the gate on either side of which were shrubs and plants. The windows were open to the breeze and all the rooms were gay with flowers.
Beatrice herself was not the least charming part of the picture as she stood waiting with a pretty air of dignity to receive her father's guests. Doctor Raymond's eyes lighted up with pride as he noted the ease with which she greeted them, and his tone held a caressing inflection as he said:
"It is good to be home, Beatrice. I think the house never looked so restful as it does today."
"And I am glad that you are back father," said Bee with some shyness, for he had not kissed her. She did not think that this might be on account of the presence of guests. "You must be very warm after being in the sun. Will you take your friends to the library? It is cooler there, and Aunt Fanny will serve lemonade immediately."
"That is the right kind of a daughter to have, doctor," exclaimed one of the scientists with appreciation. "If going to the library means lemonade, let us adjourn there instantly. I am as dry as a desert."
"All human history attestsThat happiness for man—the hungry sinner—Since Eve ate apples, much depends on dinner."—Byron.
"All human history attestsThat happiness for man—the hungry sinner—Since Eve ate apples, much depends on dinner."
—Byron.
The dining room at Walnut Grove was a place furnished with more regard for comfort than for show. There was an air about the apartment that seemed to say that eating here was not a busy matter but one to be observed in peace and leisure. The furniture was solid, substantial, comfortable; mellowed by time and use. Had Beatrice but known it she had a charming setting for her dinner.
"It's only a bit of fun," she said to herself as she put the finishing touches to the decorations. "If they are not old fogies they will enjoy it. I don't see how anything can go wrong. Everything is planned so carefully, and the table does look nice."
Nevertheless her heart beat somewhat faster as her father ushered in his guests, giving a hasty glance at the table as they took their places.
"This seems to be a Butterfly dinner to judge from the decorations," he observed with some anxiety in his manner. "I don't know exactly what that portends, but perhaps there will be something to satisfy us."
"Our young hostess has evidently studied her subject," remarked one of the scientists with an admiring glance at the table. "Do you know, Miss Raymond, that when I was a lad sweet peas were always associated in my mind with butterflies? To me they look just like the insect at rest."
"So they do to me," answered Bee. "That is the reason I chose them for the flowers." She had filled a vase with the blossoms upon which two large artificial butterflies rested, apparently partaking of the sweets of the flowers.
"'The Sulphurs,'" read a second, picking up the menu card which Bee had carefully written for each plate. "Gentlemen, I am afraid that we are in for it."
"Miss Raymond intends for us to eat our own words—no; that is not exactly what I mean, although some of us have written upon the subject of Lepidoptera," said the third one, a small man in spectacles.
Beatrice could not repress a little laugh at the look of relief that flashed across each man's face as Tillie, the "likely gal" of whom Aunt Fanny had spoken, appeared with "The Sulphurs" which proved to be yellow cantaloupes, ice cold.
"After all you are not the first martyrs to science," she told them merrily. "Luther had to partake of a diet of worms, I believe."
"So he did," observed the scientist on her right. "Let me see. How does the rhyme go?
"'Instead of butter on his breadA sauce of butterflies was spread.'
"'Instead of butter on his breadA sauce of butterflies was spread.'
"Are we to have that next? I see what is in store for us. 'All life is from an egg,'" reading aloud from the menu. "That sounds interesting."
With an eagerness that was almost boyish they awaited Tillie's coming with the next course which developed into egg soup accompanied by hot wafers. A laugh of pure enjoyment went up as Scale insects with chrysalids and some green hair streaks was seen to be baked fish with shrimp salad, dressed with cucumbers.
An entree—"Scarce clouded yellows," mushrooms on toast—was provocative of so much merriment that Bee gave herself up to the fun, assured that the dinner was a success. Stiffness could not exist under such conditions, and the grave scientists unbent from their dignity, and jested and made merry like a lot of school-boys. There was admiration in the look that Doctor Raymond bestowed upon his daughter as course followed course, each bearing the name of a certain species of butterfly, evolved from a resemblance of color or form to the viands. The dessert, "The Arctics with Boisduval Marble," was ice cream frozen in butterfly moulds and marble cake; while "Wooded Nymphs" were salted almonds.
