"If lives were always merry,Our souls would seek relief,And rest from weary laughterIn the quiet arms of grief."—Henry Van Dyke.
"If lives were always merry,Our souls would seek relief,And rest from weary laughterIn the quiet arms of grief."
—Henry Van Dyke.
"Why, why," stammered Bee, so astonished by the lady's words that she could scarcely speak. She glanced down at the incriminating shears which she held in her hand, then at Percival, expecting that the lad would instantly tell how the affair had occurred, and so absolve her from blame. To her amazement the boy did not utter a word, but stood gazing at his mother as though fascinated. It came to Beatrice with something of a shock that he was frightened.
"Which one of you did it?" demanded Mrs. Medulla, turning first to the boy and then to the girl. "Why, oh why, was it done? Don't you know, Beatrice, that this will end all engagements for the winter? Percival knew it. He would not have the hardihood to do such a thing by himself. It must have been you. You should not have done it. No manager wants a boy without curls."
"Oh," murmured Bee. She looked at Percival beseechingly, but the boy, usually so ready with excuses still stood mute.
"Have I been mistaken in you after all, Beatrice," went on the lady, surprised at the girl's continued silence. "You seemed to have such an excellent influence upon Percival heretofore that it grieves me to find that my estimate of your character is wrong. I did not dream that you would incite him to mischief of any sort. I can not understand it. A thing of this nature, upon which so much depended, should not have been done without consulting me. Percival has not been kept in curls and knickerbockers without a reason. I know he has rebelled at times, but he knew the necessity. Didn't you know this, Beatrice?"
"No;" uttered Bee helplessly. "I didn't know. I—"
"You did know, however, that you should have kept him from such an act until my return," said the mother, who was very near tears. "Why did you not?"
It has been said that Beatrice was possessed of that peculiar sense of honor that is common among boys, where one will suffer an unjust accusation rather than tell upon another. She was like a boy in many ways: frank, direct, and scornful of tattling; so now she stood silent while the lady waited, perplexed by what seemed to be an obstinate refusal to answer.
"I shall have to report this to your father, Beatrice," she said presently, with sorrow. "Perhaps he will be more successful in obtaining an explanation from you than I have been. We will go to him. Percival, do you remain where you are. I will deal with you upon my return."
She caught Beatrice by the arm and hurried her out of the house, through the fields to her own home. Doctor Raymond sat with Adele in the library. He glanced up in some astonishment at their abrupt entrance.
"Doctor Raymond," began Mrs. Medulla at once, her usually even tones tense with excitement, "do you know what your daughter has done?"
"Nothing serious, I hope, madam," he replied with a quick glance at Beatrice.
"It is serious, doctor. Very serious for us. She has cut off Percival's curls. Do you realize the meaning of such an act? It means that no manager will book him for an engagement. People don't care for a boy musician without curls."
Involuntarily Doctor Raymond's eyes wandered to Adele, who sat watching the scene with troubled countenance. She was daintily arrayed as was her custom, and looked sweet, charming, and ladylike. All that a girl should be she appeared to be. A slight, a very slight sigh escaped him. Slight as it was, however, his daughter heard it. She saw plainly what was passing in his mind, and it was all that she could do to restrain control of herself.
"If Beatrice did this I can not believe that she realized the full import of the action," he said gravely. "And while I do not wish to palliate the offense, I fear that you exaggerate the effect upon your engagements. Your son plays wonderfully well, Mrs. Medulla, and should not be dependent upon the mere adjunct of curls for an audience."
"Doctor Raymond," spoke the lady earnestly, "I know whereof I speak when I say that it will be years before Percival can appear before an audience again. As an Infant Prodigy he was remarkable. As a boy no manager will take him. There is no between-period with performers. One must be a prodigy, or a man genius, to command attention. I can not understand why Beatrice should do it, and I can get no explanation from either her or Percival."
"Why did you do it, my daughter?" asked the scientist.
But Beatrice was past speaking. Something in her throat choked her. She looked down suddenly to find that she still held the shears in her hand. How could any one believe otherwise than that she had cut the boy's curls when she held the telltale scissors in her hand?
"Why?" asked her father again, but still she did not answer. "Do you remember what I said about my forgiveness of your carelessness depending upon your future conduct, Beatrice?"
Bee nodded, battling hard to keep back the tears. She did not wish to get Percival into trouble, yet she was not willing that her father should think that she would be capable of doing anything that would bring harm to Mrs. Medulla. Presently, obtaining the mastery of her emotion, she crossed swiftly to his side and laid her hand timidly upon his arm.
"Father," she cried pleadingly, "please don't ask me to tell you anything about the matter. I—I can't."
"Why, Beatrice?"
The girl did not reply. She only gazed at him with mutely appealing eyes.
"Is it because it would involve another in the telling?" he asked abruptly, stirred, perhaps, by a remembrance of his own youth.
"Yes," whispered Bee. "Please, please, father, don't ask anything more."
