I was puzzled for a moment, but at last I stammered out, “Where? Where?”
“At the pond, at the pond,” exclaimed Bess, trembling with delight.
I could not get anything more out of Bess, but Burbidge, hearing her mention the pond, hobbled up.
“Bless her little heart!” he said, “the little lady means the swans.”
And in answer to my inquiry, “What swans?” he answered—
“Didn’t yer hear, mam, about the great birds? No?” Then he went on to tell me how, in the early morning, when he and the under-gardeners “war fettling up on the east side between six and seven, us suddenly heard a kind of unearthly crying, like some one moaning and sobbing, and whispering right up aloft. And then,” continued my old friend, “I seed such a sight as I’ve never seen afore. Fowls as big as chest o’ drawers flyin’ round and round. They came on flying in great circles, as if they couldn’t stop, till down they flumped like a couple of cannon balls, and struck slap into the great Abbey pool.
“I did,” pursued Burbidge, “tell Miss Célestine later to let yer know, seeing as you be interested in all fur and fluff, birds and insects, and most varmint, but her have no sense, save for frills and furbelows.”
On hearing of the arrival of the swans, I seized hold of Bess’s hand, and off we went together to welcome our new visitors.
They were beautiful white birds of spotless plumage, probably driven from the lake of Willey, or from further off, by the cruelty of their parents. For old swans become terribly fierce as the nesting season comes on, and will not even allow the offspring of a past spring to remain on their own waters.
“How lovely they are,” said Bess, enthusiastically. “It is a real fairy-story, mamsie, this time.”