"Gentlemen," said one, rising as the last course—'The Mourning Cloak' which meant black coffee—was served, "let us toast our hostess. This has been one of the most ingenious as well as one of the most enjoyable dinners I ever attended. It has the merit of originality, and puts to blush the efforts of older but not wiser ladies. Doctor Raymond, I congratulate you upon your daughter. You should be proud of her, sir."
Doctor Raymond bowed his acknowledgments, while Bee sat, so proud and happy that she was almost overcome.
"I confess that I was a little dubious when I first saw that menu card," confessed her father with a smile as he finished his coffee.
"Do you mean that you did not aid her? That she did in truth plan this alone?" exclaimed the shy gentleman in surprise. "Where then did she get her knowledge of the subject?"
"Beatrice studied it while I was away," explained Doctor Raymond. "It was done in order to help me in my work, I believe; and she has certainly proved to be a very enthusiastic assistant. She is helping me in my cataloguing this summer. Shall we go to the piazza, gentlemen? There is just time for a cigar before your train."
They passed from the dining room, leaving Bee flushed and happy to report their success to Aunt Fanny. Presently Joel came with the carriage and the Lepidopterists took their departure. Doctor Raymond laid his hand lightly upon his daughter's arm, and turned her toward him.
"Was that entirely your own idea about the dinner?" he asked.
"Yes, father. Did you like it?"
"Very much indeed. It was admirably conceived, and most admirably executed. Did you have no assistance beside Aunt Fanny?"
"Only Tillie," responded Bee. "Aunt Fanny didn't want any 'udder worman traipesing erbout her kitchen.'" Bee laughed a little at the remembrance of the negress' indignation. "She said that she could cook for men even though they were 'satanic;' so I did the planning, and she did the cooking. You must praise her too, father. I never could have done it without her."
"I am glad to hear you say that, Beatrice. I was afraid that you might take all the credit to yourself, but I see that you are willing to share honors."
Beatrice drew closer to him. There were times when she would have dearly loved to have thrown her arms about his neck as she had seen Adele do with her father, but Doctor Raymond was not a demonstrative man, and she stood too much in awe of him to take the initiative. Just at the present she felt closer to him than she had done since his return. He was proud of her and showed it plainly. He was coming to care for her, even though she was not pretty. He had been right. Beauty did not matter after all. Oh, she would be so good, so good, and study so hard that he could not help but love her. She was so happy. His hand still lay on her arm as if he liked it to be there. A mist came into her eyes, and a lump into her throat that caused her to breathe quickly.
"Beatrice!"
"Yes, father?"
"Did you know that your Uncle Henry was very ill?"
"No; I am sorry to hear it. Are they at home?"
"Yes; they returned from Annie's mother's just as soon as Henry began to feel bad. He must have the utmost quiet. Even I am not allowed to see him. And, Beatrice—"
"Yes, father?" spoke Bee again.
"Adele must go away while he is so ill." Doctor Raymond spoke with some hesitation. "Her mother wished her to stay with her grandmother, but she is very unhappy at her separation from you, and she wishes to come here. I wished to bring her with me today, but Annie insisted that you should be consulted upon the matter first. You can have no objection, surely."
"Father!" Anguish and appeal were in Bee's voice. She turned from him and covered her face with her hands.
"My daughter, are you still harboring resentment against your cousin on account of my mistake? That would be unworthy of you."
"Don't," cried Bee, brokenly. "Don't, father!"
There was surprise and grave displeasure in Doctor Raymond's face. That he was more than pained was evident. His daughter had never seemed so womanly as she had that day, and now—he was perplexed. The man was more acquainted with the ways of insects than he was with girls, and had Bee been a butterfly rather than a most miserable girl he would have known just what to do. As it was he stood in what seemed to Beatrice cold disapproval.
"He wants her to come," she thought with a pang of bitterness. "And I was so happy only a moment ago. Oh, if I could only have him to myself a little longer, I wouldn't care. I know that I could win him to like me best if I only had a little longer. She will spoil everything." She gave a little sob.
Dr. Raymond gave an impatient movement.
"Beatrice," he said, "I confess that I do not see why this should cause you so much grief. It distresses me very much. You should remember that you shared your cousin's home for many years. It is ungracious to hesitate for a moment."