"Suppose we let the affair rest until tomorrow, Mrs. Medulla," suggested he, turning to the lady. "It is my opinion that neither Beatrice nor Percival realized what they were doing. Perhaps both are laboring under some natural agitation in consequence as the matter seems to be fraught with more serious results than they thought. You would better go to your room, my daughter."
"Yes, oh, yes;" assented Bee quickly. "I'd like—I'd like—" And she burst into tears.
"Excuse me a moment, madam, I beg," said the scientist rising. He drew his daughter's hand through his arm, and quietly led her from the room, up the stairs to her own chamber.
"I do not believe, Beatrice, that you are any more concerned in this matter than is Percival," he remarked as he opened the door for her. "I can see that you consider it right to shield him as well as yourself by refusing an explanation. I shall ask you nothing further concerning it. I can only say how deeply I regret that you should have done anything that would give pain to Mrs. Medulla."
"Father, father," sobbed Bee, turning to him appealingly, "it isn't, it isn't as you think. Oh, do trust me a little."
"Do you think you have proved worthy of being trusted, Beatrice?"
"No;" admitted the girl humbly. "I don't deserve it at all when I was so careless; but this is different. You ought not to judge me harshly until you know all about it."
"I do not wish to judge you harshly in anything, my child. In the present instance nothing can be done until the circumstances are known. As you refuse to tell them you must accept whatever judgment your actions call for. I think if I were you I should lie down for a time. You seem quite warm and a little upset. Try to compose yourself."
"I will, father." Bee entered the room with a sigh. He had not yet forgiven her the loss of the butterfly, she could see. She sat down and buried her face in her hands as the door closed behind him, and gave way to a flood of tears.
For what lay at the bottom of her bitterness? It was the knowledge that with just a little more carefulness on her part none of this trouble would have come upon her. Grief when caused by one's own carelessness is harder to bear than that which comes from unfortunate circumstance, so now Bee took herself to task severely.
"Mrs. Medulla told me that I was liable to spoil everything," she mused with some bitterness. "Oh, dear! just when things were going nicely I had to spoil it all by a few moments of carelessness. And if Percival doesn't explain his mother will never like me again; while father—" She choked. Her heart ached with longing for her father's forgiveness.
"Poor father," she exclaimed suddenly as she went to the mirror to put up her hair. "If he is as disappointed in me as I am in Percival I know just how he feels. I knew that Percival was a spoiled child, but I didn't think he was a coward. I wonder if I seem as different to father? If I do I don't wonder that he prefers Adele."
And with this Bee laid down upon the bed, and through sheer exhaustion fell asleep.
"Within the garden's peaceful sceneAppeared two lovely foes,Aspiring to the rank of queen,The Lily and the Rose."—Cowper.
"Within the garden's peaceful sceneAppeared two lovely foes,Aspiring to the rank of queen,The Lily and the Rose."
—Cowper.
Bee was awakened by Aunt Fanny bringing in her dinner. The sun had set and the cool sweetness of the evening gave relief from the heat of the day. All the events of the afternoon seemed unreal and dreamlike in spite of her aching eyes. She arose and began to bathe them, with a strange feeling of insensibility as though nothing could ever make her cry again.
"Now, honey, I jest ain't a-gwine ter take dat dinnah back," remarked the negress determinedly, seating herself as Bee motioned her to take the food away. "Dere ain't no use mopin' erroun' like you-all is doin'. Yer pa fixed hit him own se'f, an' I ain't gwine ter take hit back."
"Did you say that father fixed it?" asked the girl with quick interest.
"'Deed he did, Miss Bee. He done poured de tea, an' put two lumps of sugah in de saucah jest like you does fer de world. Den he fixed de thing on de tray, an' he say, 'Take dat to Miss Beatrice,' he say. 'Co'se I done hit; an' heah I is, an' heah I stays 'twel you eats hit."
"If father fixed it, I will eat it," said Bee. "You are not joking about it, Aunt Fanny? You are sure that he did it, and not Adele?"
"Now, Miss Bee, yer knows dat Miss Adele ain't a-gwine ter bodder her haid 'bout udder folks; specially ef dey ain't erroun'," returned Aunt Fanny scornfully, with whom Adele was no favorite. "No'm; she too busy wid sayin': 'How does ye like yer coffee, uncle deah? Am hit sweet 'nuff fer ye?' Jest like buttah wouldn't melt in her mouf. No'm; Miss Adele ain't a-bodderin' 'bout you all. Ner enny body elsen but her own se'f."
"I don't know about that," demurred Bee, wishing to be just to her cousin. "She certainly looks after old Rachel. I don't believe that she has missed a day going down there for the past three weeks. We must give her credit for that, Aunt Fanny."
"Huh!" snorted Aunt Fanny. "I reckon yer doesn't know ebberthing, Miss Bee."
"What do you mean?" questioned Bee, pausing in the act of taking a bite of bread.
