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, it's difficult. Aunt Grace Mary, do you know what Neptune would say if the sea dried up?" Aunt Grace Mary smiled and shook her head. "I haven't an ocean," Beth proceeded. "You don't see it? Well, I didn't at first. You see an ocean and a notion sound the same if you say them sharp. Now, do you see? They call that a pun."
"Who told you that?"
"A gentleman in the train."
Beth put her pencil in her mouth, and gazed up at the sky. "I don't suppose he'd be such a black-hearted villain as to break his word," she said at last.
"Who?" Aunt Grace Mary asked, in a startled tone.
"Uncle James – about leaving Jim the place, you know. Why, don't you know? Mamma is the eldest, and ought to have had Fairholm, but she was away in Ireland, busy having me, when grandpapa died, and couldn't come; so Uncle James frightened the old man into leaving the place to him, and mamma only got fifty pounds a year, which wasn't fair."
"Who told you this, Beth?"
"Mildred. Mamma told her. And Horner said the other day to cook – I'll have to say it the way Horner says it. If I said it my way, you know, then it wouldn't be Horner – Horner said to cook as 'ow Captain Caldwell 'ud 'a' gone to law about it, but squire 'e swore if 'e'd let the matter drop, 'e'd make 'is nevee, Master Jim, as is also 'is godson, 'is heir, an' so square it; and Captain Caldwell, as was a real gen'lmon, an' fond of the ladies, tuk 'im at 'is word, an' furgiv' 'im. But, lardie! don't us know the worth o' Mr. James Patten's word!"
Aunt Grace Mary had turned very pale.
"Beth," she gasped, "promise me you will never, never, never say a word about this to your uncle."
"Not likely," said Beth.
"How do you remember these things you hear?"
"Oh, I just think them over again when I go to bed, and then they stay," Beth answered. "I wouldn't tell you half I hear, though – only things everybody knows. If you tell secrets, you know, you're a tell-pie. And I'm not a tell-pie. Now, Bernadine is. She's a regular tell-pie. It seems as if she couldn't help it; but then she's young," Beth added tolerantly.
"Were you ever young, I wonder?" Aunt Grace Mary muttered to herself.
CHAPTER XIII
Meanwhile the English spring advanced in the beautiful gardens of Fairholm, and was a joy to Beth. Blossoms showered from the fruit-trees, green leaves unfurled, the birds were