"They were well paid for their care of me," flashed Beatrice with passionate anger. "And they never allowed me to come between them and Adele. Aunt Annie said that it was natural and right that Adele should be first in her own home, and I agreed with her. I gave up in everything to her when I was there. Now, I want to be first in my home. It is not right for her to come here when I haven't had you for so long. Adele only cares to come because you admire her. It isn't at all because she cares for me. And she ought not to leave her father! Oh! it isn't—it isn't—" She burst into tears, unable to finish.
There followed a long silence eloquent with the grief of the daughter, and the unspoken censure of the father. Beatrice felt his disapproval, and she could not bear it. At length, feeling that even Adele's presence could be borne better than his displeasure, she lifted her tear-stained face, and said in a trembling voice:
"Bring her when you wish, father, but, but—" She could say no more.
"That is my own daughter," he exclaimed approvingly. "That was a real victory over unworthy feelings, Beatrice. And there is no cause for any jealousy toward your cousin. Remember that, and conquer whatever of ill feeling toward her may lurk in your breast."
"Yes, father," said Bee, trying not to sob.
"I can not bear it," she told herself as she went finally to her room. "He wants her to come. He loves her best after all. And I meant to be so good, so good! But it's no use. No use!"
And so what had been a happy day closed with unpleasantness and she went to bed feeling that all her good times with her father were ended.
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is allYe know on earth, and all ye need to know."—Keats.
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is allYe know on earth, and all ye need to know."
—Keats.
"I shall go to Henry's today, Beatrice," Doctor Raymond informed his daughter the next morning. "Adele will return with me."
"Very well, father," acquiesced Beatrice apathetically. She was pale, with deep circles under her eyes, and looked as though she had not slept.
"I am afraid that you worked too hard on that dinner," commented the naturalist with solicitude. "Do you not feel well?"
"I am quite well, thank you, father," returned the girl gravely.
"I shall be glad when your cousin comes," remarked he. "I fear that I have kept you too close to study this summer."
"No, no," denied Bee. "I am just tired, that is all."
What difference did it make to him whether she had worked too hard or not, she asked herself with all the injustice of girlhood. Finding her loath to converse her father relapsed into silence, and the breakfast ended drearily.
Then he left, and Bee sat down on the verandah steps to face the situation. It was over. All the delightful companionship, the long walks, the cataloguing,—everything. She dropped her head into her hands, and sobbed.
"Beatrice Raymond," said the voice of Percival, "what in the world is the matter? I have called twice and you did not answer."
"I didn't hear you." Bee raised her head, and looked at him dully.
"Are you mad at me?" he queried.
"No."
"You didn't think that I would ever come over to see you again, did you?" asked the Prodigy seating himself beside her with easy grace.
"I did not think anything about it," replied the girl shortly.
"You are cross," exclaimed Percival in aggrieved tones. "If you are not mad, I don't see why you should be cross to me. Aren't you mad?"
"No, no," returned Bee impatiently. "See here, Percival! I am in trouble. Won't you go away, and not bother me?"
The boy rose slowly.
"Of course, if I bother you, I'll go," he said with dignity. "If you are in trouble you ought not to be left alone. Thinking is bad, my mother says. Where is your father?"
"He has gone away," replied Bee briefly. "He won't be back until tonight."
"Then I am not going," declared Percival firmly. "That is, not unless you will go with me. Why can't you come over and stay with mamma and me, Beatrice?"
"I don't want to," said Bee miserably. "I just want to be left alone."
"That is what I'm not going to do," declared the boy obstinately. "You ought not to be, you know. I'll tell you what: come over, and let me play to you. That will drive all your troubles away."
"If I go over for a little while to listen to you, will you let me come home alone? I don't wish to be rude, Percival, but I am very unhappy."
"If you will come over for a time you may do anything you please," said the lad earnestly. "I am sorry if I seem to bother, but when I am troubled music puts everything all right. It's the same with mamma, and with old Heinrich, and with lots of people. I just believe that it will help you too, or I should not insist. Now, come, Butterfly."
"You are very nice to me, Percival," said Beatrice, touched. "Nicer than you ought to be, because I have not been good to you this morning. But I just can't be pleasant to any one."
"I know." The boy nodded his head sagaciously. "I feel that way too, sometimes."
"And, Percival, you must not call me Butterfly. Butterflies are pretty and only good-looking people should be called so. I have a cousin who is very beautiful. We always called her that, but they call me Bee."
