The Door Is Opened
"Butterfly-haunted, the great purple asters
Throng, gold-hearted, the edge of the road;
Low to the grass the green boughs of the orchard
Heavily droop with their ruddy-hued load."
--_Marian Warner Wildman._
Every precaution was used to prevent the small pox from obtaining a
foothold in Walnut Grove, and so efficacious were the measures adopted
by Doctor Raymond and the physician, Doctor Black, that the household
escaped unscathed. Old Rachel died; and, as hers proved to be the sole
case in the community, it could only be conjectured how she had taken
the disease.
The solicitude manifested by the scientist for his daughter at this
period established very tender relations between them. After the pangs
and heart burnings of the summer it seemed like paradise to Bee. As it
became apparent that the small pox was not to attack his household
Doctor Raymond became once more absorbed in his labors, and remained
such long hours in his study that Beatrice could not but wonder at it.
She was pondering the matter one morning as she went to the study door
with her usual nosegay of flowers. She had not yet received permission
to re-enter the room, and had been puzzled about getting the blossoms to
him, but had solved the question by placing a small stand by the door,
and setting the matutinal offering upon it. Upon this particular morning
as she stood arranging the bouquet more to her liking the door opened,
and her father appeared on the threshold.
"Bring in the flowers yourself, Beatrice," he said.
"May I?" cried Bee flushing rosy red with pleasure. "Am I really to go
in at last, father?"
"Yes, my daughter. Your place is waiting for you."
Gladly, yet almost timidly, Bee entered the study. It seemed a long,
long time since she had been in it, yet in reality it was but a few
weeks. With eyes that misted she glanced lovingly at the familiar
objects: the books, the manuscripts, her father's chair, and lastly at
her own place at the table. Before it lay her pencil and note book.
"It has been waiting for you, Beatrice," said
Doctor Raymond with a smile noting her glance. "I have missed my little
helper."
"Have you, father?" she asked shyly.
"Very much, my child. You kept yourself constantly in my mind by your
flowers. I liked the attention. Your mother used to do that too. You are
like her in many ways."
"Rachel told me that she did," said Bee. "That is the reason I did it.
That and because I liked to. Am I really to help you again, father?"
"Yes; although there is not much more to do. We are nearly at the end of
the cataloguing. The larvae have all entered the pupa state, and--when
the last of them come out, which will be in a few days, we have only to
classify and catalogue them which will end the work. I am boxing the
collection ready for shipping to the University. Let us go see the new
butterflies, Beatrice, before we begin work. I have not been in the
laboratory this morning."
Bee turned at once toward the laboratory, but as she reached the door
she paused hesitatingly, a remembrance of the last time when she had
lost the rare specimen clouding her pleasure.
"You have learned your lesson, Beatrice," spoke her father gently. "I
feel sure that never again will you be guilty of carelessness. Let us
think no more about it." He opened the door as he spoke, and they went
in.
The caterpillars had disappeared. A few chrysalids depended from some
twigs, and a number of butterflies, like flowers reft from their stems,
were flickering and pursuing each other in the sunshine which streamed
through the windows. They settled, and Bee stole softly toward them and
gently shook the thistles upon which they rested. The delicate creatures
rose once more. Round and round they flew like great yellow and bronze
and purple flowers, then softly, quietly settled again.
"How beautiful they are!" exclaimed Bee. "Is there another insect so
pretty, I wonder?"
"Not to me," he replied. "Perhaps it is because of our interest in them
that they appear so to us."
So it came about that Beatrice became her father's helper once more. Her
studies were resumed, and the old delightful intimacy that had prevailed
before the coming of Adele was renewed with a completer understanding of
each other on the part of both father and daughter. The cataloguing
progressed with rapidity. There came a day when Doctor Raymond laid down
his manuscript with something approaching a sigh.
"That ends your work, Beatrice," he said. "The cataloguing is ended. Now
go for a walk while I box up the last case of specimens. No; you can not
help me in that. You have already been of great assistance. I do not
know how I should have gotten along without you."
Well pleased by his words Beatrice left the house, and sauntered down
the road, past the place formerly occupied by the Medullas, and on
toward her favorite grove, sometimes pausing to pluck an early aster, or
spray of golden rod blooming along the dusty roadside. A stillness that
no bird note disturbed, for the birds that had not already departed were
clustered about those places where dripping springs were to be found,
prevailed throughout the cool recesses of the grove. The girl flung
herself down under an oak tree, idly watching the impatient tapping of a
squirrel in the branches above at the still resisting acorns. The
monotony of the soulless sunshine became irksome. The spirit of the
furred and feathered folk of the woods was stealing into her. Like them
she was heartily tired of the summer, and half stifled in the wornout
atmosphere of the sleepy silent August day.
"I am glad that tomorrow is the first day of September," she exclaimed,
sitting up and speaking aloud. "It is so hot. I want a change!"
At this moment a bright bit of color fluttered through the air and
dropped in the grass by her side.
"It's a butterfly," cried Bee. "A poor little butterfly that has come to
the end of its life."
She bent over the dainty insect and lifted it gently. A cry of delight
escaped her lips as she looked at it. The insect moved its wings
slightly, disclosing its gorgeous colorings.
"It's father's Teinopalpus Imperialis! It's the butterfly that I lost!"
she exclaimed joyfully. "It's father's rare specimen!"
She sprang up and ran to the house as fast as she could.
"Father, father," she called excitedly, bursting into the study. "See! I
have found your butterfly!"
"My butterfly, Beatrice?" Doctor Raymond glanced up from a letter he was
reading. His daughter was too intent upon the finding of the insect to
note that his face was very grave. "What do you mean?"