"Nebber you min' what I means," returned the old woman mysteriously. "Jest yer eat yer dinnah."
"But I want to know," insisted Bee. Before Aunt Fanny could answer, however, Adele herself entered the room.
"Uncle William says for you to come right down, Bee. Percival and his mother are there, and wish to see you."
"Percival," exclaimed Bee. "Why, I thought his mother would not want him to see me any more?"
"You can't blame her, can you?" asked her cousin pertly. "Bee, whatever got into you today? Percival looks dreadful with his curls off. What made you cut them?"
Bee's eyes flashed. She did not reply for a full moment. When she spoke she said merely:
"Perhaps you would not understand even though I should tell you about the matter, Adele."
"Perhaps not. Bee Raymond, do you know that you are dreadfully changed? When you came in the library this afternoon with that bleached hair of yours flying you looked a perfect fright." Adele giggled, and then added with some malice: "Uncle William thinks so, too."
"Never mind," spoke Bee frigidly. "You have your good looks so what does it matter? Just think what a calamity it would be if you were to lose them!"
"I think you are just as mean as can be to even suggest such a thing, Bee Raymond. I wouldn't lose my beauty for anything."
"I should hope not," said her cousin cuttingly. "There wouldn't be anything left to you if you did."
"I couldn't be as ugly as you are if I did lose it," retorted Adele angrily.
"Oh, I am getting horrid," exclaimed Bee rising, her better nature coming to her aid. "Simply horrid! I beg your pardon, Adele. You couldn't be anything but pretty, of course. Will you come down with me?"
"Oh, it's all right," yawned Adele, quite appeased by Bee's apology. "I dare say that I should feel just as you do were I in your place. No; I won't go down. It's you they want to see. They are in the library with Uncle William."
Bee went slowly down stairs. She felt reluctant to meet Percival, and to have the subject of the hair cutting reopened. As she entered the library the boy ran to her, and caught her hand.
"Beefly, you're a brick," he cried. "You see, when my mother came in she was so angry that I was scared. I think I never was afraid of her before in my life, so I let you take the blame. And you didn't tell on me at all. You're a chum worth having. That was twice today that you took my part."
"Perhaps, my boy, you would not mind telling just how the matter occurred," suggested Doctor Raymond. "Beatrice has left us very much in the dark concerning it."
"I don't mind in the least," answered Percival who seemed eager now to explain everything. "Beatrice was not to blame at all. You see—"
"Permit me to say a word first, Percival," interrupted his mother, who had stood quietly by while he made his apologies. "Beatrice, you must pardon me, also, as well as Percival. I did not understand things until he explained them on my return home. I am truly sorry that I spoke so hastily as I did before learning all the circumstances. It seems, from what Percival tells me, that you did all that you could to keep him from cutting his hair, and then shouldered the blame rather than tell on him. My dear, I am very sorry for what I said. Can you forgive me?"
"Don't speak of it, Mrs. Medulla," cried Bee warmly. "I was to blame after all, because I ought to have held his hands, or kept him in some way from those shears. And oh! where are they? I brought them home with me."
"Then we are friends again, dear," said the lady kissing her. "Never mind the shears. I don't mind if I never see them again. I—"
"Mamma, Doctor Raymond is waiting to hear the particulars," broke in Percival, anxious to be heard. "You see, sir," turning to the scientist who was listening amusedly, "ever since I came here the boys have been making life miserable for me about the way I dressed and wore my hair. Yesterday that big Jack Brown was having sport with me, teasing for a curl, and, and all that sort of thing. When I tried to fight him I could not do anything because he grabbed my hands. Beatrice came to my rescue, and maybe she didn't put him to flight. You should have seen her." He chuckled at the remembrance, then continued: "I told her that the baby business ended then and there. That I wasn't going to be made fun of any longer. I asked her to cut off my hair, but she wouldn't; so I did it. I didn't think about the money part of it, or I would not have done it. I can play just as well with trousers and short hair as I can with curls and knickerbockers, and I told mamma so after she came back from here. Wasn't Beatrice a trump, though, not to tell on me, and to take the blame? Why didn't you tell, Beefly? I thought girls always did."
"Of course I wasn't going to tell if you wouldn't own up," returned Bee. "That would be tattling."
"Any other girl would have done it," cried Percival. "I hate awfully to go away and leave you."
"O Percival! are you going away?"
"Yes; I came to tell how the affair happened, and to say good-bye. I am going back to New York to study. I am going to show people that a boy can play as well as a man even though he isn't an Infant Prodigy. I'll have to work hard, and throw no more fits if things go wrong; but, Gee! I'd rather do it than to wear curls."
"You are right, my lad." Doctor Raymond shook his hand. "You will come out all right. I am sure. Your playing can not fail to win you a place in spite of your clothes. I wish you every success. I will leave you to say good-bye to the girls while your mother and I have a few words. You would like to see Adele too, I presume?"