"And bees make honey, don't they? I like honey, and I like bees. I think I like them better than I do butterflies. They have a sting, too, don't they?"
"Yes," answered the girl.
"You have too. That is, you can say some sharp things. I think bee suits you better than the other because you do things. I am going to call you Beefly. Butterflies never do anything, do they?"
"They don't need to do anything," sighed Bee. "It's only homely insects that need to work."
Percival made no answer, and silently they went through the orchard and across the field, and through the hedge into the garden beyond. Mrs. Medulla greeted them pleasantly, as they entered.
"Good morning, Beatrice," she said, noting the girl's paleness instantly. "You have made quite a conquest of my son. He has never taken so to a girl before."
"She's different," spoke Percival sententiously, adjusting the music on the rack, and picking up his violin. "Other girls don't think of anything but dresses and things to wear. She doesn't tag after a fellow either. I like her. You must not talk any more, mamma. She is troubled, and I'm going to play to make her feel better."
"Very well," said the lady, with a faint smile. "Sit here by me, my dear," she added kindly to Beatrice.
The girl sank into a low chair by her side, comforted in spite of herself by their kindness. Presently the young violinist began to play. Beatrice listened perfunctorily at first, but pretty soon she found herself caught, and held by his wonderful playing. On and on he played, not watching her with challenging, curious eyes to note the effect as before, but, like the true artist that he was, bending earnestly to the task of bringing comfort and consolation to her heart.
It was Beethoven that touched her most. Under the influence of his divine music Bee felt her heart strings relax, and as the mighty climax of the last movement swelled into ecstacy, infinite as the human soul, she burst into a flood of tears. At a glance from his mother Percival stole softly into the house, while the lady drew the girl into her arms.
"There!" she said, smoothing her hair gently. "That will do you good, my child."
Petting was what the girl needed, and soon her emotion spent itself. When at last she was calm she looked up contritely.
"I should not have come over, and made so much trouble," she said. "Forgive me, Mrs. Medulla; I will go home now. Thank you—"
"My dear," spoke the lady, drawing her back into her embrace, "suppose you tell me all about it."
Beatrice looked at her quickly, but seeing the sympathy in the older woman's eyes she broke out impulsively:
"I will. I will tell you the whole thing." Rapidly she poured forth all her grief. Told of Adele's changing the pictures, of her father's return and of his mistake in taking Adele for his daughter; of her cousin's beauty, and of her efforts to be like her; of her studies with her father; of the butterfly dinner, and of her belief that with time she could win his love; and finally of Adele's coming; ending with, "If only I were pretty my father would love me, I know. If only I were pretty!"
"That is a woman's cry, child," observed the lady thoughtfully. "The desire for beauty is in every feminine heart. A pretty complexion, a captivating dimple, bright eyes and flowing tresses are desired more than all knowledge of books, or graces of the mind."
"I know," sighed the girl.
"Now, dear, you and I are going to have a little talk."
"Dear lady," spoke Bee in pleading tones, "don't, don't tell me that 'Handsome is that handsome does,' or that beauty of mind and soul will cause others to forget that one is homely. Father says that too, but he would not have come had he not thought that his daughter was a beautiful girl."
"I am not going to say those things, child." Mrs. Medulla laughed. "I am not fond of platitudes myself, although there is much truth in them. Now, child, you feel hard toward your cousin for changing those pictures, don't you?"
Bee compressed her lips, and her eyes flashed.
"Yes," she said in a low tone, "and I'll never forgive her. Never!"
"Wait a minute, dear. It was not a nice thing, nor a kind thing for her to do, though I think it must have been pure girlish mischief. However, we are not concerned with that part of it. Beatrice, when would your father have come home had he not received the picture?"
"Why! not for two more years," cried Bee, a startled look flashing across her face.
"Exactly. Then if the exchange had not been made you would not have had the pleasure of your father's company at all this summer, would you?"
"N-no."
"Would you rather have him here now, even though such a mistake has been made, than to wait two years longer to see him?"
"Yes, yes, yes," cried Bee with intensity. "Oh, I don't see now how I could have borne to wait longer."
