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 larvae 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 larvae 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."