A Breach of Trust
"Our lives are songs;
God writes the words,
And we set them to music at leisure;
And the song is sad, or the song is glad,
As we choose to fashion the measure."
--_Gibbon._
"Oh! Oh!" screamed Adele, dancing up and down distractedly. "Take it
away! Take it away!"
Doctor Raymond ran from the study into the laboratory.
"What is the matter? What has happened?" he cried, alarmed by the girl's
pale face and affrighted manner.
"It's a caterpillar," explained Bee, who was vainly trying to get Adele
to keep still long enough to remove the creature. "There, Adele, it
can't hurt you. Just be still a moment so that I can take it off."
But Adele continued to shriek, while the caterpillar wriggled along her
delicate arm, each movement sufficing to send her into a fresh paroxysm
of fear.
"There, child!" Doctor Raymond passed his arm about her, and held her
tightly. "Don't jump so. There is nothing to be afraid of. The poor
thing is as much frightened as you are. See! it's gone. Beatrice, return
it to its cage."
"Take me out of this horrid place," sobbed Adele, clinging to him
tightly. "I never want to come in here again."
"I thought you had been in before," said her uncle questioningly, as he
led her into the study. "See that everything is closed properly,
Beatrice."
"No; I have not," shivered Adele. "It was all Bee's fault. She wanted me
to see some butterflies come out of their cocoons, so I went with her.
The room was filled with creepy, crawly things. Oh, dear!" She
shuddered, then wiped her eyes, and looked up at him plaintively. "Do
you think I am an awful goose, Uncle William?"
"No, my dear," answered Doctor Raymond with a smile. "Only very
feminine. Few of your sex overcome their prejudice to creeping
creatures unless they become interested in them through science. I was
surprised that Beatrice was not timid."
Bee, entering just then, heard the remark and smiled to herself. She did
not explain that it was because of him that she had overcome her
repugnance to them.
"Bee doesn't mind anything that crawls," exclaimed Adele who had
recovered herself by this time.
"I don't like snakes," declared Bee emphatically.
"You people talk about the most dreadful things," cried Adele. "Do you
know that I wake up nights feeling creepy? If you don't care, Uncle
William, I am going down to Aunt Rachel's while you and Bee study your
old worms. No more science for me, thank you."
"By all means," smiled the naturalist. "You shall be our angel of
charity while Beatrice and I remain true to science. But perhaps you
would prefer to go with Adele, Beatrice?"
"No;" answered Bee eagerly, glad that she was to have him to herself
again. "She won't care if I stay with you, father; and I would rather
be with you."
"I don't mind going alone, Uncle William, if Bee is of any assistance to
you." Adele looked at him with pretty concern. "If she hinders you
though you ought to send her right along with me."
Doctor Raymond was silent so long that Bee was startled.
"Do I hinder you, father?" she asked tremulously. "I did not think of
that. I thought that I was helping. If I am not, if you just have me
here because you think it will please me, say so; and I won't bother you
any more."
"Now, Bee," protested Adele archly, "why do you tease him? Of course he
is much too polite to tell you that you trouble him. I was joking
anyway. Come along, and leave your father in peace."
"Leave the room," commanded Beatrice peremptorily. "I wish to be alone
with my father."
"Upon my word, Bee!" cried Adele, undecided whether she should go or
stay. She stood for a moment, and then, as her uncle did not come to her
rescue, gave a light laugh at her cousin's determined attitude, and left
the room.
"Was not that a little abrupt, my daughter?" asked Doctor Raymond
quietly.
"It was, father," admitted Beatrice contritely. "But this is a matter
that concerns us alone, and I just could not be trifled with. There was
no reason why she should stay. Now, father, if I bother you in any way,
I will do so no more, but let you work undisturbed. Do I? Tell me truly.
Don't say what you think will please me, but the truth."
"The truth! the truth! and nothing but the truth," laughed he, his eyes
softening as he met the earnest gaze of his daughter. "Set your mind at
rest, Beatrice. You do not hinder me in the least, but on the contrary
help me no little. I was summing up all that you had done when you
turned upon me so suddenly. You are rather strenuous at times."
"I know that I am, father." Bee was so relieved that she was of use to
him that she spoke for once without reserve: "I wish I were sweet and
beautiful, and all that you wish. And, and I am trying to be lovable. It
is not always easy," she ended with a sigh.
"None of us find it so, my child. I have noticed your efforts, Beatrice,
with pleasure. Another thing: when I first came home, there was a
carelessness in your dress which you have corrected. Your cousin herself
is not more neat in her attire now than you are."