"Then, my dear, how about that feeling toward your cousin? Good has come out of it, no matter how she meant it. If you will think of that part of it, it will help you to feel toward her as you used to do, and you must do that, my child, for your own sake. Now whenever any hard thought of her comes, just think that she brought him back to you. It won't be easy at first, my dear, but you can do it. We will let that be, and pass on to other things. The case interests me very much, and I would like you to be so successful in winning his love that there would be no one of whom he would be so fond. Perhaps I can help you."
"If you will, I will do anything in the world for you," cried the girl earnestly.
"I am satisfied that it can be done, Beatrice. You were on the way to its accomplishment already. Your cousin's coming may make a slight difference for a time, but it will only be temporary. You yourself are liable to spoil everything."
"I?" Beatrice looked her surprise.
"Yes; you will see as I talk. Now, Beatrice, answer me one question: in your studies you have always been first, have you not?"
"Yes. How did you know?"
"Never mind about that. Which did you enjoy most: gaining a high mark without any competition, or getting one when others were striving for it too?"
"I liked best when I had to work hard to get ahead of others."
"I thought so. Look at this from the same standpoint. Gain your father's love in spite of your cousin's beauty, and his admiration for her. It will be a greater triumph than to gain it when she is not with you."
"Yes; it would," acknowledged Bee, "but—"
"Your first mistake, my dear, for you are a little to blame for the state of things," went on the lady, "was on that first night. You should have laughed at the blunder as of no consequence. I can see how such a course would be impossible to one of your temperament, for you are very intense, and the thing seemed a little short of tragic to you. That is past. Think no more of it. Your second mistake was in trying to make yourself like your cousin. That was a confession of weakness."
"It was as the animals do to protect themselves from enemies," explained Bee. "It is called protective mimicry."
"I don't know what it is called, child. Whatever it is, it is done only by those animals that are incapable of caring for themselves. Now, my dear, why don't you throw yourself into your father's arms, and tell him all your troubles, just as you have me?"
"I wouldn't dare," said Bee in such a tone of reverence that the lady broke into a musical peal of laughter. "You would understand if you knew him, Mrs. Medulla. There is no one quite like him. He is so learned, so reserved, so—"
"Tut, tut! He may be all that, but still he is a man. He may be just waiting for some token of love and affection from you. Remember, Beatrice, you know more of him than he does of you. You have been where you could talk with your aunt and uncle about him, while he knows you only by your letters. As you show yourself to him now, so he must judge of you."
"I see," mused Bee thoughtfully.
"We are through with your mistakes, Beatrice. Did you know that you have some claims to beauty yourself?"
"What?" gasped Bee, so amazed that Mrs. Medulla laughed again.
"Am I telling secrets?" she asked.
"But, but I am not fair. My hair is dark, and my eyes are almost black."
"There are more kinds of beauty than one, Beatrice. Yours is the kind that will increase with years. The Ugly Duckling sort which develops into a beautiful Swan."
"Is it true?" asked the girl breathlessly. "No one ever told me that before. Aunt Annie used to say that my only claim to beauty lay in the expressiveness of my face."
"And in that very expressiveness lies the difficulty. When you are bright and happy you are at your best. Sparkle and animation give you a charm that is more than beauty of skin, or regularity of feature. Grief robs you of this; so, if for no other reason, you should strive to put unhappiness from you. Women who have been considered great beauties have not always had perfect features, or flawless complexions; but they held sway by grace of manner, and that indefinable thing called charm. You are of this class. I am telling you this, little girl, not to make you vain, but to give you confidence. Do you know why no one has told you this before?"
"No," replied Bee. "Why?"
"Because, while one feels it, there is a sort of carelessness in your dress that detracts from your appearance."
Bee flushed scarlet, and put up her hand quickly to adjust her twisted neck ribbon.
"I do just throw my things on," she murmured.
"A maiden should be exquisitely neat always. Even a scientific man will be influenced by externals. Such a man might not be able to tell what was wrong, but he would be conscious of some disturbing element. If you are careless in your dress your father will unconsciously draw comparisons between you and your cousin. No girl can afford to be dowdy in appearance. She should make herself as neat and tidy as possible, and then think no more of her dress. Just a few more remarks and I will have finished my little sermon, if a talk on beauty may be called such. You will not mind if I say now, that there is much, much truth in the homely saying that you quoted: 'Handsome is that handsome does.' A winsome, lovable personality is worth all the beauty in the world.
