The Arrival of Guests
"The thistles show beyond the brook
Dust on their down and bloom,
And out of many a weed-grown nook
The aster flowers look
With eyes of tender gloom."
--_W. D. Howells._
Master Percival returned Bee's visit the very next day.
"What did you do with that butterfly that you caught?" he asked as he
seated himself. "Why did you catch it anyway?"
"Father thought it an unusually fine one, and wished it for his
collection," replied Bee. "You cannot see it now because it is not ready
to set up yet, but I can show you some others, if you care to see them."
"I do care," he answered. "I never noticed those things until I saw you
catching them."
"You didn't?" asked Bee in surprise, as she led the way to the
laboratory. "How could you help noticing them?"
"I don't know. Maybe it's because I have not been in the country very
much. What makes you like them?"
"They are so beautiful, Percival, for one thing. Then my father likes
them. They are his specialty."
Percival gave a cry of delight as they entered the laboratory, and some
butterflies rose from the thistles upon which they were resting. Like
autumn leaves released from their moorings they floated about, brilliant
bits of color. Soaring, curving, dropping into the depths of the corners
of the room, the butterflies rose and fell, rose and circled higher,
higher, up to the very ceiling; then they came tumbling down among the
thistles, settling and unsettling themselves airily, noiselessly, making
their selection of resting places slowly and daintily.
"This is the very last one to burst its chrysalis," remarked Bee,
indicating a queenly Swallowtail whose flutterings denoted weakness.
"Soon it will circle about in its first flight. See the lustre of its
wings, Percival. Did you ever see anything more beautiful?"
"They are like flowers," cried the boy enthusiastically, all the artist
in him revelling in the beauty and daintiness of the insects. "Flying
flowers! They--Gee! Look at the worms!"
"They are not worms; they are caterpillars," explained Bee. "See how
they are feeding upon the leaves? When the time comes that they have
eaten enough they will spin a bed for themselves like this," showing him
a cocoon. "After a short sleep they burst forth into beautiful
butterflies."
"Do they feed on the different colored plants so as to have different
colors?" he queried.
"Why, Percival, that is a sweet fancy," she cried. "I never thought of
that. I'll ask father if that is what makes them the pretty colors. You
like them too, don't you?"
"I like the butterflies, but I don't like those creepy, crawly things
from which they come."
"That is the most beautiful part of it, father says," said Bee. "They
are humble, earth-bound creatures at first; then after a period of
preparation they become beautiful winged insects, basking in the
sunshine and sipping sweets from flowers."
"I like that part of it," said the boy again. "But those hairy things
give me the creeps. Let's get out of this."
So they adjourned to the veranda forthwith.
"Do you know, my mother said that she rather fancied you?" announced
Percival presently. "She said that you were very pleasant, and that such
a nice girl would be good for me to be with this summer. So I am to
cultivate your acquaintance."
"Indeed!" Beatrice laughed merrily, and then became grave. "Percival,
you are terrible," she said reprovingly. "You ought not to tell
everything that your mother says. I am quite sure that she would not
like it."
"She doesn't," he answered promptly, a sparkle of mischief in his eyes.
"But she can't help herself."
"Why can't she? She could punish you. That might do some good."
"I'd like to see anybody raise a hand to me," said the boy pompously,
reaching down and plucking a blade of grass which he bit into
nonchalantly. "They don't dare do it. You see, I am the head of the
family. I make all the money in concerts. If it were not for me mamma
and old Heinrich would not have a cent. So I do just as I please.
Sometimes," he laughed a malicious little laugh, "if I want anything
real bad I throw a fit just before the performance. My! My! but isn't
there some tall hustling then?"
He laughed again, but the girl regarded him with shocked, pained eyes.
Her disapproval was so evident that he moved about restlessly under her
glance.
"If my mother were living," spoke Bee slowly, "and I could provide for
her by playing, or in any other way, I would be so glad to have her that
I would do anything I could for her. And I would try not to cause her
pain by being naughty."
"Oh, I don't mind playing," confessed he. "I like to take care of my
mother, and she is all right. We are great friends, but she doesn't
always give me what I want. I have to get it someway."
"If I were she I wouldn't give in to you," spoke the girl severely. "If
she would not you would go on and play anyway when you found that you
could not have what you wished. Now wouldn't you?"
"I never thought about it just that way," observed the Prodigy
thoughtfully, "but--yes; I guess I would. You needn't go tell my mother
though. I'd have no end of trouble in getting the things I want, and old
Heinrich is bad enough now."
"I am not a tattletale," exclaimed Bee indignantly. "I don't repeat
things which I know people would rather I would not tell."
"You mean that for me, Beatrice Raymond," cried the boy rising. "I won't
trouble you by telling you anything more; that's certain. You may come
over to see my mother if you want to. I won't be at home to you. You are
entirely too dicta--dicta--" He struggled valiantly with the word for a
moment, then gave it up, and bowing stiffly, stalked majestically away.
