The Butterfly Dinner
"All human history attests
That happiness for man--the hungry sinner--
Since Eve ate apples, much depends on dinner."
--_Byron._
The dining room at Walnut Grove was a place furnished with more regard
for comfort than for show. There was an air about the apartment that
seemed to say that eating here was not a busy matter but one to be
observed in peace and leisure. The furniture was solid, substantial,
comfortable; mellowed by time and use. Had Beatrice but known it she had
a charming setting for her dinner.
"It's only a bit of fun," she said to herself as she put the finishing
touches to the decorations. "If they are not old fogies they will enjoy
it. I don't see how anything can go wrong. Everything is planned so
carefully, and the table does look nice."
Nevertheless her heart beat somewhat faster as her father ushered in his
guests, giving a hasty glance at the table as they took their places.
[Illustration: BEE ENTERTAINS HER FATHER'S FRIENDS.]
"This seems to be a Butterfly dinner to judge from the decorations," he
observed with some anxiety in his manner. "I don't know exactly what
that portends, but perhaps there will be something to satisfy us."
"Our young hostess has evidently studied her subject," remarked one of
the scientists with an admiring glance at the table. "Do you know, Miss
Raymond, that when I was a lad sweet peas were always associated in my
mind with butterflies? To me they look just like the insect at rest."
"So they do to me," answered Bee. "That is the reason I chose them for
the flowers." She had filled a vase with the blossoms upon which two
large artificial butterflies rested, apparently partaking of the sweets
of the flowers.
"'The Sulphurs,'" read a second, picking up the menu card which Bee had
carefully written for each plate. "Gentlemen, I am afraid that we are
in for it."
"Miss Raymond intends for us to eat our own words--no; that is not
exactly what I mean, although some of us have written upon the subject
of Lepidoptera," said the third one, a small man in spectacles.
Beatrice could not repress a little laugh at the look of relief that
flashed across each man's face as Tillie, the "likely gal" of whom Aunt
Fanny had spoken, appeared with "The Sulphurs" which proved to be yellow
cantaloupes, ice cold.
"After all you are not the first martyrs to science," she told them
merrily. "Luther had to partake of a diet of worms, I believe."
"So he did," observed the scientist on her right. "Let me see. How does
the rhyme go?
"'Instead of butter on his bread
A sauce of butterflies was spread.'
"Are we to have that next? I see what is in store for us. 'All life is
from an egg,'" reading aloud from the menu. "That sounds interesting."
With an eagerness that was almost boyish they awaited Tillie's coming
with the next course which developed into egg soup accompanied by hot
wafers. A laugh of pure enjoyment went up as Scale insects with
chrysalids and some green hair streaks was seen to be baked fish with
shrimp salad, dressed with cucumbers.
An entree--"Scarce clouded yellows," mushrooms on toast--was provocative
of so much merriment that Bee gave herself up to the fun, assured that
the dinner was a success. Stiffness could not exist under such
conditions, and the grave scientists unbent from their dignity, and
jested and made merry like a lot of school-boys. There was admiration in
the look that Doctor Raymond bestowed upon his daughter as course
followed course, each bearing the name of a certain species of
butterfly, evolved from a resemblance of color or form to the viands.
The dessert, "The Arctics with Boisduval Marble," was ice cream frozen
in butterfly moulds and marble cake; while "Wooded Nymphs" were salted
almonds.
"Gentlemen," said one, rising as the last course--'The Mourning Cloak'
which meant black coffee--was served, "let us toast our hostess. This
has been one of the most ingenious as well as one of the most enjoyable
dinners I ever attended. It has the merit of originality, and puts to
blush the efforts of older but not wiser ladies. Doctor Raymond, I
congratulate you upon your daughter. You should be proud of her, sir."
Doctor Raymond bowed his acknowledgments, while Bee sat, so proud and
happy that she was almost overcome.
"I confess that I was a little dubious when I first saw that menu card,"
confessed her father with a smile as he finished his coffee.
"Do you mean that you did not aid her? That she did in truth plan this
alone?" exclaimed the shy gentleman in surprise. "Where then did she get
her knowledge of the subject?"
"Beatrice studied it while I was away," explained Doctor Raymond. "It
was done in order to help me in my work, I believe; and she has
certainly proved to be a very enthusiastic assistant. She is helping me
in my cataloguing this summer. Shall we go to the piazza, gentlemen?
There is just time for a cigar before your train."
They passed from the dining room, leaving Bee flushed and happy to
report their success to Aunt Fanny. Presently Joel came with the
carriage and the Lepidopterists took their departure. Doctor Raymond
laid his hand lightly upon his daughter's arm, and turned her toward
him.