"It is a fact that the girl who thinks kind thoughts, and does good deeds is a great deal more attractive than the one who thinks only of herself. The face reflects the mind far more than girls realize, and as a matter of looks alone a girl cannot afford to be other than sweet and loving. Unselfishness, kindness, thoughtfulness, all help to make the plainest face beautiful, and years will not detract from its charm."
She paused a moment, and then added:
"Not that I would decry loveliness of person child. It is a gift of Heaven and should be valued as such, but that alone is not everything. Cultivate exquisite neatness of person, and above all, be your own bright self, and I feel sure that it will be but a short time until you will be all in all to your father. And, child, when he looks at your cousin, rise above any little hardness that you may feel toward her. He looks at her as he would at some beautiful picture. It is the same sensation, caused by the same appreciation of beauty. Do you do likewise, and admire her with him. He will admit your good taste, and end by admiring you. Put on your best dress for tonight, and make him as proud of you as you did yesterday. You can do it."
"Iwilldo it," said Bee with determination. "I have been hateful about the dinner. I have not ordered anything for tonight. Mrs. Medulla, you are the sweetest woman that I have ever known."
"Don't be too grateful, Beatrice. Wait and see how things turn out. I know that you will succeed. Come tell me about it tomorrow."
"I will." Beatrice tripped lightly away; no longer troubled and unhappy, but full of the buoyancy of hope.
"If any loss thou hast to rue,Act as though thou wert born anew;Inquire the meaning of each day,What each day means, itself will say;Ne'er let thy breast with hate be supplied,And to God the future confide."—Goethe.
"If any loss thou hast to rue,Act as though thou wert born anew;Inquire the meaning of each day,What each day means, itself will say;Ne'er let thy breast with hate be supplied,And to God the future confide."
—Goethe.
There was a look of anxiety on Doctor Raymond's face as he drove up to the house that evening. Adele's countenance, too, clouded as she glanced about for her cousin, but no Bee was to be seen. The scientist assisted his niece from the carriage, turned the vehicle over to Joel, and started up the steps. All men dread scenes with their women folk, and he was no exception to the rule.
"Tired, Adele?" he asked. "I dare say we will run across Beatrice in the hall."
At this moment Bee came flying out. There was a flower in her hair, and another at her belt. She looked cool and sweet as only a girl can when she is exquisitely neat in every detail.
"I just heard you," she said brightly, giving Adele a kiss. "I was helping Aunt Fanny with the table when I heard your voices. How is Uncle Henry?"
"Better, Bee. Is dinner ready? I am so hungry."
"All ready," responded Bee. "Come right in. Leave your hat in the hall, and we will go to the table at once. Are you hungry, too, father?"
"I believe that I am," rejoined Doctor Raymond, whose face had cleared wonderfully during this conversation. "Have you repeated your success of yesterday, Beatrice?"
"Adele is not a Lepidopterist, so I did not serve butterflies," laughed Bee. "I am giving her chocolate ice cream, which is her favorite. Do you like it too?"
"Yes, indeed. I have not had any in years. Are you a housekeeper also, Adele?"
"No;" smiled Adele as they sat down to the table. "Mamma and Bee wouldn't let me muss round. To tell the truth, I don't care much about such things. My tastes are not all domestic. Bee was always crazy on the subject. At least when she could spare time from her butterflies."
"Yet she does not strike me as being particularly on that order," remarked the scientist musingly. "How came you to take it up, Beatrice?"
"Why, you wrote Aunt Annie that you wished me to," answered Bee as though that were sufficient reason.
"I believe that Bee would learn Hottentot if she thought it would please you, Uncle William," added Adele graciously. She was well pleased that Bee had welcomed her so cordially. "Now, papa is a lawyer, but I don't know a thing about law. I couldn't tell an appeal from a—from a—What do I want to say, Bee?"
"From a writ of habeas corpus," suggested Bee.
"Have you studied law also, Beatrice?" queried her father, glancing from the beautiful face of his niece to the animated one of his daughter.
"No, father. I have heard Uncle Henry talking about his cases, and picked up a few terms. I don't care for law as I do for science."
"What have you been doing to your hair, Bee?" broke in Adele, suddenly. "I knew there was something odd about you, but I couldn't tell what it was until this minute."
Bee's face flushed, but she answered good-naturedly:
"I struck for gold, Adele, but it didn't pan out the pure article."