"I suppose so," answered Master Percival dubiously. "Mamma said that I must be very nice to make up for my misbehavior, so I suppose that I must see Adele too. I don't care so much for her as I do for Beatrice. She is too pretty to be jolly. Pretty folks don't make very good chums. They think too much of themselves. I can't bear any one who is spoiled, but—Yes; send her down."
Doctor Raymond smiled broadly as he and the lady left the room.
"I am so sorry that you are going, Percival," said Bee with a catch in her voice. "I shall miss you so much. Oh, I wish you were not going."
"I am coming back some day, Beefly," he declared earnestly. "Mind you don't go away from here so that I can't find you. You must stay right here."
"Yes;" answered Bee. "I shall always be right here whenever you come. I hope it won't be long."
"And so you are going to leave us?" said Adele sweetly as she entered the room. "I shall miss you very much, Percival. I am glad to have had the pleasure of knowing you, and of hearing you play. Perhaps we shall meet again."
"Thank you," answered the boy on his best behavior. "I am glad to have known you, too. I have enjoyed our picnics very much, Adele."
"Picnics?" ejaculated Bee. "When did you ever have a picnic with Adele?"
"Hasn't she told you?" asked the boy in surprise. "Every morning that you studied with your father lately, she would bring a basket of goodies and we went to the grove. It was fun, but it would have been jollier if you had been there."
"Adele," cried Bee sharply, a remembrance of Aunt Fanny's words coming to her, "were those the things you were to take to old Rachel?"
"Yes, they were," answered Adele defiantly. "I got tired of carrying them down to that cabin. I don't believe that old woman is sick, anyway."
"Whether she was or not you should have taken those things to her," spoke Doctor Raymond, who had entered the room unperceived by the young people. "If you were tired of taking them you should have said so, and some one would have relieved you of the burden. As it is, she deems us guilty of neglect when we promised her aid, and, worse still, she may have suffered for the need of those very things. Is there no confidence to be placed in girls? Is neither of you to be trusted?"
Adele's face at first scarlet with mortification turned white under the reproof. She gazed at him pleadingly, and then bursting into tears ran to him and threw her arms about him.
"Do forgive me, Uncle William," she sobbed. "If you will, I'll never neglect her again. Please, please try me just once more! Only once more, Uncle William. Will you?"
Doctor Raymond's stern expression relaxed as the pretty penitent clung to him.
"There!" he said with great gentleness. "Perhaps I demand too much of you. I should remember that you are young and thoughtless, and perhaps, too, you did not realize the gravity of what you were doing. There, child! we will say no more about it, but you must be more careful."
"And you do forgive me, uncle? You will let me try again?"
"Yes, child; of course I forgive you."
Bee listened to the foregoing conversation with amazement and profound astonishment. She, too, had trespassed, but he had promised forgiveness only if her future conduct merited it. What was the reason that he found it so much harder to forgive her than Adele? Did he exact more from her because she was his daughter? He had told her that he had thought her different from other girls. If that were the case then did he expect her to come up to a higher standard? Puzzled, perplexed, she gazed at her father with such steady directness that he turned his head and met her glance squarely.
"Beatrice," he said, "I fear you do not understand many things."
But Bee smiled suddenly. She thought she had solved the enigma. And with the thought came the resolve that she would meet his expectations; that she would, if endeavor could bring it about, reach the high standard he had set for his daughter. So she was able to reply:
"I think that I do, father. It's all right."
Then with Percival she went out of the room.
"Let each artAssail a fault or help a merit grow;Like threads of silver seen through crystal beads,Let love through good deeds show."—Edwin Arnold.
"Let each artAssail a fault or help a merit grow;Like threads of silver seen through crystal beads,Let love through good deeds show."
—Edwin Arnold.
"Now how shall I get this to him?" pondered Bee the next morning as she stood before the study door with a bowl of pansies in her hand. Since old Rachel had told her that it had been a custom of her mother's she had not failed to put a flower of some sort on her father's table each morning. "Adele!"
"Yes?" answered Adele, coming to the hall. "What is it, Bee? Those pansies?"
"Yes; do you mind putting them on father's table for me? I don't know how to get them there this morning."
"Certainly I'll do it, Bee. But why don't you take them in yourself? He has not gone in yet, and I won't tell."
"Father told me not to," returned Bee. "I don't want to go in until I am worthy."
Adele laughed as she took the pansies.
"You know, Bee, if you were to go right in, and tease him a bit, he wouldn't think anything more about your staying out," she said. "You ought to take some lessons from me. I know just how to manage him."
"We are different, Adele," answered Bee. "What would be all right for you would not do at all for me. If you will just help me a little about this you don't know how much I will appreciate it. I have been wondering how it could be managed."
"What will you do when I am gone?" asked Adele.
"I don't know," answered Bee slowly. "Are you thinking of going soon?"
"I suppose that I'll have to go when school begins," said Adele. "I don't want to go a bit. It's poky at home without you. I'd rather stay here."