"Was that entirely your own idea about the dinner?" he asked.
"Yes, father. Did you like it?"
"Very much indeed. It was admirably conceived, and most admirably
executed. Did you have no assistance beside Aunt Fanny?"
"Only Tillie," responded Bee. "Aunt Fanny didn't want any 'udder worman
traipesing erbout her kitchen.'" Bee laughed a little at the remembrance
of the negress' indignation. "She said that she could cook for men even
though they were 'satanic;' so I did the planning, and she did the
cooking. You must praise her too, father. I never could have done it
without her."
"I am glad to hear you say that, Beatrice. I was afraid that you might
take all the credit to yourself, but I see that you are willing to share
honors."
Beatrice drew closer to him. There were times when she would have dearly
loved to have thrown her arms about his neck as she had seen Adele do
with her father, but Doctor Raymond was not a demonstrative man, and she
stood too much in awe of him to take the initiative. Just at the present
she felt closer to him than she had done since his return. He was proud
of her and showed it plainly. He was coming to care for her, even though
she was not pretty. He had been right. Beauty did not matter after all.
Oh, she would be so good, so good, and study so hard that he could not
help but love her. She was so happy. His hand still lay on her arm as if
he liked it to be there. A mist came into her eyes, and a lump into her
throat that caused her to breathe quickly.
"Beatrice!"
"Yes, father?"
"Did you know that your Uncle Henry was very ill?"
"No; I am sorry to hear it. Are they at home?"
"Yes; they returned from Annie's mother's just as soon as Henry began to
feel bad. He must have the utmost quiet. Even I am not allowed to see
him. And, Beatrice--"
"Yes, father?" spoke Bee again.
"Adele must go away while he is so ill." Doctor Raymond spoke with some
hesitation. "Her mother wished her to stay with her grandmother, but she
is very unhappy at her separation from you, and she wishes to come here.
I wished to bring her with me today, but Annie insisted that you should
be consulted upon the matter first. You can have no objection, surely."
"Father!" Anguish and appeal were in Bee's voice. She turned from him
and covered her face with her hands.
"My daughter, are you still harboring resentment against your cousin on
account of my mistake? That would be unworthy of you."
"Don't," cried Bee, brokenly. "Don't, father!"
There was surprise and grave displeasure in Doctor Raymond's face. That
he was more than pained was evident. His daughter had never seemed so
womanly as she had that day, and now--he was perplexed. The man was more
acquainted with the ways of insects than he was with girls, and had Bee
been a butterfly rather than a most miserable girl he would have known
just what to do. As it was he stood in what seemed to Beatrice cold
disapproval.
"He wants her to come," she thought with a pang of bitterness. "And I
was so happy only a moment ago. Oh, if I could only have him to myself a
little longer, I wouldn't care. I know that I could win him to like me
best if I only had a little longer. She will spoil everything." She gave
a little sob.
Dr. Raymond gave an impatient movement.
"Beatrice," he said, "I confess that I do not see why this should cause
you so much grief. It distresses me very much. You should remember that
you shared your cousin's home for many years. It is ungracious to
hesitate for a moment."
"They were well paid for their care of me," flashed Beatrice with
passionate anger. "And they never allowed me to come between them and
Adele. Aunt Annie said that it was natural and right that Adele should
be first in her own home, and I agreed with her. I gave up in everything
to her when I was there. Now, I want to be first in my home. It is not
right for her to come here when I haven't had you for so long. Adele
only cares to come because you admire her. It isn't at all because she
cares for me. And she ought not to leave her father! Oh! it isn't--it
isn't--" She burst into tears, unable to finish.
There followed a long silence eloquent with the grief of the daughter,
and the unspoken censure of the father. Beatrice felt his disapproval,
and she could not bear it. At length, feeling that even Adele's presence
could be borne better than his displeasure, she lifted her tear-stained
face, and said in a trembling voice:
"Bring her when you wish, father, but, but--" She could say no more.
"That is my own daughter," he exclaimed approvingly. "That was a real
victory over unworthy feelings, Beatrice. And there is no cause for any
jealousy toward your cousin. Remember that, and conquer whatever of ill
feeling toward her may lurk in your breast."
"Yes, father," said Bee, trying not to sob.
"I can not bear it," she told herself as she went finally to her room.
"He wants her to come. He loves her best after all. And I meant to be so
good, so good! But it's no use. No use!"
And so what had been a happy day closed with unpleasantness and she went
to bed feeling that all her good times with her father were ended.