"The one I lost," cried Bee holding the creature toward him. "See the
spots on the wings, and these markings on the secondaries! It is the
very one, isn't it?"
"It certainly looks like it." The naturalist took the insect and
examined it critically. "Where did you find it?"
"I was in the grove," explained Bee. "All at once this butterfly
fluttered down by my side. I saw that it was yours so I brought it home
at once."
"Look!" he said. "The butterfly is not dead, though I question if it
lives long. The life of the longest lived is but short at best. Get
some honey and water, and let us see if we can revive it."
Bee brought the honey and water and watched closely as her father took a
long, slender needle and carefully unwound the proboscis of the insect
inserting it in the honey mixture. At first the little creature scarcely
knew what to make of the proceeding, but soon it began to suck the fluid
eagerly. Then it rose from his hand and flew about the room, returning
almost immediately to the saucer of sweets.
"Will it live?" asked Bee much interested.
"I hardly think so. I have known of a few cases where their lives were
prolonged beyond the natural limit by artificial means, but it does not
happen often. I fear this one is too far gone. If not, you will have a
butterfly pet."
But alas! even as he spoke the butterfly gave a convulsive quiver and
lay still.
"It's gone," said the naturalist, lifting it carefully.
"You can keep it for your collection, can't you, father?"
"Yes; I will keep it, Beatrice. Of course I can not say positively that
it is the very same Teinopalpus Imperialis that I hatched from the egg
myself, but I believe that it is the one. For, how should such a choice
specimen exist here when it is so rarely found in its native haunts?
Could it be possible--"
He paused, thoughtfully gazing at the dead butterfly. He roused himself
presently and turned toward her.
"I am glad that you returned as you did, my daughter. Joel brought the
mail, and there are matters to be discussed between us."
For the first time Beatrice noticed his grave looks.
"Father," she cried in alarm. "What is it? Something has happened. You
are not, you are not--" a sudden dread piercing her heart, "going away?"
There was so much anguish and appeal in her cry that Doctor Raymond held
out his arms to her. "My child," he said, drawing her close to him, "I
must. You remember that I shortened the term of years I promised the
University to spend abroad? It is a matter of honor to fulfill my
agreement with them; for, while they would release me if I wished, it
would put them to a great deal of trouble to get another man. The chief
difficulty lies in the fact that no other could know the ground as I
do. Do I make myself clear about this, Beatrice?"
"Yes;" came from Bee's white lips, briefly.
"I thought that you would understand my position. The reason for my
going being therefore defined, the question remains as to what
disposition is to be made of you? I am not altogether satisfied to let
you remain with your uncle's family for many reasons; chief among them
being that I believe that your interests are subordinated to Adele's.
That, I presume, is highly natural for them, but scarcely gratifying to
me. Therefore, I have thought of placing you in college."
"College?" repeated the girl mechanically, hardly hearing what he was
saying. But one thought was in her mind. He was going away! He was going
to leave her for two long years! It sounded in her ears like a refrain:
two long years!
"College life will appeal to one of your mind. I wish you to become a
fine, lovable woman, Beatrice. The problem of molding you into such a
character is a vital one to me. A healthful body, a thoughtful mind, a
good heart are three things which every girl should have in common with
her brothers. These you have, and it is my desire that they shall be so
trained that they will merge into gracious womanhood. This much have you
taught me, Beatrice: that there is a charm greater than that of beauty.
I would rather have this head with its mottled tresses--" He bent his
head and touched her hair with his lips caressingly,--"than all the
golden locks in the world."
Bee choked. As always when deeply stirred she could not speak. A
numbness clutched at her heart and held her still and cold. A lump in
her throat would not down. Presently her father continued:
"Our summer has been full of unfortunate misunderstandings, and, I fear,
of much unhappiness for you. Could we begin over, that is, provided I
had my present knowledge, I believe that such misunderstandings could be
avoided. I have been blind to many things, child."
"And now," burst from Bee, the fullness of her heart finding vent at
last in passionate, pleading protest, "now just as we have learned to
understand each other you are going away. Father, father! I have had you
such a little while. Only three short months out of my whole life! Oh,
do take me with you! I'll be so good, so good. I'll try so hard to be
all that you wish. Do take me, father. I cannot let you go."
"It is my dearest wish, Beatrice," spoke her father huskily. "But I can
not."
"Is it that I would be in the way? Or don't you trust me? I would be
very careful of your specimens, father. Could I not be of some use to
you?"
"You could help me in many ways, Beatrice. Not only in my work but by
your loving companionship. It was my intention to take you with me until
the past few days. Then matters came up that made it not feasible. I
still hoped, but that letter which came a short time since has confirmed
the necessity for leaving you."
"Dear father, tell me what the matter is? Why can't you take me? Tell me
the reason."
"I had hoped to keep it from you, my child," said Doctor Raymond with
some embarrassment. "I have been obliged to dismiss the idea for lack of
means. I have never been what you might call a money-getter, Beatrice.
Few scientists are. What money I have had has been invested in such
manner as to give us an income sufficient for our needs. Recently those
investments failed, and I have now only the salary that the University
pays me. The letter informs me that there is nothing left. My salary
will pay your expenses at college and leave a residue for my needs very
nicely. Dear child, it would not be sufficient for travel. Do you
understand matters now, Beatrice?"
"Yes, oh, yes;" uttered Bee brokenly. "I'll try to bear it, father,
but--but--"
"That is my brave little daughter," he said in such a tender voice that
Bee's tears gushed forth anew. "When next we are together perhaps I may
be able to make you happier than I have this summer. Go now, my child;
think over the matter. We will talk of it again."
He bent abruptly over some specimens, and Beatrice, sobbing quietly,
left the room.