"You would?" questioned Bee wonderingly. "I should think that you would rather be with your father and mother. Now, why doesn't she go home now?" she asked herself as her cousin went into the study. "Uncle Henry is better, and I should think that she would want to see him. I would not want to be away from father if he were ill."
So it came about that each morning Beatrice carefully arranged the flowers, and Adele took them into the study from which Bee was barred. The girl's eyes always grew wistful whenever her father disappeared into the room, and she was obliged to busy herself about the house in order not to dwell too much upon the fact of her exclusion.
The summer was drawing to a close. There was a cool crispness in the air that heralded the approach of Autumn. To Bee it seemed at times as though a blight had fallen upon everything. There were no longer Percival and his mother to visit, and while Doctor Raymond continued to walk with her and Adele he seemed to withdraw more and more into his own pursuits. The evenings were still devoted to music, but here Adele was pre-eminent. Bee, however, retained her place in the management of the household, jealously guarding the privilege of looking after her father's comfort. Remembering that he had spoken of her attention to neatness she became punctilious in her dress, and about the appointments of the house. Her character was deepening and developing; and from a merry-hearted, careless maiden she was growing into a thoughtful and broad-minded girl.
"Adele," she said one morning rather sharply to her cousin who dawdled on the couch with a book and a box of chocolates, "have you been down to Rachel's today?"
"No," yawned Adele. "I haven't."
"Aren't you ready to go? The basket is fixed, and it is nearly eleven o'clock. If we go for a walk with father after lunch there will be no other time. You ought to go now."
"There's no hurry," protested Adele. "Do you know, Bee, I don't think it is necessary to go every day?"
"It does not matter what you think, Adele. Father said to do it." Bee's manner showed plainly that in her opinion that left nothing further to be said.
"I'll manage Uncle William," remarked Adele with a conscious little laugh, but nevertheless she rose from her reclining position. "It's a perfect nuisance."
"I'll go. It is my place to do it after all. I should have gone long ago, but I thought that you liked to do it."
"Well," hesitated Adele, "I promised Uncle William, you know, and the old woman likes me to come. You need not go, Bee. I'll do it myself."
She took the basket of food from Bee's hand, and left the room. Bee saw her go out the gate walking very slowly.
"She doesn't like to go for some reason," mused the girl. "I must take it upon myself to go down every morning. I must find the time somehow. Oh, dear!" She gave an impatient shake to her shoulders.
Just as the mid-day meal was placed upon the table Adele returned, looking cool and as daintily immaculate as though she had not been out of the house.
"How you must have hurried," cried Bee. "Did you run every step of the way?"
"Not every step, Bee. How warm you look!"
"It is more than you do," answered Bee looking at her with wonder. "You've been out in the hot sun yet you seem as cool as a cucumber."
"I don't show heat," replied Adele lightly. "Shall I tell Uncle William that lunch is ready?"
"If you please."
Dr. Raymond responded to the summons slowly. Bee knew from his grave manner that something was wrong, and all through the meal she cast apprehensive glances in his direction. Adele did not notice his preoccupation, and chatted gaily seemingly unaware that his replies were monosyllabic.
"Girls," said the scientist when the repast was finished, "come into the library with me. I wish to speak with you."
Bee followed him with uneasiness. What had gone amiss she wondered. She could not think of anything that she had done or left undone that could cause such gravity. Her cousin, oblivious to signs of storm, or secure, perhaps, in the knowledge of his affection, caught hold of his arm exclaiming merrily:
"'Come into the garden, Maude,I am here at the gate alone.'"
"'Come into the garden, Maude,I am here at the gate alone.'"
"Only in this case the garden is the library. What are you going to say to us, Uncle William? Something nice?"
"I fear not, Adele. What I have to say, however, will not be more unpleasant for you to hear than it will be for me to say."
"Dear me!" cried she looking up at him with pretended dismay. "That sounds formidable, doesn't it, Bee?"
Dr. Raymond held the library door open for them to enter, then closed it, and faced them.
"When have either of you been to see old Rachel?" he asked abruptly.
"Adele went this morning," spoke Bee quickly, glad now that she had insisted upon the visit being made.
"Indeed? How was the old woman, Adele?"
"Why, why, all right! That is—about as she always is," stammered Adele changing color.
"Adele! Adele!" Her uncle spoke more in sorrow than in anger. "If you went to Rachel's, how came this to be hidden in the hedge?"
He crossed to his desk, and uncovered the identical basket that Bee had fixed for her cousin to take to Rachel. Adele gave an exclamation, but recovered herself almost instantly.
"You see, uncle," she said, trying to speak carelessly, "it was this way: It was so hot when I started and so near noon that I thought I would not have time to get back for lunch, so I put the basket there intending to run down with it when it was cooler."
"Were you there yesterday?" demanded her uncle receiving the explanation without comment.
Adele hesitated.