"Oh, father! have you noticed?" cried Bee so delightedly that his
features relaxed into a smile. "I did not think you did. And my temper!
It is so quick, but maybe in time I'll get so that I can control it. I
used not to be so quick tempered, but since you have returned I seem to
show all my bad qualities."
"That is scarcely complimentary to me, is it? I would better put you
under your aunt's keeping again, if my influence is so--"
"Oh, no, no!" cried Bee, distressed. "I did not mean it that way. It
isn't you at all, father. It is me. I can't help but feel ugly toward
anyone who tries to come between us."
"Why, child, no one is trying to come between us. There is no reason why
we should not become very dear friends as the years go by. I am already
depending upon you greatly, and nothing but a betrayal of trust could
change my feeling for you. Such a thing as that, however, I am convinced
is foreign to your nature."
"I will never betray even your slightest wish," cried the girl
earnestly. "You do like me a little, don't you?"
"Certainly I do. Are you satisfied now?"
"Yes;" replied Bee with eyes shining with happiness. "Dear me!" she
exclaimed, glancing at the clock. "I have not been much of a help this
morning. Just look at that time!"
"We won't mind it for the nonce, Beatrice. If we work well it will be
but a few weeks until our task is done. The last of August will see all
of my specimens out of their cocoons; then--"
"Then what, father?" she asked anxiously.
"I don't quite know yet. I am considering several things before deciding
upon my plans for the future. The main point is to attend to the duty in
hand. Shall we resume our work?"
The next few days were happy ones for Beatrice. She worked with her
father every morning while Adele went to Aunt Rachel's with the
delicacies which Bee provided. In the afternoon they walked together,
and in the evening visited Percival and his mother, or were visited by
them. They were bright, happy days despite the presence of Adele. Some
way Beatrice felt that she was gaining ground with her father, and the
knowledge made her put forth her best efforts to please him.
In fact, she threw herself into the work with so much fervor that one
day she found herself too tired and indisposed to take the accustomed
walk with her father and cousin, and remained indoors for rest. After
lying down for a time, she rose and began to dress.
"I do believe that father forgot to put that sorrel grass in the
laboratory for the larvae of the Chrysophanus Americanus," she exclaimed
suddenly, pausing in the act of brushing her hair. "I'll run right down
to see."
The sorrel had been forgotten sure enough, and Beatrice ran out for some
to take into the laboratory. The afternoon was extremely warm. As a
usual thing the door between the study and the laboratory was kept
closed, but today because of the heat Bee left it open, thinking to be
in the room but a moment.
She arranged the sorrel grass in the cage where the larvae were feeding
and turned to leave the room when her attention was caught by a
brilliant bit of color on a twig near a window.
"Oh!" she cried, as going close to it she discovered that it was a
butterfly newly escaped from its chrysalis. "Oh, oh! it's father's
rarest specimen! It's the Teinopalpus Imperialis! How delighted he will
be. I wonder how soon it will fly!"
As the words left her lips the beautiful creature rose and circled the
room majestically in its first flight.
"What a beauty!" cried Bee with enthusiasm. "Won't fath--Oh, the door!"
She ran toward it quickly, but she was too late. Through it sailed the
butterfly into the study and out through the open window. Catching up
her net Bee jumped through the window, and dashed after the insect.
Daintily it settled upon a flower for a second, then away it went just
as the girl gave her net a frantic swish to catch it. Hither and thither
the creature darted as though intoxicated with its freedom after being
earth-bound for so long. Round and round went Beatrice after it; onward
and upward it flew, tantalizingly near sometimes, but ever escaping
capture. Presently it rose, and disappeared over the tree tops.
[Illustration: "OUT THROUGH THE OPEN WINDOW SAILED THE BUTTERFLY."]
"It's gone," cried Bee with a sob. "It's gone. What will father think?
And the door! The door is still open."
She ran back to the house as fast as she could. Panting and breathless,
hot and tired, she clambered through the window into the study.
"Beatrice." Doctor Raymond stood by the open door of the laboratory, his
face very grave. "Why is this door open? I might lose a very valuable
specimen through such carelessness."
"Oh, father!" cried Bee, bursting into tears. "I have lost a valuable
specimen already. I have lost your Teinopalpus Imperialis. I left the
door open to go in to put the sorrel grass in the cage for some larvae,
and it flew out. Father, father, I--"