Bee and Butterfly Part 10

"Why, why," stammered Doctor Raymond, so surprised by this vehement outburst that he scarcely knew what to say.

"You were away ten long, long years," went on Beatrice, almost beside herself with pa.s.sion; all her pent-up unhappiness clamoring for utterance. "I was just crazy for you to come home. Other girls had their fathers and I wanted mine too. When you wrote that you were coming I was happy; as happy as a bird. You had written that you wished my mind cultivated, and I studied hard to please you. I knew that you were a learned man, and I wanted to be able to talk to you intelligently. You wanted me to learn to be a good housekeeper, and that, too, I studied. I have tried to do everything that you wished me to. You say that you are disappointed in me. How do you think that I feel about you? You will have nothing to say to me because I am not Adele. You wanted her for your daughter, and you can't get over it because she isn't. In your last letter to me you said that you thought that I must have a mind of uncommon intelligence. Have I? You have not troubled to find out. What kind of a disposition have I? You don't know. And why? Just because I don't happen to be pretty. 'Sweet disposition and well informed mind'

are all very well to talk about, but when it comes right down to real truth a girl might as well be dead if she isn't pretty."

"You are giving me a terrible arraignment, Beatrice," observed her father gravely. "Really, I--"

"Isn't it all true?" demanded Bee with startling directness.

"I think that probably some of it is," admitted Doctor Raymond guardedly. "The discussion of beauty and non-beauty we will not prolong because we could come to no satisfactory conclusion on the matter. It is an old, old question. Beauty undoubtedly has its influence upon us all; chiefly, perhaps, because it at once attracts the attention. After all, it is but a free gift of nature accorded to its possessor by accident.

It was not altogether Adele's beauty that caused me to claim her for my daughter."

"But--" began Beatrice.

"Allow me the privilege of a word, my daughter. The unfortunate mistake of the picture is largely responsible for this whole affair. I naturally looked long and often at the photograph, supposing it to be yours.

Seeing her standing in the doorway I recognized the girl whom I supposed was my daughter. Surely this explanation ought to excuse me, Beatrice?"

"But it was her picture that brought you home, father," wailed Bee miserably. "You would never have come had it been really mine. Oh, that is what I can't bear!"

"I seem unfortunate in choosing my words also," said the scientist, stirring uneasily. "The letters first caused me to think of returning."

"But you would not have come if you had not believed that the beautiful picture was of your daughter," persisted Bee. "I want the truth, father."

"I am accustomed to speaking nothing else," answered Doctor Raymond sternly. "All this is aside from the question."

"Is it?" asked the girl with some scorn. "I think not; but you needn't answer, father. Explain your treatment of me after you found out your mistake. What effort have you made to find out what kind of a daughter you have? You hardly come near me. You were away for years, and now that you are home at last you are further from me than ever because I did have your letters; now I have nothing. I may be as brilliant as a diamond, or as simple as a daisy, but you don't care to take the trouble to find out."

"Well, I have been exceedingly busy," replied he lamely. "And you have not----You see--" He did not wish to say that she had not presented a very inviting side of her character to him. Beatrice did not know this, so she did not wait for him to finish.

"Yes, I see, father," she said wearily. She was beginning to feel very tired. The reaction of the unusual emotion was having its effect. "You are just like everybody else. You talk of mind and disposition easily enough, but you succ.u.mb to beauty at first sight. At school it was the same. All of us were made to toe the mark except Adele. Nothing was ever expected of her but to be beautiful. I did not care until you came, and were disappointed in me. Then I tried protective mimicry, but it wasn't successful."

Doctor Raymond glanced up quickly.

"What do you know about protective mimicry?" he asked.

"It's where one animal puts on the form of another animal to protect itself from enemies," answered Bee. "I thought that if I could make myself like Adele you would come to care for me."

"And was that what caused you to bleach your hair, and change your complexion?"

"Yes, father. You would not notice me, so I just had to do something.

And now it's no use."

"I am not so sure about that." Doctor Raymond began to laugh. "You have worked upon the principle held by some great men, Beatrice. Henry Ward Beecher used to say: 'If you can't make people love you, make them hate you. Anything is better than indifference.'"

"Oh, father!" cried the unhappy girl, bursting into tears. "Have I made you hate me?"

"Nonsense! Of course not. I only meant--"

"A gen'man to see you, sah," announced Aunt f.a.n.n.y at this inopportune moment, and the entomologist was obliged to leave the room.

