The Result of Imitation
"We are much bound to them that do succeed;
But, in a more pathetic sense, are bound
To such as fail."
--_Jean Ingelow._
It was morning. The long night with its wretchedness and discomfort had
passed, and the bright sunshine full of cheer streamed into the room,
athwart the bed where Beatrice lay, her features still hidden under the
beautifying mask. She stirred uneasily and then opened her eyes.
"Why, it's morning," she exclaimed, jumping up briskly. "Thank goodness,
I can take off this horrible thing at last. I ought to be fair as a lily
after all I've gone through. My, my how funny my face feels!" She untied
the fastenings with a sigh of relief, and threw off the poultice
thankfully.
"My skin is sticky and tight," she mused, passing one hand over her
face. "I won't look at myself until I am dressed, and then I can tell
just how I shall affect father. Let me see! I'll wear white. Adele looks
best in white. Fair people always do, I think."
True to her resolve she bathed and dressed without once approaching the
mirror. At length she was ready. She had no doubts as to the result.
Beatrice was possessed with a child's faith; still, her heart began to
beat quickly as she turned slowly and went toward the glass, keeping her
eyes downcast.
"It's just like a butterfly breaking out of the chrysalis," she told
herself nervously. "I have been an ugly grub for so long that I'm afraid
to try my new wings. Now, ready, Beatrice! One, two, three!--Look, and
see how beautiful you have become."
Smilingly she raised her eyes. The smile froze on her lips, and
consternation swept over her face. Her features were distorted and
swollen, and her skin was as yellow as saffron. With her dark eyes,
bleached hair, and white dress the effect was startling. For one long
moment the girl stared at her reflection, and then, as the full
realization of the transformation came home to her, she flung herself
upon the bed with a cry of anguish.
"It's no use," she wailed. "Everything is against me. I look worse than
ever. What shall I do? What shall I do?"
A knock sounded on the door just then, and Bee started up, fearing that
it was her father.
"Yes?" she called.
"Yer pa am a-waitin' fer yer, Miss Bee," came the voice of Aunt Fanny.
"He say de brek'fus am gittin' cole."
"Aunt Fanny, come here!" Beatrice opened the door and pulled the old
woman inside. "Look at my face! This comes from using that jimpson weed
poultice. Now what am I going to do?"
The negress gave a gasp at sight of the girl's face, and threw up her
hands in dismay.
"Lawsie, chile! How kum yer ter do sech a fool thing? A niggah dunno
nuffin' nohow. 'Sides, yer can't do hit in one night. Co'se not. Takes
two; mebbe three. I dunno."
"Then why did you tell me about it if you didn't know?" demanded Bee
indignantly. "You said that it would make me as fair as the lily of the
valley. Now, I've just ruined my face. Oh oh, oh!"
She began to cry weakly. Aunt Fanny smoothed her hair in an attempt at
consolation.
"I'se just a low-down niggah ter make yer cry so, Miss Bee," she said
remorsefully. "Dey does use jim'son in de Souf, but mebbe dey puts
sompin elsen wid hit. Nebber you mind. Aunt Fanny'll fin' sumpin ter fix
yer. Now go down ter yer pa. De brek'fus am gittin' cole, an' yer needs
hit hot."
"Go down?" cried Bee in perturbation. "I can't go down like this. You
go, and tell father I'm sick. Tell him I can't come. Oh! tell him
anything!"
"Beatrice," called her father at this moment from the foot of the
stairs, "is anything the matter? You were not at dinner last night. Are
you ill that you don't come to breakfast?"
"I reckon yer shorely in fer hit, Miss Bee," spoke Aunt Fanny
commiseratingly. "If yer sick he's gwine ter kum up anyhow. De bes'
thing is ter go right erlong, and get hit over wid. An' if he scolds
hard yer won't nebber forgib me."
"It is my own fault, Aunt Fanny," acknowledged the girl. "I ought to
have known better than to have done anything of the sort. Now I am in
for it, as you say. Yes; I'll go down. Father can't dislike me any more
than he does, so I might as well face him first as last." She rose as
she spoke and went to the door: "I am all right, father," she called.
"I'll be down in a minute."
It was more than a minute before she could pull herself together; then,
summoning all her fortitude, she went slowly down the stairs to the
dining room. Dr. Raymond turned at her entrance.
"Good morn--" he began in greeting, but stopped short as though he could
not believe the evidence of his eyes. "Beatrice Raymond, is that you?"
he demanded.
"Yes," returned Beatrice as steadily as she could. "It is I, father. Are
you ready for your coffee?"
"What is the meaning of this?" he asked sharply. "What have you been
doing to yourself?"
Something came into Bee's throat and choked her. A moment passed before
she could reply.
"I have been trying to make myself beautiful, but it did not work well,"
she said at last in a low tone.
"Beautiful!" exclaimed Doctor Raymond in disgust. "Is vanity also one of
your weaknesses? I begin to believe that you are a bundle of them. Only
a silly, vain girl would be guilty of such folly. I am sorely
disappointed in you, Beatrice."
Again Bee choked so that she could not speak, and her eyes swam with
tears. Had she so many follies? People used not to think she was such a
dreadful girl. They used to be fond of her, but everything was going
wrong lately. With hands that shook she silently poured her father's
coffee and handed it to him.
"How any girl," went on her father, seeing that she did not speak, "how
any girl should go deliberately to work to make such a fright of herself
as you have done is beyond my comprehension. I suppose that all girls
are more or less foolish about their complexions; but no girl of
refinement should bleach her hair. It is an abomination to every
self-respecting person. What caused you to do it?"
Beatrice's heart was very full. She had done it for his sake, but she
found it impossible to tell him. She had been content enough until he
had come, and was dissatisfied with her. His words hurt her cruelly.
Presently she found her voice:
"I was trying to look like Adele," she told him tearfully.
"You were?" Struck by something in her tone the scientist glanced at her
more closely. He saw that she was not eating anything, and that she was
trembling. His manner softened. Bee was aware of the change instantly,
and attributed it to the mention of her cousin. Her tears dried, and she
was shaken with sudden anger.
"Your cousin is a beautiful girl, Beatrice. She seems to be as lovely in
disposition as in person. I do not at all wonder that you desire to be
like her, but your manner of emulation has not been the most happy.
Perhaps I spoke too severely. We are all prone to error, and I should
not judge too harshly what, it seems, has been done from a worthy
motive. If you wish to be like Adele, strive to copy her character
rather than to imitate her outward appearance. Beauty of soul is the
thing that counts. Before a sweet disposition and a well informed mind
mere physical beauty palls."
"That is not true," burst from Beatrice; "and you know it."
"Beatrice Raymond, do you know to whom you are speaking?" The naturalist
dropped his knife and fork, and stared at his daughter in amazement.
"Yes, I do;" answered Bee, wrought up to such a pitch that she forgot
the respect and deference due her father. If the mere mention of her
cousin's name had such influence upon him, she would let him know how
she felt about it; so she continued wrathfully: "You and Aunt Annie, and
everybody, are fond of talking about the cultivation of the mind and
spirit being above beauty, but you don't practice what you preach. Look
at what you have been saying, and then think of how you have treated
me."
"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 passion; 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 succumb 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 Fanny at this inopportune
moment, and the entomologist was obliged to leave the room.