"I didn't know that you cared about such things," observed Adele with an involuntary touch to her own golden locks. "You always seemed superior to such things. It would not look so bad if you would keep it touched up. It's being so dark at the roots and yellow the rest of the way is what makes it look queer. Why don't you have it bleached again?"
"Because it's silly," answered Beatrice tersely. "I was foolish to do it in the first place, and now I shall wear it just as it is until it is long enough to cut off all that horrid bleached part. It is a good punishment for me."
"Several of the girls do it, but it does seem strange for you to do such a thing. Aren't you most finished? I am dying to get to that piano. I want to play for Uncle William."
"I am quite through," said Bee with a quick glance in her father's direction, "and so is father. We will go into the parlor now."
With stately, old-fashioned courtesy Doctor Raymond rose and opened the door for them. Engrossed in his own meditations the scientist had not paid much attention to the chatter of the girls. Had it been otherwise he might have absorbed a few facts concerning the species girl that would have enlightened his understanding considerably.
"I am dreadfully out of practice," commented Adele, seating herself at the instrument, and letting her hands flutter over the keys dreamily. "Since papa has been so ill I have not touched the piano. What do you like, Uncle William?"
"Anything, child," replied Doctor Raymond, seating himself in a large arm chair and preparing to be comfortable. "I am fond of music of all kinds. So let it be 'grave or gay, lively or severe,' it will please me. Beatrice has not favored me with any music yet."
"I don't play," said Beatrice quietly. "You should hear Percival on the violin, father. He is wonderful!"
"And who is Percival, Beatrice?"
"He is the son of our new neighbor, Mrs. Medulla," Bee informed him. "He lives with his mother in the old Brawley place. He is an infant prodigy."
"I don't care much for such precocity," observed the doctor dryly. "It is usually exploited by long-legged chaps who seek to prolong the illusion of the infantile period by knickerbockers and curls. I am not speaking of your friend, Beatrice, but of the brood in general."
"But Percivalhascurls, and hedoeswear knickerbockers," spoke Bee in dismay. "Though he told me, father, that he despised his clothes, and that a real fellow did not like to wear such things. He really is a marvel, and I am sure that Mrs. Medulla would like for us to call on them. She has been very nice to me."
"Very well, my daughter. I suppose that we ought to be neighborly, but I shall not have much time for visiting. Let us listen to your cousin now. She is waiting for us."
Adele had at length settled herself to her satisfaction. She liked to play. She was the center of all eyes at the piano, and she was conscious that she looked her very best as, with eyes upturned, she sang some old ballad in her sweet and plaintive little voice.
Doctor Raymond lighted a cigar. Bee brought his tobacco set and placed it upon a small table by his chair. Then she sat down to listen. How beautiful Adele was! Despite her good resolutions a pang went through her heart as she noted her father's intense gaze of admiration. Adele sang on and on. The room grew dark. Beatrice rose, attended to the lights, trying to stifle the feeling of sadness that was stealing over her.
"Isn't she pretty?" she asked of her father suddenly, bending over and speaking wistfully.
"She is like an exquisite cameo," was the entomologist's enthusiastic response. "I am glad that you admire her, Beatrice, though I do not see how one could help it. Won't she tire herself?"
"I will see, father." Bee went to her cousin and touched her gently on the shoulder.
"Aren't you tired, Adele?"
"I believe that I am," replied Adele, jumping up from the stool. "I saw that Uncle William was interested and so I kept on."
This was scarcely true. She had played on because she saw that her uncle enjoyed looking at her. In common with most beauties she was conscious when she excited admiration.
"You sing very nicely, my dear," was the scientist's comment. For some reason he appeared more at home with his niece than he did with his daughter.
"Thank you, uncle," said Adele sweetly. "What are we to do tomorrow, Bee? Let's go shopping. I want to get a new blue dress. Mamma said that I could have one."
"I cannot go in the morning," replied Bee, whose mind was made up on this point. With her mornings with her father she had resolved there should be no interference. "I help father with his cataloguing then. I will go in the afternoon, if you wish."
"Then what will become of me?" pouted Adele.
"You shall help us," said Doctor Raymond, pleasantly. "Tomorrow we take up the life history of 'The Purple Emperor.' It is one of the most charming of butterflies, and I am sure that you will enjoy it. Beauty should be drawn by beautiful things," he added graciously.
