A Little Sermon
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty,--that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."
--_Keats._
"I shall go to Henry's today, Beatrice," Doctor Raymond informed his
daughter the next morning. "Adele will return with me."
"Very well, father," acquiesced Beatrice apathetically. She was pale,
with deep circles under her eyes, and looked as though she had not
slept.
"I am afraid that you worked too hard on that dinner," commented the
naturalist with solicitude. "Do you not feel well?"
"I am quite well, thank you, father," returned the girl gravely.
"I shall be glad when your cousin comes," remarked he. "I fear that I
have kept you too close to study this summer."
"No, no," denied Bee. "I am just tired, that is all."
What difference did it make to him whether she had worked too hard or
not, she asked herself with all the injustice of girlhood. Finding her
loath to converse her father relapsed into silence, and the breakfast
ended drearily.
Then he left, and Bee sat down on the verandah steps to face the
situation. It was over. All the delightful companionship, the long
walks, the cataloguing,--everything. She dropped her head into her
hands, and sobbed.
"Beatrice Raymond," said the voice of Percival, "what in the world is
the matter? I have called twice and you did not answer."
"I didn't hear you." Bee raised her head, and looked at him dully.
"Are you mad at me?" he queried.
"No."
"You didn't think that I would ever come over to see you again, did
you?" asked the Prodigy seating himself beside her with easy grace.
"I did not think anything about it," replied the girl shortly.
"You are cross," exclaimed Percival in aggrieved tones. "If you are not
mad, I don't see why you should be cross to me. Aren't you mad?"
"No, no," returned Bee impatiently. "See here, Percival! I am in
trouble. Won't you go away, and not bother me?"
The boy rose slowly.
"Of course, if I bother you, I'll go," he said with dignity. "If you are
in trouble you ought not to be left alone. Thinking is bad, my mother
says. Where is your father?"
"He has gone away," replied Bee briefly. "He won't be back until
tonight."
"Then I am not going," declared Percival firmly. "That is, not unless
you will go with me. Why can't you come over and stay with mamma and me,
Beatrice?"
"I don't want to," said Bee miserably. "I just want to be left alone."
"That is what I'm not going to do," declared the boy obstinately. "You
ought not to be, you know. I'll tell you what: come over, and let me
play to you. That will drive all your troubles away."
"If I go over for a little while to listen to you, will you let me come
home alone? I don't wish to be rude, Percival, but I am very unhappy."
"If you will come over for a time you may do anything you please," said
the lad earnestly. "I am sorry if I seem to bother, but when I am
troubled music puts everything all right. It's the same with mamma, and
with old Heinrich, and with lots of people. I just believe that it will
help you too, or I should not insist. Now, come, Butterfly."
"You are very nice to me, Percival," said Beatrice, touched. "Nicer than
you ought to be, because I have not been good to you this morning. But I
just can't be pleasant to any one."
"I know." The boy nodded his head sagaciously. "I feel that way too,
sometimes."
"And, Percival, you must not call me Butterfly. Butterflies are pretty
and only good-looking people should be called so. I have a cousin who is
very beautiful. We always called her that, but they call me Bee."
"And bees make honey, don't they? I like honey, and I like bees. I think
I like them better than I do butterflies. They have a sting, too, don't
they?"
"Yes," answered the girl.
"You have too. That is, you can say some sharp things. I think bee suits
you better than the other because you do things. I am going to call you
Beefly. Butterflies never do anything, do they?"
"They don't need to do anything," sighed Bee. "It's only homely insects
that need to work."
Percival made no answer, and silently they went through the orchard and
across the field, and through the hedge into the garden beyond. Mrs.
Medulla greeted them pleasantly, as they entered.
"Good morning, Beatrice," she said, noting the girl's paleness
instantly. "You have made quite a conquest of my son. He has never taken
so to a girl before."
"She's different," spoke Percival sententiously, adjusting the music on
the rack, and picking up his violin. "Other girls don't think of
anything but dresses and things to wear. She doesn't tag after a fellow
either. I like her. You must not talk any more, mamma. She is troubled,
and I'm going to play to make her feel better."
"Very well," said the lady, with a faint smile. "Sit here by me, my
dear," she added kindly to Beatrice.
The girl sank into a low chair by her side, comforted in spite of
herself by their kindness. Presently the young violinist began to play.