Beatrice's impulse was to call him back and apologize. Then, as she saw
him give a quick backward glance at her, a light broke upon her mind,
and she coolly retreated into the house.
"The rogue! he is just too spoiled for anything," she laughed. "He did
that, thinking that I would run after him. Well, I won't. A little
judicious snubbing will do him good."
"Has Joel come back from town, Aunt Fanny?" she asked as she entered the
kitchen.
"Yes'm; he done kum back, Joel is. He brung a lettah from yer pa, I
'specs. Hit ain't from no lady nohow, an' no udder gem'mens gwine ter
write dat I knows anything erbout."
"Certainly it is from father," said Bee, breaking the seal eagerly.
"Although I might have a half dozen gem'mens writing to me for all you
know," she added, teasingly.
"No, yer ain't, honey. Dey may kum in time, but yer too 'voted ter yer
pa right now for hit."
And so she talked while Beatrice perused her letter. It was short, and
ran as follows:
"My dear Daughter:
"I am writing in haste to inform you that I shall be home
Saturday morning, and shall bring with me four of the Faculty
of the University. They are enthusiastic Lepidopterists, and I
am sure that you will enjoy meeting with them. Now, my child,
they will remain for dinner, and while you manage very nicely
indeed with Aunt Fanny, I fear that this may tax your ability
too far. Could you not get some capable person to assist you
for the day?
"I hope that you have not been very lonesome, and assuring you
that it will afford me the greatest pleasure to be with you
again, I am as ever,
"Your affectionate father,
"William Raymond."
Bee sat still for a long time gazing at the letter. Something about the
tone of it chilled her heart, and she could not but contrast it with
that other letter which also told of his homecoming. How full of love,
and tenderness, and longing, that had been; while this--Oh! would he
never, never care for her? Her eyes filled with a quick rush of tears.
"Am hit bad news, honey?" queried Aunt Fanny anxiously.
"No; no, indeed." Bee dashed away her tears, and tried to speak
cheerfully. "Father is coming home Saturday, and he will bring company
for dinner. There will be four scientific men with him, and he fears
that we shall not be able to manage by ourselves. What do you think?"
"Huh!" snorted the negress scornfully. "I'se cooked for more'n dat many.
Dey's nuffin but mens what ebber elsen dey is. I reckon dey feeds like
udder gem'mens if dey is satanic."
"Scientific, Aunt Fanny," corrected the girl with a quick transition
from melancholy to mirth. "Satanic means--"
"Nebber you min' what hit means, chile. I doesn't want no udder worman
a-trapesin' erbout my kitchen. You heah me? No'm; we'll manage, Miss
Bee. Jes' yer think what ter hab, an' I'll cook hit. We'll git ole
Rachel's Tillie ter wait on de table, an' dat's all de help we'll need.
She's a likely gal!"
"All right, Aunt Fanny. We will try it, and if we find that we are not
going to succeed we will get help. I'll think what to have, and we will
surprise father by giving a nice dinner."
Resolutely putting from her all thought of her father's coldness Bee
bent her whole energy to a study of a tempting menu for the dinner.
"When Aunt Annie was going to have company she always studied to please
them," she mused. "Some way her dinners always just suited the guests.
If I could have this dinner not only nice but distinctive, I should be
pleased. Father is susceptible to the influence of a good dinner. I
guess that all men are even if they are satanic." She laughed at the
recollection of Aunt Fanny's mistake, then concentrated her mind anew
upon the problem. Presently she jumped up, clapping her hands in glee.
"I have it! I have it!" she exclaimed joyfully. "They are
Lepidopterists. I'll give them a Butterfly dinner."
With a definite purpose in view she could proceed to better advantage.
Still, it took hours and a great deal of anxious thought to perfect her
plan. The next few days were busy ones, but when at length Saturday
came, everything was in readiness for the guests.
It was an exceedingly warm July day, and the old vine-covered house
presented an inviting appearance. The walnut trees cast a grateful shade
over the wide veranda, and along the broad drive that ran down to the
gate on either side of which were shrubs and plants. The windows were
open to the breeze and all the rooms were gay with flowers.
Beatrice herself was not the least charming part of the picture as she
stood waiting with a pretty air of dignity to receive her father's
guests. Doctor Raymond's eyes lighted up with pride as he noted the ease
with which she greeted them, and his tone held a caressing inflection
as he said:
"It is good to be home, Beatrice. I think the house never looked so
restful as it does today."
"And I am glad that you are back father," said Bee with some shyness,
for he had not kissed her. She did not think that this might be on
account of the presence of guests. "You must be very warm after being in
the sun. Will you take your friends to the library? It is cooler there,
and Aunt Fanny will serve lemonade immediately."
"That is the right kind of a daughter to have, doctor," exclaimed one of
the scientists with appreciation. "If going to the library means
lemonade, let us adjourn there instantly. I am as dry as a desert."