The Beth Book
and I gave you some out on Saturday."
"Yes, sir, but only a quarter of a pound, sir, and I had to use it for
the top of the rice-pudding, and the pancakes, and the Charlotte
Russe, and the plum-pudding----"
"How?" said Uncle James--"the plum-pudding, which is not yet fried?"
"Beg pardon, sir. I'm all confused. But, however," she added
desperately, "the sugar is done."
"Well, I suppose I must give you some more this time. But do not let
it occur again. You may weigh out a quarter of a pound."
When that was done, Uncle James consulted a huge cookery-book which
lay on a shelf in the window. "We shall require another cake for tea,"
he said, and then proceeded to read the recipe aloud, keeping an
observant eye upon the cook as she weighed out the various
ingredients.
"And the kitchen meals, sir?" she asked, as he locked up the
store-room.
"Make what you have do," he said, "make what you have do."
"But there is hardly meat enough to go round once, sir."
"You must make it do. People are much healthier and happier when they
do not eat too much."
This ceremony over, he went to the poultry-yard, followed by Beth (who
carefully kept in the background), the yard-boy, and the poultry-maid
who carried some corn in a sieve, which she handed to her master when
he stopped. Uncle James scattered a little corn on the ground, calling
"chuck! chuck! chuck!" at the same time, in a dignified manner.
Chickens, ducks, turkeys and guinea-fowl collected about him, and he
stood gazing at them with large light prominent eyes, blandly, as if
he loved them--as indeed he did when they appeared like ladies at
table, dressed to perfection.
"That guinea-fowl!" he decided, after due consideration.
The yard-boy caught it and gave it to the poultry-maid, who held it
while Uncle James carefully felt its breast.
"That will do," he said. "Quite a beauty."
The yard-boy took it from the poultry-maid, tied its legs together,
cut its throat, and hung it on a nail.
"That drake!" Uncle James proceeded. The same ceremony followed, Uncle
James bearing his part in it without any relaxation of his grand
manner.
When a turkey-poult had also been executed, he requested the yard-boy
to fetch him his gun from the harness-room.
"We must have a pigeon-pie," he observed as he took it.
Beth, in great excitement, stalked him to the orchard, where there was
a big pigeon-house covered with ivy. In front of it the pigeons had a
good run, enclosed with wire netting when they were shut in; but they
were often let out to feed in the fields. The yard-boy now reached up
and opened a little door in the side of the house. As he did so he
glanced at Uncle James somewhat apprehensively. Uncle James, with a
benign countenance, suddenly lifted his gun and fired. The yard-boy
dropped.
"What is the matter?" said Uncle James.
The yard-boy gathered himself up with a very red face. "I thought you
meant to shoot me, sir."
Uncle James smiled gently. "May I ask when it became customary for
gentlemen to shoot yard-boys?" he said.
"Beg pardon, sir," the boy rejoined sheepishly. "There's accidents
sometimes."
The pigeons were wary after the shot, and would not come out, so the
yard-boy had to go into the house and drive them. There was a shelf in
front of the little door, on which they generally rested a moment,
bewildered, before they flew. Uncle James knew them all by sight, and
let several go, as being too old for his purpose. Then, standing
pretty close, he shot two, one after the other, as they stood
hesitating to take flight. While loading again, he discovered Beth;
but as he liked an audience when he was performing an exploit, he was
quite gracious.
"Nothing distinguishes a gentleman more certainly than a love of
sport," he observed blandly, as he shot another pigeon sitting.
This entertainment over, he looked at his watch. He had the whole day
divided into hours and half-hours, each with its separate occupation
or recreation; and nothing short of a visit from some personage of
importance was ever allowed to interrupt him in any of his pursuits.
For recreation he sometimes did a little knitting or a piece of Berlin
woolwork, because, he said, a gentleman should learn to do everything,
so as not to be at a loss if he were ever wrecked on a desert island.
For the same reason, he had also trained himself to sleep at odd
times, and in all sorts of odd places, choosing by preference some
corner where Aunt Grace Mary and the maids would least expect to find
him, the consequence being wild shrieks and shocks to their nerves,
such as, to use his own bland explanation, might be expected from
undisciplined females. Beth found him one day spread out on a large
oak chest in the main corridor upstairs, with two great china vases,
one at his head and one at his feet, filled with reeds and bulrushes,
which appeared to be waving over him, and looking in his sleep, with
his cadaverous countenance, like a self-satisfied corpse. She had been
on her way downstairs to dispose of the core of an apple she had
eaten; but, as Uncle James's mouth was open, she left it there.
Uncle James was wont to deliver little lectures to the children, for
the improvement of their minds, during luncheon, which was their
dinner-hour.
"With regularity and practice you may accomplish great things," he
said on one occasion. "I myself always practise 'Hamilton's Exercises'
on the pianoforte for one hour every day, from half-past ten till
eleven, and from half-past three till four. I have done so now for
many years."
Beth sat with her spoon suspended half-way up to her mouth, drinking
in these words of wisdom. "And when will you be able to play?" she
asked.
Uncle James fixed his large, light, ineffectual eyes upon her; but, as
usual, this gaze direct only excited Beth's interest, and she returned
it unabashed in simple expectation of what was to follow. So Uncle
James gave in, and to cover his retreat he said: "Culture. Cultivate
the mind. There is nothing that elevates the mind like general
cultivation. It is cultivation that makes us great, good, and
generous."