Beatrice listened perfunctorily at first, but pretty soon she found
herself caught, and held by his wonderful playing. On and on he played,
not watching her with challenging, curious eyes to note the effect as
before, but, like the true artist that he was, bending earnestly to the
task of bringing comfort and consolation to her heart.
It was Beethoven that touched her most. Under the influence of his
divine music Bee felt her heart strings relax, and as the mighty climax
of the last movement swelled into ecstacy, infinite as the human soul,
she burst into a flood of tears. At a glance from his mother Percival
stole softly into the house, while the lady drew the girl into her arms.
"There!" she said, smoothing her hair gently. "That will do you good, my
child."
Petting was what the girl needed, and soon her emotion spent itself.
When at last she was calm she looked up contritely.
"I should not have come over, and made so much trouble," she said.
"Forgive me, Mrs. Medulla; I will go home now. Thank you--"
"My dear," spoke the lady, drawing her back into her embrace, "suppose
you tell me all about it."
Beatrice looked at her quickly, but seeing the sympathy in the older
woman's eyes she broke out impulsively:
"I will. I will tell you the whole thing." Rapidly she poured forth all
her grief. Told of Adele's changing the pictures, of her father's return
and of his mistake in taking Adele for his daughter; of her cousin's
beauty, and of her efforts to be like her; of her studies with her
father; of the butterfly dinner, and of her belief that with time she
could win his love; and finally of Adele's coming; ending with, "If only
I were pretty my father would love me, I know. If only I were pretty!"
"That is a woman's cry, child," observed the lady thoughtfully. "The
desire for beauty is in every feminine heart. A pretty complexion, a
captivating dimple, bright eyes and flowing tresses are desired more
than all knowledge of books, or graces of the mind."
"I know," sighed the girl.
"Now, dear, you and I are going to have a little talk."
"Dear lady," spoke Bee in pleading tones, "don't, don't tell me that
'Handsome is that handsome does,' or that beauty of mind and soul will
cause others to forget that one is homely. Father says that too, but he
would not have come had he not thought that his daughter was a beautiful
girl."
"I am not going to say those things, child." Mrs. Medulla laughed. "I am
not fond of platitudes myself, although there is much truth in them.
Now, child, you feel hard toward your cousin for changing those
pictures, don't you?"
Bee compressed her lips, and her eyes flashed.
"Yes," she said in a low tone, "and I'll never forgive her. Never!"
"Wait a minute, dear. It was not a nice thing, nor a kind thing for her
to do, though I think it must have been pure girlish mischief. However,
we are not concerned with that part of it. Beatrice, when would your
father have come home had he not received the picture?"
"Why! not for two more years," cried Bee, a startled look flashing
across her face.
"Exactly. Then if the exchange had not been made you would not have had
the pleasure of your father's company at all this summer, would you?"
"N-no."
"Would you rather have him here now, even though such a mistake has been
made, than to wait two years longer to see him?"
"Yes, yes, yes," cried Bee with intensity. "Oh, I don't see now how I
could have borne to wait longer."
"Then, my dear, how about that feeling toward your cousin? Good has come
out of it, no matter how she meant it. If you will think of that part of
it, it will help you to feel toward her as you used to do, and you must
do that, my child, for your own sake. Now whenever any hard thought of
her comes, just think that she brought him back to you. It won't be easy
at first, my dear, but you can do it. We will let that be, and pass on
to other things. The case interests me very much, and I would like you
to be so successful in winning his love that there would be no one of
whom he would be so fond. Perhaps I can help you."
"If you will, I will do anything in the world for you," cried the girl
earnestly.
"I am satisfied that it can be done, Beatrice. You were on the way to
its accomplishment already. Your cousin's coming may make a slight
difference for a time, but it will only be temporary. You yourself are
liable to spoil everything."
"I?" Beatrice looked her surprise.
"Yes; you will see as I talk. Now, Beatrice, answer me one question: in
your studies you have always been first, have you not?"
"Yes. How did you know?"
"Never mind about that. Which did you enjoy most: gaining a high mark
without any competition, or getting one when others were striving for it
too?"
"I liked best when I had to work hard to get ahead of others."
"I thought so. Look at this from the same standpoint. Gain your father's
love in spite of your cousin's beauty, and his admiration for her. It
will be a greater triumph than to gain it when she is not with you."
"Yes; it would," acknowledged Bee, "but--"
"Your first mistake, my dear, for you are a little to blame for the
state of things," went on the lady, "was on that first night. You should
have laughed at the blunder as of no consequence. I can see how such a
course would be impossible to one of your temperament, for you are very
intense, and the thing seemed a little short of tragic to you. That is
past. Think no more of it. Your second mistake was in trying to make
yourself like your cousin. That was a confession of weakness."
