The Closed Door
"When cometh the close of a cherished thing,
How keenly our heart to its charm doth cling,
For it seems as sunshine vanishing."
--_Pall Mall Gazette._
Doctor Raymond looked at her sternly. "My Teinopalpus Imperialis?" he
questioned.
"Yes;" answered Bee brokenly. "After you had gone I remembered that you
had spoken of sorrel grass for the larvae of the Chrysophanus Americanus,
and I thought you had forgotten it, so I ran down to put it in the cage.
I did not expect to be in the laboratory but just a minute so I left the
study door open. After I fixed the sorrel I saw the new butterfly. While
I was looking at it, it rose and flew about the room; and then, and
then--" She paused to collect herself, then continued bravely: "Then I
remembered the door, but before I could reach it the butterfly had flown
into the study, and out through the window. I ran after it to catch it,
but I could not."
"And to the best of my knowledge it is the only known specimen in
existence. Beatrice, do you realize just what your carelessness means?"
"Yes;" sobbed Bee. "I know, father."
"And you are the girl who, but a few days since, assured me that she
would fail me in nothing?"
"Yes;" said Bee again, unable to meet his eyes.
"I should have known better than to have trusted you." Doctor Raymond's
bitter disappointment was evident in his voice and manner. "It is
doubtful if that butterfly can ever be replaced. The larva was obtained
at the risk of my life, and by a few moments of carelessness all has
gone for naught. I thought you different from other girls. I believed
that you appreciated the privilege of being among my specimens too
greatly to be careless. I see my mistake. After this, I do not wish you
to enter either this study, or the laboratory. My specimens are too
valuable to risk another such loss. Do you understand, Beatrice? Under
no circumstances are you to enter these rooms again."
"Not even to help you catalogue, father?" Bee had ceased crying now, and
she stood staring at him with eyes full of anguish.
"Not even for that purpose, Beatrice. Your own untrustworthiness has
deprived you of the privilege."
"And aren't you ever going to forgive me?" she asked miserably.
"It depends upon your future conduct," returned her father coldly. "I
desire to say no more upon the subject at present. Go now, while I
repair whatever else of mischief may be done."
He went into the laboratory as he finished speaking, closing the door
behind him. Bee sank into a chair, and sat gazing after him with all her
heart in her eyes. It was ended. The delightful mornings of study, the
cataloguing, the mounting and framing of the beautiful insects. By her
own act she had forfeited the right to be his companion and helper. She
did not question the justice of the punishment. She knew that it was
right. Her father's collection was in truth too valuable to be exposed
to carelessness. That it was regarded as almost priceless by the
University, Beatrice knew, and, as the full realization came to her that
she had lost its rarest specimen, the girl was almost overwhelmed with
grief.
It was several moments before she could obtain control of herself. Then
she rose, and went slowly toward the door. Pausing with her hand on the
knob she turned for a last glance at the loved objects in the room. Long
she looked at her father's chair, at the heap of manuscript on the
table, at her own place with the note book and pencil in front of it, at
the door of the laboratory behind which were all the wonderful
specimens. She would be with them no more. Bee's heart was very full as
she opened the door and went out, shutting it softly behind her.
Her hair was still loose and flying, but the girl felt that she could
not stay in the house. She must get somewhere where she could be alone.
Beyond the Medulla residence was a deep wood, and out into the road went
Beatrice, intending to reach its cool recesses. The warm sunshine had
brought out clouds of butterflies. Small white ones sported like fragile
flower petals in the bright rays. Silvery winged fritillaries sailed
hither and thither among the red clover blossoms. A Monarch rose from a
stalk of milkweed, and winged its stately flight just ahead of her. On a
mud puddle by the roadside a number of azures had collected, but
Beatrice, usually keenly alive to the presence of the beloved insects,
passed them unheedingly. As she reached the group of sycamore trees that
stood in front of the Medulla residence she paused abruptly as she
caught sight of Percival and a boy under the trees. The boy, whom she
recognized as the bully of the town, was dancing about the Infant
Prodigy, amusing himself after the fashion of boys by teasing him.
"Is it alive?" he cried, giving Percival a poke in the ribs. "Say, kin
ye speak?"
"I'll show you whether I can or not," pluckily retorted Percival who was
crying mad. He made a lunge at the boy as he spoke.
"Shoo!" said the boy, brushing off an imaginary fly. "Flies are purty
bothersome this year."