"I want the truth, Adele."
"No;" confessed she faintly. "But I'll go right now, Uncle William."
"Were you there the day before?"
Adele covered her face with her hands without replying.
"I want to know when you were there," said Dr. Raymond sternly.
"I—I don't remember," said the girl with a sob. "Oh, Uncle William, it was so hot, and I—I got tired of it; but I will go. I'll go right now."
She started for the basket as she spoke, but a gesture from her uncle arrested her.
"Wait," he said. "Beatrice, why did you not see that Rachel's needs were attended to?"
"I thought they were," answered Bee, growing pale. "Adele was to look after the matter."
"Adele has been careless and negligent," observed her father severely, "but that does not ease you of responsibility. It was your place to have seen that my wishes in the matter were carried out."
"But, father—"
"I will listen to no excuse, Beatrice," interrupted Doctor Raymond decidedly. "There can be none, and it is useless to try to shield yourself behind your cousin. Whatever excuse Adele may have for her neglect you have none. That old woman was your mother's faithful servant for many years. It was your duty, and should have been your pleasure, to have seen that she was taken care of. I thought," he continued with some emotion, "that every girl welcomed an opportunity to minister to those in need. I thought that every maiden gently reared was actuated by motives of honor and truth, and would sacredly discharge a duty intrusted to her. It seems that I was mistaken. I fear that I do not understand girls of the present age. If it were possible I would gladly take this matter into my own hands, but I cannot spare the time."
"Uncle, please, please try me again," pleaded Adele eagerly. "I really will be faithful this time. Bee and I both will be. Won't we, Bee?"
Bee was dumb. She was overwhelmed by her father's words, and her conscience reproached her. There had been several occasions when she suspected that Adele was not performing the duty. In view of the fact that she had failed before, she knew that she herself ought to have looked after the matter more carefully.
"I do not quite trust either of you," spoke Doctor Raymond thoughtfully, "but because I believe that it will be of benefit to your characters to insist upon this act of charity I shall try again. If it is a tax upon you, let one go one day, and the other the next. Rest assured, however, that I shall watch the matter closely to see that it is attended to. If there is any shirking I shall know it. Now take that basket and go! Do not let me see you again until you can inform me truthfully that Rachel has received it. Beatrice, I charge you particularly with the duty."
He turned from them so decidedly that they had no alternative but to leave the room, taking the basket with them.
"You needn't say a word, Bee," cried Adele avoiding her cousin's glance. "I'm not going to take another scolding."
"I'm not going to scold, Adele, but why did you not tell me that you did not want to go?"
"Oh, it's all my fault of course. Here! give me that basket. You needn't go!"
"But I will," said Beatrice with decision. "I am not going to give father a chance to say that I am to blame again. I am going to see that the thing is done. The basket will have to be fixed over anyway."
"We'll both go," said Adele. "If you won't scold, I'll carry it. I suppose that I ought to do something for getting us into the scrape. I didn't know that Uncle William would care so much. Oh, my! wasn't he mad?"
Bee made no reply. She rearranged the contents of the basket, added some fresh eggs and other things, and together they started for Rachel's cabin. It was very warm, but they toiled along the dusty road with the conviction that whatever of discomfort they experienced they merited it. They were grateful when they could leave the road and enter the shaded wood path that led to the cabin. Soon they could discern the chimney of the dwelling through the trees; then a turn in the path brought them into the cleared space where the hut stood. They were proceeding toward it when all at once Bee stood stock still.
"Look!" she cried.
Adele's glance followed her pointing finger, and every drop of blood left her face. There upon the closed door of the cabin was a big yellow sign "SMALL POX." For one long moment the two stood looking at the card; then Adele clutched her cousin's arm.
"Come," she whispered fearfully. "We must get away. We can't go there now."
"We've got to," answered Bee grimly, but her face grew white as she said it. "We've got to, Adele. If she's been sick long she wouldn't have anything to eat. Father would never get over it. Besides he told us he didn't want to see us again unless she got the basket."
"Oh, Bee! I can't! I can't go! Suppose I should get the small pox."
The tears streamed from Adele's eyes. Bee turned and looked at the girl earnestly. Her eyes shone through her tears like violets wet with dew. Her complexion had never seemed so fair, so flawless as now. How lovely she was! Looking at her Bee felt all the bitterness of her feeling toward her melt from her heart.
"No;" she said, leaning forward suddenly to kiss her. "You must not go, Adele. I shouldn't want you to be anything but pretty, but I haven't any beauty to lose. Father charged me particularly with the duty, so I'll do it, Adele. You can go back and tell him truly that she has the basket."
"But what will you do after you give it to her?" cried Adele. "You musn't come back to the house, Bee. You might bring the small pox to me."
"And to father," spoke Bee perplexed. Then she brightened. "Adele, do you know the old fishermen's hut near the river?"
"Yes."