"Then, I suppose, when your mind is cultivated, Uncle James, you will
give mamma more money," Beth burst out hopefully.
Uncle James blinked his eyes several times running, rapidly, as if
something had gone wrong with them.
"Beth, you are talking too much; go to your room _at once_, and stay
there for a punishment," her mother exclaimed nervously.
Beth, innocent of any intent to offend, looked surprised, put down her
spoon deliberately, got off her chair, took up her plate of pudding,
and was making off with it. As she was passing Uncle James, however,
he stretched out his big hand suddenly, and snatched the plate from
her; but Beth in an instant doubled her little fist, and struck the
plate from underneath, the concussion scattering the pudding all over
the front of Uncle James.
In the confusion which followed, Beth made her escape to the kitchen,
where she was already popular.
"I say, cook," she coaxed, "give me something good to eat. My
pudding's got upset all over Uncle James."
The cook sat down suddenly, and twinkled a glance of intelligence at
Horner, the old coachman, who happened to be in the kitchen.
"Give me a cheesecake--I won't tell," Beth pleaded.
"That's doubtful, I should think," Horner said aside to the cook.
"Oh, bless you, she never do, not she!" cook answered, and then she
fetched Beth a big cheesecake from a secret store. Beth took it
smiling, and retired to the brown bedroom, where she was left in
solitary confinement until Uncle James drove out with mamma in Aunt
Grace Mary's pony-carriage to pay a call in the afternoon. When they
had gone, Aunt Grace Mary peeped in at Beth, and said, with an
unconvincing affectation of anger: "Beth, you are a naughty little
girl, and deserve to be punished. Say you're sorry. Then you shall
come to my room, and see me write a letter."
"All right," Beth answered, and Aunt Grace Mary took her off without
more ado.
It was a great encouragement to Beth to find that Aunt Grace Mary was
obliged to take pains with her writing. All the other grown-up people
Beth knew, seemed to do everything with such ease, it was quite
disheartening. Beth was allowed a pencil, a sheet of paper, and some
lines herself now, and Aunt Grace Mary was taking great pains to teach
her to write an Italian hand. Beth was also trying to learn: "because
there are such lots of things I want to write down," she explained;
"and I want to do it small like you, because it won't take so much
paper, you know."
"What kind of things do you want to write down, Beth?" Aunt Grace Mary
asked. Beth treated her quite as an equal, so they chatted the whole
time they were together, unconstrainedly.
"Oh, you know--things like--well, the day we came here there were
great grey clouds with crimson caps hanging over the sea, and you
could see them in the water."
"See their reflection, you mean, I suppose."
Beth looked puzzled. "When you think of things, isn't that
reflection?" she asked.
"Yes; and when you see yourself in the looking-glass, that's your
reflection too," Aunt Grace Mary answered.
"Oh, then I suppose it was the sea's thought of the sky I saw in the
water--that makes it nicer than I had it before," Beth said, trying to
turn the phrase as a young bird practises to round its notes in the
spring. "The sea shows its thoughts, the thought of the sea is the
sky--no, that isn't right. It never does come right all at once, you
know. But that's the kind of thing."
"What kind of thing?" Aunt Grace Mary asked, bewildered.
"The kind of thing I am always wanting to write down. You generally
forget what we're talking about, don't you?--I say, don't you want to
drive your own ponies yourself sometimes?"
"No, not when your dear uncle wants them."
"Dear uncle wants them almost always, doesn't he? Horner ses as
'ow----"
"Beth, don't speak like that!"
"That's Horner, not me," Beth snapped, impatient of the interruption.
"How am I to tell you what he said if I don't say what he said? Horner
ses as 'ow, when Lady Benyon gev them there white ponies to 'er darter
fur 'er own use, squire 'e sells two on 'is 'orses, an' 'as used them
ponies ever since. Squire's a near un, my word!" Beth perceived that
Aunt Grace Mary looked very funny in the face. "You're frightened to
death of Uncle James, arn't you?" she asked, after sucking her pencil
meditatively for a little.
"No, dear, of course not. I am not afraid of any one but the dear
Lord."
"But Uncle James _is_ the lord."
"Nonsense, child."
"Mildred says so. She says he's lord of the manor. Mildred says it's
fine to be lord of the manor. But it doesn't make me care a button
about Uncle James."
"Don't speak like that, Beth. It's disrespectful. It was the Lord in
heaven I alluded to," said Aunt Grace Mary in her breathless way.
"Ah, that _is_ different," Beth allowed. "But I'm not afraid of Him
either. I don't think I'm afraid of any one really, not even of mamma,
though she does beat me. I'd rather she didn't, you know. But one gets
used to it. The worst of it is," Beth added, after sucking the point
of her pencil a little--"The worst of it is, you never know what will
make her waxy. To-day, at luncheon, you know--now, what did I say?"
"Oh," said Aunt Grace Mary vaguely; "you oughtn't to have said it, you
know."
"Now, that's just like mamma! She says 'Don't!' and 'How dare you!'
and 'Naughty girl!' at the top of her voice, and half the time I don't
know what she's talking about. When I grow up, I shall explain to
children. Do you know, sometimes I quite want to be good"--this with a
sigh. "But when I'm bad without having a notion what I've done, why,