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 passed the time in her own room, loath to subject herself to curious eyes.
Aunt Fanny 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 Fanny," 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 kum 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 Fanny 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 mass 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 sturdy growth, completely covered with buds and blossoms of satiny white deeply embowered in a soft greenery of moss.
"Yes; this is it, father," spoke Beatrice softly. "Uncle Henry had it tended carefully because he knew that you would wish it. Is it not beautiful? I think I love it best of all the roses." She bent over a cluster to inhale its fragrance as she finished speaking.
"It has grown," he said musingly. "It was so small. I should not have known it. I did not think to find so large a bush."
"You have been gone for years," she reminded him. "Have you forgotten, father? A small plant would have time to become a large shrub."
"True;" he said. "True." He broke a half blown bud from the bush and held it for a moment against his lips. "It was her favorite rose," he said, putting it in the buttonhole of his coat.
The gravity of his face softened into tenderness, and his eyes were misty as he leaned over the rose bush. Bee gazed at him longingly. The impulse of her heart was to go to him, slip her hand in his, or to nestle against him caressingly. Had she done so father and daughter must have drawn very close to each other, but something—perhaps delicacy, perhaps shyness, perhaps a certain awe in which she held him—restrained her. Presently he straightened up, turned away from the bush with a sigh, and walked on. Beatrice followed him silently, and the golden opportunity was gone.
"I am hatching the larvæ of the Thecla titus Fabricus from the eggs," he said as they left the garden a little later, "I wish to get the proper plants for them to feed upon."
"Then we must go to the woodland instead of the orchard," said Bee quickly. "You will need the leaves of the wild cherry, or the wild plum. I believe that the caterpillars of the Coral Hair-Streaks feed upon them."
"How do you know?" questioned her father in astonishment.
"I studied butterflies, father," explained the girl. "You know 'tis your specialty, and I wanted to be able to help you when you came home. I don't remember many of the technical names though," she added honestly. "That just happened to be one that I knew. See! there goes a Copper."
Every step through the clover displaced myriads of small butterflies with wings of some shade of coppery-red or orange. Dappled fritillaries and angle wings, blocked in red and black, often variegated by odd dashes and spots of burnished silver or peacock eyes, crowded about the spreading thistle blossoms, or perched contentedly upon the many flowered umbrels of the milkweed.
"Then that is how you knew about protective mimicry?" asked he, after commenting upon the butterfly pointed out by Bee.
"Yes." Beatrice laughed more gaily than she had for days as she noted his pleased expression. "He likes it because I studied them," she told herself gleefully.
"And that one passing yonder. The one with the zigzag flight, my daughter. That is a Skipper, is it not?"
Beatrice turned a look of surprise upon him.
"Why, father! that is a Swallowtail," she cried. "How could you make such a—" She broke into a laugh suddenly as she saw his eyes twinkle. "You were just trying to see if I knew," she cried.
"I'm afraid that I shall have to admit it," he said. "Have you any specimens?"
"A few, father. Some Swallowtails, some Brush-footed ones, a number of Blues, Coppers and Hair-streaks."
"Why! you are quite a lepidopterist," exclaimed Doctor Raymond. "And the eggs, the larvæ and the chrysalids; do you have them too?"
The girl hung her head.
"N-no; I know one has to have those things as well as the butterflies to study the science properly, but I have none. I think the butterflies are beautiful. Just like flying flowers!"
"Ah! you are like all amateurs, Beatrice." Doctor Raymond shook his head gravely. "They are taken by the beauty of the butterfly, and so confine themselves to the imago state entirely. Whereas, to know the insect thoroughly, one should study it from the egg through all its stages to the perfected form. But you are not alone in it, my daughter. There are many men of wealth who make collections of the butterfly, as they do of gems and other things. They, too, care only for the perfected insect. In your case, you are young, and may be taught the proper manner of study. I am glad that you are interested in such things. It will afford me great pleasure to continue your instruction in the subject this summer. That is, if you would like it?"
"Like it?" cried Beatrice, looking up at him with unfeigned delight. "I should love it."
"Then we will consider that matter settled," he said with approval. "Here are some wild cherry trees. Be careful, child! There are some wasps."
But Beatrice, intent upon making herself useful, rushed forward eagerly and began stripping off the leaves from the low hanging limbs.
"Do you want some of the twigs, father? There is a fine branch here filled with leaves."
"Yes; but let me cut it for you." Doctor Raymond drew out a clasp knife and started to open it.
"I can get it quite easily, thank you, father," said Bee, bending the bough which broke suddenly with a sharp snap, disturbing a wasp that had just settled comfortably on one of the twigs. With an angry buzz the insect darted at the girl's hand, and thrust its sting into the offending member.
"Oh!" she uttered, letting the branch fall and clasping her hand quickly.
"You are stung," cried Doctor Raymond. "Give me your hand. At once!"
He caught up some of the damp earth and clapped it on the wound, holding the mud in place.
"Does it hurt so much now?" he asked after a moment, binding his handkerchief closely about the hand.
Beatrice's eyes shone through her tears. He cared because she was hurt. A warm glow suffused her being, and nestled comfortingly about her heart. She looked up and smiled.
"Hurt?" she exclaimed. "Nonsense! what is an old yellow jacket but a bee gone into athletics!"
An expression of pleased surprise shot athwart her father's face and his chuckle gave way to a peal of laughter.
"That is neat, child," he said. "Very neat! I like your way of taking this. You have the true spirit of a naturalist who accepts such happenings as a matter of experience. Are you fearful or timid? Do you get frightened easily?"
"I am not afraid of creeping things," answered Beatrice thoughtfully. "I don't believe that I know about other things. There has never been much to try me. At least, there never was anything until I saw those burglars the other night. I was scared then."
"You saw those men?" ejaculated Doctor Raymond. "Where did you see them?"
"I forgot that you did not know, father."
"But I wish to know. Tell me all about it, Beatrice."
"It was the first night that I wore that horrid poultice for my complexion. I could not sleep, so I went down stairs to get a book from the library, and when I opened the door there were the two burglars putting the silver into a bag. I was so scared that I could not do anything but look at them. When they saw me they took me for a ghost and ran away. I did look scary, father; so, when I heard you coming, I hid under the couch because I did not want you to see me. When Aunt Fanny was left alone I came out and ran up to my room. Yes; I was frightened. I shook like a leaf after it was all over, and I was glad that you were going to be near me."
"I see, my daughter. There was reason for fear in that instance. Few girls would have done so well. I have not spoken of the matter before because I did not wish to alarm you, and I did not know that you knew of their visit. However, they will hardly bother us again as the authorities are keeping a sharp watch for them, and believe that they will soon have them in custody. I shall take that room next yours for mine permanently, I think. Perhaps you will feel a little safer to have me there, and there is no one on that side of the hall with you. Is it somewhat too remote for you? Come, child! It is time to get back and get some soda on that sting."