"Why, of course I'll help," cried Adele, delighted by the compliment.
"There is one call, or errand of mercy rather, that I would like you girls to make for me," remarked the scientist presently. "This morning the minister told me that old Rachel was ailing. It would be a graceful thing for you two to take her some delicacies of some sort. The old appreciate such attentions. She was a faithful servant of your mother's, Beatrice. Indeed, she attended her through her last illness."
"I know, father. Uncle Henry said that you wished her looked after, and that she should not want for anything. He had me to go down to the cabin every month to see what she needed. I have not been since your return though. I thought perhaps you would prefer to attend to her yourself."
"I have been once, my daughter, but I can not go tomorrow. If you girls—"
"Certainly we'll go," cried Adele before Bee could reply. "Let's wear our gray dresses, Bee, and pretend that we are Sisters of Charity."
"You may wear a gray dress if you wish," remarked Bee. "I shall dress as I always do. Father, don't you think that we ought to attend to that before we go shopping?"
"Yes. Deeds of kindness should take precedence over all else. Now, girls, I am going into the study to read for a time. I know that you two must have a great deal to say to each other. Beatrice has had to be content with just me a long time.
"Good-night, Uncle William!" Adele ran to him and put up her lips for a kiss. "You are just horrid to run off to those old bugs and things. If you run away too often, I'll throw them into the river."
Bee looked up horrified at her cousin's pertness.
"Good-night, you butterfly," responded Doctor Raymond, kissing his niece, and seeming not at all dismayed by her threat. "Don't let me catch you tampering with my bugs, as you call them. Good-night, daughter!"
"Good-night, father," replied the girl without glancing at him. He had laughed just as if he had enjoyed Adele's nonsense. He had not kissed her since the first night of his homecoming, and her heart throbbed at the thought of how easily Adele could get what she would have given anything for.
Her father hesitated a moment, then, catching sight of her expression, he crossed the room to her side, and putting his hand under her chin, raised her face gently and looked into her eyes.
"Aren't you going to kiss me too?" he asked.
Bee's eyes filled, and she was unable to speak, as was always the case when she was deeply moved. He waited, wondering at her silence, when all at once he spoke with a quick intake of his breath:
"There is a look of your mother about you tonight, Beatrice. I never noticed it before. Child, child,—"
He withdrew his hand from her chin, turned, and quitted the room abruptly.
"What made him do that?" cried Adele. "Doesn't he like you yet, Bee?"
But Bee's eyes were shining through her tears.
"He said that I looked like my mother," she breathed. "Oh, Adele! Did you hear him?"
"Well, what of it? I don't see anything so wonderful in that. Everyone says that I am the perfect image of mamma. It would be natural for you to look like your mother."
"But he loved her dearly, dearly," said Bee. "If he thinks that I am like her he will love me too. He justmustlike me," she broke forth. "Why, Adele, I think I should die if he didn't."
"Oh, no; you wouldn't, Bee. I don't think you know how to manage him. Now I can make him do anything I wish. I could show you a few little tricks—"
"Thank you," answered Bee with dignity. "I don't want any more of your tricks, Adele. One of them has caused quite enough mischief."
"But you have forgiven me that, Bee; haven't you? I saw that you had just as soon as you kissed me."
"Adele," spoke Bee earnestly, "I am trying to do it. It brought father back to me sooner than he would have come. For that reason I am going to be toward you as I used to be, but I don't want to talk about it too much. And I don't want any more of your tricks. That is, if you care to have me like you."
"Beatrice Raymond, what has come to you?" asked Adele, her eyes opening wide at her cousin's seriousness. "I never saw such a difference in any one as there is in you since your father's return. Of course you are going to be toward me just as you used to be. You always were fond of me, and you are going to love me just as much as ever. What in the world are you doing?"
Beatrice made no reply. They were in her room by this time, and Adele was taking down her hair to brush it. Bee was leaning far out of a window, looking toward the garden where the dim outline of the moss rose bush, the rose her mother had planted, could be seen. There were no roses now, but the bush stood shapely and symmetrical in the moonlight.
"He said that I looked like her," she mused thoughtfully, her heart going out with yearning toward that mother who was scarcely more than a memory to her. "And he loved her dearly, dearly!"