Part 17 (1/2)

”Who puts your things away at home?”

”Mamma,” Beth answered laconically. ”She says it's less trouble to do things herself.”

”Oh, but you must save your mother the trouble, dear,” said Aunt Grace Mary in a shocked tone.

”Well, I will next time--if I remember,” Beth rejoined. ”Come and burn lavender.”

For the next few days, which happened to be very fine, Beth revelled out of doors. Everything was a wonder and a joy to her in this fertile land, the trees especially, after the bleak, wild wastes to which she had been accustomed in the one stormy corner of Ireland she knew.

Leaves and blossoms were just bursting out, and one day, wandering alone in the grounds, she happened unawares upon an orchard in full bloom, and fairly gasped, utterly overcome by the first shock of its beauty. For a while she stood and gazed in silent awe at the white froth of flowers on the pear-trees, the tinted almond blossom, and the pink-tipped apple. She had never dreamed of such heavenly loveliness.

But enthusiasm succeeded to awe at last, and, in a wild burst of delight, she suddenly threw her arms around a gnarled tree-trunk and clasped it close.

There was a large piece of artificial water in the grounds, in which were three green islands covered with trees and shrubs. Beth was standing on the bank one morning in a contemplative mood, admiring the water, and yearning for a boat to get to the islands, when round one of them, unexpectedly, a white wonder of a swan came gliding towards her in the suns.h.i.+ne.

”Oh, oh! Mildred! Mildred! Oh, the beautiful, beautiful thing!” she cried. Mildred came running up.

”Why, Beth, you idiot,” she exclaimed in derision, ”it's only a swan.

I really thought it _was_ something.”

”Is that a swan?” Beth said slowly; then, after a moment, she added, in sorrowful reproach: ”O Mildred! you had seen it and you never told me.”

Alas, poor Mildred! she had not seen it, and never would see it, in Beth's sense of the word.

On wet days, when they had to be indoors, Aunt Grace Mary waylaid Beth continually, and trotted her off somewhere out of Uncle James's way.

She would take her to her own room sometimes, a large, bright apartment, spick-and-span like the rest of the house; and show her the pictures--pastels and water-colours chiefly--with which it was stiffly decorated.

”That was your uncle when he was a little boy,” she said, pointing to a pretty pastel.

”Why, he was quite a nice little boy,” Beth exclaimed.

”Yes, nice and plump,” Aunt Grace Mary rattled off breathlessly. ”And your grandmamma did those water-colours and those screens. That lovely printing too; can you guess how she did it? With a camel's hair brush.

She did indeed. And she used to compose music. She was a very clever woman. You are very like her.”

”But I am not very clever,” said Beth.

”No, dear; no, dear,” Aunt Grace Mary rejoined, pulling herself up hurriedly from this indiscretion. ”But in the face. You are very like her in appearance. And you must try. You must try to improve yourself.

Your uncle is always trying to improve himself. He reads 'Doctor Syntax' aloud to us. In the evening it is our custom to read aloud and converse.”

An occasional phrase of Uncle James's would flow from Aunt Grace Mary in this way, with incongruous effect.

”Do you try to improve yourself?” Beth asked.

”Yes, dear.”

”How?”

”Oh, well--that reminds me. I must write a letter. You shall stay and see me if you like. But you mustn't move or speak.”