"Go home; get a pillow and some covers; then fix up something for me to eat as we did for Rachel. When I get through here I'll go there to stay. If I have the small pox neither you nor father can take it then."
"But, but," protested Adele.
"Do just as I tell you, Adele. That's the only way to manage it. Hurry up, so you will be away from the hut before I come. Will you be quick?"
"Yes;" promised Adele.
"Good-bye!" Bee kissed her again. "If, if I should take the small pox you'll be good to father, Adele?"
"Yes, yes," sobbed Adele.
"Good-bye," said Bee again, and turning went quickly toward the cabin.
Adele watched her as if fascinated; and then, as Bee opened the door and went in, she turned and ran away as fast as her legs could carry her.
"'Tis a little thingTo give a cup of water; yet its draughtOf cool refreshment, drained by fevered lips,May give a shock of pleasure to the frameMore exquisite than when nectarean juiceRenews the life of joy that in happiest hours abound."—Thomas Noon.
"'Tis a little thingTo give a cup of water; yet its draughtOf cool refreshment, drained by fevered lips,May give a shock of pleasure to the frameMore exquisite than when nectarean juiceRenews the life of joy that in happiest hours abound."
—Thomas Noon.
When Bee left Adele and went into the cabin of old Rachel she seemed calm and collected. In reality she was very much frightened. Fearful of what she might see involuntarily she closed her eyes as she shut the door behind her, and stood so for a few moments. Presently overcoming her dread she opened them and glanced around.
The room was in semi-darkness, its one window being closed tightly. The atmosphere was hot and stifling, and permeated by a peculiar sickening odor. With an exclamation she threw wide the door to admit the air and sunshine. On the bed in one corner of the room lay the form of a woman, and it took all the courage she possessed for the girl to go to her. It was old Rachel, but her features were so swollen and disfigured by the disease as to be almost unrecognizable. She seemed in a sort of stupor for she lay nearly motionless.
A shudder of loathing shook Bee from head to foot, and she was seized by a strong desire to run away. Obeying the impulse she reached the door, but her flight was arrested by a moan from the negress, and an almost incoherent muttering of, "Water! Water!"
"She is thirsty," whispered Bee, pausing on the threshold. "I wonder where Tillie is!"
For, strange to say, there was no one in the cabin but old Rachel.
"I must get the water myself," said Bee aloud. "It's a shame to leave that poor old woman alone!"
She ran to the well and drew a bucketful of clear cold water, which she carried to the cabin. Filling a cup she approached the bed upon which Rachel lay. Then she stopped.
"I can't do it," she cried. "I can't touch her."
Again the moan came from the poor parched lips: "Water! Water!"
"I must," decided the girl suppressing the repugnance that swept over her. "What if I were old and sick? I should want to be taken care of. I may look just as bad if I have the small pox. And she cared for my mother."
Resolutely she slipped her arm under Rachel's neck, thus lifting her head, and held the water to her lips. As she did so all her fear and loathing left her, and in their place came an infinite pity and tenderness. The sick woman turned from the cup at first, but after a little had passed her lips, she quaffed the rest eagerly and sank back on her pillow with a sigh of content.
"I'll just have to stay with her," mused Bee replacing the cup on the table, and seating herself by the bed. "She needs some one here to look after her, and I'll have to do it. How queer it is that nobody is here!"
The long hot afternoon wore away. The woman's thirst was excessive, and Bee was kept busy ministering to it. As the night approached she sought for a lamp, but could find nothing but a tallow candle with a tin holder.
"It will be awfully dim," she soliloquized, "but it is much better than to sit in the dark. There will be enough light to give her water when she wants it. I wish I knew what else to do for the poor thing."
It was not a pleasant position for a girl to be in, and, as the shadows lengthened in the corners of the cabin, Bee was obliged to summon all her fortitude to face the prospect of a night alone with a very sick woman.
Meantime Adele had hurried to the house as fast as she could go.
"I'll tell Uncle William all about it," she decided, going at once in search of him. "He will know better what to do than Bee does."
But no Uncle William was to be found. Aunt Fanny thought he had gone for a walk; so, hot and tired, and somewhat upset by the episode of the afternoon, Adele went up to her cool chamber and threw herself on the bed.
"I'm not going down to that old hut and carry a lot of things," she said aloud peevishly. "Bee ought not to have gone in that place anyway. Mamma wouldn't want me to mix up in such things, I know. So there!"
Arranging the pillows more to her taste she settled herself comfortably among them. She was tired, and presently a delicious drowsiness stole over her, and soon she was fast asleep.
"Kum down ter dinnah, child," Aunt Fanny roused her by saying. "I'se called, an' called, an' yer didn't answah; so I kum up. Whar's Miss Bee? You-all's kept dinnah waitin' twel hit am plum dahk. Whar'd you say Miss Bee was?"
"I don't—" Adele looked about her dreamily. "Oh!" as remembrance came to her. She sprang up in a hurry. "Yes; I do. Is Uncle William here?"