Chapter VIII

A Rift in the Clouds

"Through the open door A drowsy smell of flowers--gray heliotrope, And sweet white clover, and shy mignonette--Comes faintly in, and the silent chorus lends To the pervading symphony of peace."

--_Among the Hills. Whittier._

Doctor Raymond's visitor proved to be a fellow naturalist who became so interested in his host's rare specimens that he spent the entire day examining them. Beatrice pa.s.sed the time in her own room, loath to subject herself to curious eyes.

Aunt f.a.n.n.y came up after a time with a second lot of jimpson leaves which she proceeded to make into a poultice despite the girl's protestations.

"Yer mus', honey," insisted the negress. "I'se done been down ter Miss Browne's, an' she say hit air de onliest thing ter do. She say hats turn yaller 'fore deys bleached, an' hit's de same wid yer skin. Dis'll be de las' time."

"It doesn't matter now, Aunt f.a.n.n.y," said Bee miserably. "I was silly to do anything, but I thought, I thought!--"

"Nebber min' what yer thunk, chile," consoled the old woman. "Hit am jest like a gal: allers a wantin' sumpin' like sum udder gal. Now jest put on dis, an' you-all will k.u.m out all right."

Beatrice was too tired to expostulate further, and submitted once more to the martyrdom of the poultice with little care as to the result. Her heart was too heavy to take any further interest in such efforts; for she believed that she had completely alienated her father, and she cared for nothing else. The day came to an end at last, and night brought surcease of sorrow, for she slept.

As Aunt f.a.n.n.y had predicted, she found that her complexion had indeed bleached out to its natural color by the next morning. Cheered in spite of herself by this fact she went down to breakfast with lighter heart.

Doctor Raymond's pleased look showed that he marked the improvement in her appearance, but he made no comment. Neither did he refer to the conversation of the day before until the close of the meal. Then he said:

"Beatrice, yesterday you said that I shut you out from me; that I did not know you because I did not try to. I have not meant to be guilty of such a thing, but there was enough of truth in your remarks to make me feel that perhaps I have been somewhat negligent of you. You shall have no further cause to accuse me of this; so, if you are willing, we will drop all unpleasant things and make a new start. Part of each day I shall be obliged to devote to my forthcoming book, and those hours I must be alone. All the rest of the time, however, you may spend with me."

"Oh, father!" cried Bee in surprise. "Do you mean that I am really to be with you? Even when you are in the study arranging your specimens?"

"Just that, Beatrice. We will learn to know each other, and it may be that we shall find that companionship to which, it seems, we both looked forward. There is but one thing that I would ask of you: don't try to be like any one else. Let me see you as you are."

"I can promise that easily," answered Beatrice cheerfully, her spirits rising at the knowledge that she was in very truth to have his companionship. "I really don't want to be like any one else. I'd rather be just myself. And I don't like this yellow hair. I didn't know that it wasn't refined to bleach it. One of the girls at school did it, and while the rest of us laughed about it, we thought it looked nice. I would rather have my own colored hair even though it is dark; but this won't last, father. Miss Harris said that it would have to be touched up every once in a while. Of course the ends will always be yellow, but just as soon as it grows long enough I'll cut it off, and have my own dark locks again."

"I am glad that it will not be permanent," remarked her father. "Let us say no more about it. It does not look so bad as it might, and the mere fact that you did not bleach it through vanity makes me more tolerant of it. Now, my child, I am going for a walk over the grounds, and would like your company."

Beatrice ran joyfully for her hat.

"He's giving me a chance," she whispered, scarcely able to control her emotion. "I am glad, glad! I won't think a thing about Adele. I won't mind my looks a bit, but just be so good that maybe, maybe--" She did not finish her sentence, but squeezed her hands together rapturously.

"I have been too busy since my return to go over the place," said the naturalist as they set forth. "Beginning with this morning we will go over a portion of it daily until the entire place has been inspected.

Will it be too much of a walk for you to take the gardens and the orchard today?"

"Why, no;" answered Bee quickly. "I am used to walking, father. We always walked into town from Uncle Henry's, and to school too. Aunt Annie thought it was good for us. Then I run about the fields quite a little."

"Annie has followed my idea exactly," he commented approvingly. "There is nothing so conducive to good health as outdoor exercise. Ah! here we are at the gardens. They have been well kept; but, but--" He glanced around the ma.s.s of blossom and vines knitting his brows in perplexity.

"The rose?" he said. "The one your mother planted. Can this be it?"

He stopped beside a large moss rose bush as he spoke. It was of st.u.r.dy growth, completely covered with buds and blossoms of satiny white deeply embowered in a soft greenery of moss.