"It was as the animals do to protect themselves from enemies," explained
Bee. "It is called protective mimicry."
"I don't know what it is called, child. Whatever it is, it is done only
by those animals that are incapable of caring for themselves. Now, my
dear, why don't you throw yourself into your father's arms, and tell him
all your troubles, just as you have me?"
"I wouldn't dare," said Bee in such a tone of reverence that the lady
broke into a musical peal of laughter. "You would understand if you
knew him, Mrs. Medulla. There is no one quite like him. He is so
learned, so reserved, so--"
"Tut, tut! He may be all that, but still he is a man. He may be just
waiting for some token of love and affection from you. Remember,
Beatrice, you know more of him than he does of you. You have been where
you could talk with your aunt and uncle about him, while he knows you
only by your letters. As you show yourself to him now, so he must judge
of you."
"I see," mused Bee thoughtfully.
"We are through with your mistakes, Beatrice. Did you know that you have
some claims to beauty yourself?"
"What?" gasped Bee, so amazed that Mrs. Medulla laughed again.
"Am I telling secrets?" she asked.
"But, but I am not fair. My hair is dark, and my eyes are almost black."
"There are more kinds of beauty than one, Beatrice. Yours is the kind
that will increase with years. The Ugly Duckling sort which develops
into a beautiful Swan."
"Is it true?" asked the girl breathlessly. "No one ever told me that
before. Aunt Annie used to say that my only claim to beauty lay in the
expressiveness of my face."
"And in that very expressiveness lies the difficulty. When you are
bright and happy you are at your best. Sparkle and animation give you a
charm that is more than beauty of skin, or regularity of feature. Grief
robs you of this; so, if for no other reason, you should strive to put
unhappiness from you. Women who have been considered great beauties have
not always had perfect features, or flawless complexions; but they held
sway by grace of manner, and that indefinable thing called charm. You
are of this class. I am telling you this, little girl, not to make you
vain, but to give you confidence. Do you know why no one has told you
this before?"
"No," replied Bee. "Why?"
"Because, while one feels it, there is a sort of carelessness in your
dress that detracts from your appearance."
Bee flushed scarlet, and put up her hand quickly to adjust her twisted
neck ribbon.
"I do just throw my things on," she murmured.
"A maiden should be exquisitely neat always. Even a scientific man will
be influenced by externals. Such a man might not be able to tell what
was wrong, but he would be conscious of some disturbing element. If you
are careless in your dress your father will unconsciously draw
comparisons between you and your cousin. No girl can afford to be dowdy
in appearance. She should make herself as neat and tidy as possible, and
then think no more of her dress. Just a few more remarks and I will have
finished my little sermon, if a talk on beauty may be called such. You
will not mind if I say now, that there is much, much truth in the homely
saying that you quoted: 'Handsome is that handsome does.' A winsome,
lovable personality is worth all the beauty in the world.
"It is a fact that the girl who thinks kind thoughts, and does good
deeds is a great deal more attractive than the one who thinks only of
herself. The face reflects the mind far more than girls realize, and as
a matter of looks alone a girl cannot afford to be other than sweet and
loving. Unselfishness, kindness, thoughtfulness, all help to make the
plainest face beautiful, and years will not detract from its charm."
She paused a moment, and then added:
"Not that I would decry loveliness of person child. It is a gift of
Heaven and should be valued as such, but that alone is not everything.
Cultivate exquisite neatness of person, and above all, be your own
bright self, and I feel sure that it will be but a short time until you
will be all in all to your father. And, child, when he looks at your
cousin, rise above any little hardness that you may feel toward her. He
looks at her as he would at some beautiful picture. It is the same
sensation, caused by the same appreciation of beauty. Do you do
likewise, and admire her with him. He will admit your good taste, and
end by admiring you. Put on your best dress for tonight, and make him as
proud of you as you did yesterday. You can do it."
"I _will_ do it," said Bee with determination. "I have been hateful
about the dinner. I have not ordered anything for tonight. Mrs. Medulla,
you are the sweetest woman that I have ever known."
"Don't be too grateful, Beatrice. Wait and see how things turn out. I
know that you will succeed. Come tell me about it tomorrow."
"I will." Beatrice tripped lightly away; no longer troubled and unhappy,
but full of the buoyancy of hope.