"Yes'm; he's heah." Aunt Fanny was plainly provoked that dinner had been kept waiting. "He's heah, but he won't set down twel you gals is dere."
For a wonder Adele did not stop to rearrange her hair, but ran down as she was.
"Where is Beatrice?" asked Doctor Raymond, a slight expression of surprise showing itself in his glance. His niece did not usually appear in such a disordered condition. "Aunt Fanny could not find her, and said that you were fast asleep in your room. What have you been doing?"
"We went to Rachel's," replied Adele, "and, and—"
"Yes?" remarked he questioningly.
"And she has the small pox. Or, at least," correcting herself hastily, "there was the sign of small pox on the door."
"Is that true, Adele?" Doctor Raymond looked at her searchingly. "Or is that an excuse invented for not going in?"
"It is the truth, Uncle William; but Bee did go in."
"What?" cried Doctor Raymond, springing to his feet. "Do you mean to tell me that, seeing that sign there, you still went in?"
"I didn't, uncle. Bee did. She said that you didn't want to see us again until we could tell you truthfully that we had been to Rachel's; so she said that she must go."
"The foolish girl!" ejaculated her father. "Why could not she use judgment? Call her, Adele, while I send Uncle Billy right off for the doctor. We must all be vaccinated, and the house fumigated thoroughly. It will be a miracle if every darkey on the place doesn't come down with the disease."
"She isn't here, Uncle William." Adele laid a detaining hand on his arm.
"She isn't? Then where is she? She surely did not remain at Rachel's?"
"No; she would not come back here because she was afraid that she might give you and me the small pox. She said that she would go to the old fisherman's hut down by the river, and stay there."
"Beatrice was afraid that she would give it to us, and so would not return here?" repeated the scientist as though he had not heard aright. "She said that, Adele?"
"Why, yes," answered Adele. Rapidly she related the incident in its entirety, concluding with: "She said that she could have it in the hut, and then we would be safe."
"I'll go right after her," cried he, an unusual warmth in his tone. He started for the door, and again his niece detained him.
"Are you going to bring Bee here to this house after she has been in that cabin?" she asked in horrified tones, her face very white.
"Certainly. She can't stay in an empty hut."
"But, but she might give me the small pox," she whimpered.
"Of course she might," exclaimed her uncle impatiently. "The child can't stay in that place even though she gives it to every one of us. She may have it herself."
"You could take some blankets and pillows down there for her," she suggested eagerly. "That is what she told me to do this afternoon. Then if she does have it she won't have to come back here."
A look of supreme disgust swept over Doctor Raymond's face. Quietly he removed her hand from his arm.
"My daughter will come back here," he said.
"Then I want to go home," sobbed Adele. "Bee herself don't want me to have the small pox, because she kissed me, and said that it would be a pity for me to lose my beauty. And I promised to be good to you, but you are not a bit nice to me. It doesn't matter about her. She said it didn't. You don't care for her anyway. Oh, I want to go home!"
"I think that is the very best place for you," remarked her uncle in a quiet voice. "I will order the carriage as I go out, and Joel will drive you there. If you do not wish to be here when your cousin returns you must be quick about getting away. I am going for her now."
Without another word, or look in her direction he left the room.
A short time later Bee was sitting on the door-step of the cabin trying to get relief from the fetid air of the interior when she heard foot-steps hurrying along the path through the woods which led to the dwelling. Soon someone called:
"Beatrice!"
"Father!" she cried joyfully, starting to her feet.
"I am coming to you." Doctor Raymond's tall figure entered the clearing in which the cabin stood. A sudden thought came to the girl. If he entered the house he might get the dreadful disease. Quick as a flash she darted inside, and closed and locked the door just as he reached the step.
"Beatrice, what does this mean?" asked her father trying the door.
"Father," called Bee, "you must go away. You can't come in. Rachel has the small pox, and if you come in you may get it."
"I do not fear, my daughter. I have come to take you home."
"I can not go, father. Rachel is all alone, and she seems to be awfully sick."
"Isn't Tillie there?"
"No. There is no one here but me."
"Have you been there all afternoon alone with Rachel?"
"Yes," returned Bee simply.
"Child, you must not stay there alone. Let me watch with you."
"Father, please go away," pleaded Bee. "I don't mind being alone; at least not now," she added honestly. "It would break my heart if you should have the small pox."
"Think of yourself, my daughter. You may have it, too."
"It is too late to think of that, father. There is no need for you to run such a risk. I don't want you to do it."
"Beatrice, this is nonsense!" exclaimed her father sharply. "I won't have you there alone, open the door instantly!"
"Dear, dear father, please go away. Do not ask me to let you in, for I will not," said the girl pleadingly, steeling her heart against the solicitude in his voice which, despite his gruffness, was plainly evident.
"Hello!" called the bluff, cheery accents of a man from somewhere without. "What are you doing here, sir? Don't you know that there is small pox in this cabin?"