Bee and Butterfly Part 14

"Yes;" replied Doctor Raymond, beginning the perusal of his letter. He looked up suddenly. "Beatrice, I shall be obliged to leave you for a few days. They wish to see me at the university. Would you rather go to your Aunt Annie's than to stay here?"

"I would rather stay here, father," she answered promptly. "There is so much to do."

"Just as you wish, my child. I'll ask Mrs. Jenkins to come over to be with you nights. Then with the servants here I shall not be uneasy.

Don't do any cataloguing while I am away. A few days rest will do you good. Now I must throw a few things into my grip if I expect to catch the afternoon train. It is fortunate that you went for the mail."

"Let me pack your things for you, father," pleaded Bee. "I know exactly what you will need. Aunt Annie says that I do nicely. I always did it for her, and for Uncle Henry, too, sometimes."

"Very well, Beatrice. I have done those things so long for myself that it will seem strange to have it done for me; but it will be none the less pleasant for all that." And there was a very kindly light in the look which he gave his daughter as she left the room.

Chapter XI

An Infant Prodigy

"By the sweet power of music: therefore, the poet Did feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones and floods: Since naught so stockish, hard, and full of rage, But music for the time doth change his nature."

--_Merchant of Venice. Shakespeare._

Lonely and distrait Bee wandered about the house the next day unable to settle down to anything.

"What if father should go away again for ten years," she thought with sudden dismay. "I don't believe that I could live. I could not stand it without him now. What if he should!"

Troubled by this thought she sat down on the veranda steps, and leaned listlessly against a post. For some time she sat there musing, but presently was aroused from her meditations by the sound of music. Bee raised her head and listened intently.

"I have heard that several times of late," she said, glad of the diversion. "I wonder where it comes from? I am going to find out."

She rose, listened again to catch the strain, then began to walk in the direction from whence it came. Through the garden and orchard, across the fields to the arbor vitae hedge which separated their land from their neighbor's she went, the music becoming more and more distinct.

Beethoven's Romance in G was being played, although Bee did not know what it was, and the musician was executing it with wonderful technique.

Always susceptible to the influence of music the girl stood spellbound.

Presently the performance stopped abruptly, and a sweet voice--sweet despite a certain querulous note in it--said sharply:

"Percival, that last was entirely too fast. What would Heinrich say to you?"

"I don't give a cent what he'd say," retorted a boyish voice petulantly.

"I'm tired of practicing. I want to have some fun. I guess I'm a boy as well as a violinist."

"Don't be silly, Percival. Of course you are. Now practice just one hour more, and we will see about that pony this afternoon."

"You said that yesterday," returned the boy's voice sulkily, "but you didn't do a thing about it."

"I will today, dear, sure. I was too tired yesterday."

"Honor bright?"

"Yes; honor bright."

"All right. If you don't attend to it today I won't touch this old violin again this summer. So there!"

Beatrice was an unwilling listener to the foregoing dialogue. Not wishing that her presence should be unknown, and curious as to the ident.i.ty of the musician, she drew aside some branches of the arbor vitae hedge, and looked through.

The boy of the knickerbockers and long curls stood under a large tree, his chin resting upon a violin which he held in his left hand, while with his right he tapped restlessly upon his shoe with the bow. A rack upon which were some sheets of music stood before him.

"Oh!" exclaimed Bee in surprise as she saw who the musician was.

The lad heard her and ran to the opening eagerly.

"It's the funny girl!" he called joyfully. "Mamma, see! It's the b.u.t.terfly girl. Come on, b.u.t.terfly; come on over."

"May I?" asked Beatrice, turning to his mother. "I would like to hear the little boy play."

"By all means," said the lady graciously. "Percival does better when he has an audience. Are you Doctor Raymond's daughter?"

"Yes;" answered Beatrice, availing herself of the permission to enter the garden. "I am Beatrice Raymond."

"Percival said that he had met you," continued the lady. "He has been watching you for some weeks, and wishing that he could make your acquaintance."

"Why don't you tell her our names?" broke in the boy excitedly. "That's what she has come for. I told her yesterday that she would have to come over to find out, and she can't know us unless we tell her what to call us. I am Percival Medulla, and this is Mrs. Medulla. 'Course that isn't our real name, but when you're before the public you have to be called something high sounding."

"Percival!" cried his mother, provoked.

"Isn't it true?" demanded Percival in matter of fact tones.

"The truth when it refers to private matters is not always to be spoken," reproved Mrs. Medulla. "Miss Beatrice, (she p.r.o.nounced Bee's name after the Italian manner), he is to play one hour longer. I know that I can depend upon you to keep him at his task. You show that you are trustworthy. Percival, be very nice to your friend," and she swept into the house.

So, much to the girl's wonder, she was left as mentor to the boy musician. He looked at her quizzically as he saw her dismay, and began to laugh.

"I am glad that she is gone," he remarked. "I want to have you all to myself."

"Hush, hush!" implored Beatrice, shocked. "You must not speak of your mother that way."

"Mustn't one? Not even when she bores one?"

"No; no, indeed!" replied the girl earnestly. "Now do practice. There's a good little boy!"

"How old are you?" he asked abruptly.

"Fifteen. Why?"

"Well, don't you call me little boy any more. I am thirteen."

"You don't look it," remarked Bee with a critical glance at him. "I thought you were not more than ten. Your--"

"Yes; my clothes," interrupted he, frowning darkly. "I just hate them!"