"Take that! And that! And that!" cried Percival, letting his small fists
fly at his tormentor.
"Stop tickling, I tell you," cried the bully, seizing his hands and
holding them tightly. "Say, sissy, give me one of your curls to remember
ye by; won't you?"
In a flash Beatrice comprehended the situation. As Percival began to
struggle helplessly in his tormentor's grip, she flew at the bully
impetuously.
"Why, it's a gurl!" exclaimed the boy as, dropping Percival's hands, he
turned to confront this new adversary.
"Yes," gasped Bee, punctuating her words by vigorous boxes on his ears.
"It is a girl. How do you like it?"
With all the strength of her pent-up emotion she sailed into her unhappy
victim. Had Bee been given to self analysis she would have known that,
aside from her desire to help Percival out of his dilemma, she rejoiced
in the opportunity to give vent to her own unhappiness. There followed a
few brief moments of spirited action on her part, interspersed with
howls of pain from the boy. Presently he broke away from her and fled
precipitantly. Flushed by the success of battle Bee turned toward
Percival triumphantly.
"There! I don't think he'll trouble you soon again, Percival," she said.
"You are a chum worth having, Beefly," cried the lad enthusiastically.
"It was splendid. My! My! didn't you go for him!" He doubled up in a
paroxysm of laughter at the remembrance. "But see here!" he ejaculated
suddenly, becoming grave. "This baby business is dead right now. I have
been guyed about it as long as I am going to be, and this ends it. I am
a sure enough boy, and I am going to show it."
"What are you going to do?" demanded Bee, surprised by his earnestness.
"I am going to attend to this hair. The thing's got to be done today.
Come down to the house and help me; won't you?"
"Wouldn't it be better for your mother to help you, Percival?"
questioned the girl dubiously.
"Come on, and we'll see," he replied. Welcoming the diversion Beatrice
followed him.
"Now just go in and wait for me," he said, opening the door of the
sitting room. "I won't be gone a minute."
Wondering where Mrs. Medulla was Bee sat down. She knew the iron of
ridicule had sunk deep into Percival's soul, and she feared for the
result. If his mother would but enter soon, the girl reflected, she need
not feel any responsibility in the matter. As the moments glided by,
however, and no Mrs. Medulla appeared, she was assailed by a sense of
uneasiness.
"What do you think of these?" exclaimed Percival, bounding into the room
presently. "Look, Beefly! Aren't they great?"
Somewhere the boy had unearthed a pair of long trousers, a coat, and a
real shirt with collar and tie. He whirled about for her inspection
delightedly.
"Not much Fauntleroy about these, eh?" he said complacently. "What do
you think of them?"
Bee was so relieved that she laughed outright.
"You don't look like the same boy, Percival. Do you think you could play
your violin in those clothes?"
"Why of course I can," he declared. "I'll show you; but first--"
He ran to his mother's machine, and opening a drawer took out a pair of
large shears. Bee ran toward him quickly.
"You must not do that, Percival," she cried. "Oh, where is your mother?"
"My mother has gone into town," answered Percival with a swagger. "I'll
settle with her. Now, Beefly, you cut off that hair."
"I will not, Percival," answered Bee emphatically. "Do wait until your
mother comes back. Do, Percival; like a dear fellow."
But Master Percival raised the shears, and--snip! Off went a curl.
Another and another followed; the lad watching the result of the
snipping in the mirror. As the last clip sounded Bee gave a gasp at the
result.
"What will your mother say?" she cried, wishing herself anywhere but in
the Medulla sitting room. "Oh! what will she say?"
"It's all right," declared Percival sturdily, though it must be
confessed that he was slightly dismayed himself. "At least it would be
if it were even. Do cut it straight for me, Beefly."
He thrust the shears into her hand as he spoke, and turned his back to
her. "Now hurry, and cut it even," he said.
"Percival, are you here?" Mrs. Medulla opened the door at this
unfortunate moment, and walked in. "I have brought you something nice
from town. Guess--Why!"
She stopped short at sight of the pair. Like a culprit Beatrice stood
with the shears in her hand, while Percival seemed stricken dumb. The
lady's gaze concentrated upon her son's clipped head. For a long instant
the three stood as though incapable of speech; then the mother spoke,
and Bee shivered at the severity of her tones:
"Beatrice, what are you doing with those shears? Surely you did not cut
Percival's hair?"