CHAPTER II

HOW THE DAY ENDED

Bella stood for a moment looking out at the cold grey sky and the neglected garden, but her thoughts were with the children, and her ears following the sounds of their retreating footsteps. Her mind was greatly relieved by the thought that they would soon be having some food.

For herself and her own hunger she did not care, and she would not let herself think of the two pennies she had given up, and the gloves that she had been so looking forward to possessing, but would now have to do without.

A thrill of dread passed through her at the thought of her aunt. Would she be very angry, she wondered, if she found out what she had done? Most probably she would, thought Bella, though there was no harm in it. It never occurred to her that nothing could have been much more annoying to Miss Hender than for a neighbour to be asked to feed the children she was supposed to be there to look after. It was making public her neglect and bad temper.

It would have been far better to have done the straightforward thing, without any deception; to have gone to her bravely and asked to be allowed to give the children some food, and have borne patiently her annoyance and angry words. Now Bella's great anxieties were that her aunt should not find out that the children had gone, and that they should be back before she should miss them. The thought of this sent her quickly into the house.

"Are there any more things for me to hang out, Aunt Emma?" she asked, cheerfully. "There seems to be a little breeze springing up."

Miss Hender, without replying, handed her a dish piled high with wet clothes. "Hang them so that they'll catch the wind, if there is any." And Bella went out, anxiously wondering how one did that, but not daring to ask her aunt.

In her perplexity she stood for a few moments looking at the garments already on the lines, to see if some were blowing out more than others, but, apparently, the little breeze had not power enough to stir them, and Bella had to hang up her last load and trust to chance for its being according to her aunt's pleasure. She had very little hope, though, of such good fortune.

When she got back to the kitchen again Miss Hender had emptied the tub she had been washing at, and was preparing to dry her wrinkled, water-soaked fingers.

"I've finished the white clothes, so now I'll see about giving you children something to eat, before I take the coloured things out of the copper," she said, speaking less snappishly than before. She was, in fact, somewhat ashamed of her recent display of temper over the missing poker, and was anxious to make a better and more dignified impression on Bella's mind.

All Bella felt was a great sinking of her heart. What could she do? What would be best? Would it be better to confess at once and tell exactly what had happened, or should she let her aunt go on and get the meal, and trust to the children's being back before it was prepared, and to the incident of the buns and bread-and-butter meal never being found out by her? After all, she had told them they would get no food until the washing was all done, and no one could have guessed that she would have changed her mind within so short a time; and there was no real harm in Bella's putting them in the way of getting something to eat when they were so very hungry.

So poor Bella argued and argued with herself, her courage sinking lower with every preparation her aunt made. If only Miss Hender had been a little kinder to Bella, if only she had taught her to trust, and not to fear, her, Bella would have explained then and there, and all would have blown over.

While Bella was thinking it all out and trying to make up her mind what she should do, she was standing idle—and that, to begin with, was not the way to please and pacify her aunt, tired as she was with long hours of hard work, exhausted from want of food, with her back aching, and her feet throbbing with long standing on the stone floor. If only Bella had made her a cup of tea and got the simple meal ready while she sat and rested a little, what a relief it would have been, and what good it would have done her, but her own temper prevented that. For one thing, Bella would not have dared to touch anything without being told she might, and, for another, she was so frightened now at the thought of what she had done and of her aunt's probable anger, that she stood absorbed and perplexed, and did not even do the things she might have done.

Naturally the weary woman grew irritated by such thoughtlessness. "I don't know how long you expect me to wait on you!" she said tartly, "while you stand by, too lazy even to do the little you know how to. Go and draw a jug of water this minute, and tell the children to wash their hands. I s'pose you're capable of doing that much."

Bella, still without explaining, took the jug and went out to the pump. By the time she came back her aunt had cut off several slices of cold bacon and put some on four plates, one for each of them. Bella felt perfectly ill with fear when she saw these preparations.

"Aunt Emma!" she began, but so tremulously that her aunt did not hear her.

"Where are the children? Didn't you tell them?" demanded Miss Hender tartly.

"They aren't there," stammered Bella nervously, "they haven't come back——"

"Back from where?"—Bella's manner struck Miss Hender more than her words—it made what was apparently a trifling matter seem important.

"I—they—they were so hungry, and—I didn't know there was going to be any dinner, and—and I gave them money to go and get some buns."

"And you trusted those two boys to take Margery right down to the village——"

"No," broke in Bella, anxious to explain; "they took her only as far as Aunt Maggie's, and when they'd got their buns they were to come back there for her, and——"

"Couldn't she have waited here for her bun? Whatever made you send her to Mrs. Langley's?"

Bella grew more embarrassed than ever. "She—was so hungry," she began; "she kept on crying for bread and butter, and I sent her to—to ask——" but her words failed her altogether at the sight of the expression on her aunt's face.

"You didn't send and ask Mrs. Langley to give Margery something to eat, did you?" she demanded slowly, dwelling on each word with an emphasis that nearly drove Bella crazy.

"I—I only—yes, I did!" the last words bursting from her as though she could explain or justify herself no more.

Miss Hender's eyes blazed. "You as good as told that woman that I kept you hungry, that you hadn't food to eat, and were afraid to ask for it. You as good as told her that I ill-treated and starved you!" her words caught in her throat. Step by step she had been drawing nearer to the frightened child, her mouth set, her eyes glowing with rage. Bella, for the first time in her life, almost screamed with terror.

"I—I didn't mean that!" she gasped.

"You couldn't come and ask me! You couldn't be straightforward and honest, oh no, you must go mischief-making to that woman down the lane, when you know I hate her! Why," with a sudden clutch, at Bella's thin arm, "couldn't you have come and asked me? Answer me that! Do you hear? Answer me, I tell you!"

"I was afraid," stammered Bella.

"Afraid? I'll make you afraid of me yet, you young hussy! I'll give you something to make you afraid of me. I s'pose you told her, too, that I treated you so bad you were afraid of me. Did you tell her that, too? Answer me!" giving Bella another shake.

Bella's fear gave way to anger. "There was no need to," she said cruelly. "Everybody knows it."

The next minute she was staggering across the kitchen from a violent blow on the side of her head, and then, before she could recover herself or realise what had happened, her aunt was beside her again, raining down blow after blow upon her thin shoulders.

"Take that, and that, and that!" gasped the infuriated woman; "and now go out and tell every one. And there's another to teach you to speak properly to me, or you or I leave this house!"

How long the blows would have continued to pour down on Bella no one knows, had not scream upon scream suddenly rent the air, startling every one near.

They did not come from Bella herself, for, after the first startled cry, she made no sound. They came from the three children who had reached home just in time to be witnesses of the terrible scene, and were frightened almost out of their senses.

Miss Hender dropped her uplifted hand and sank exhausted and speechless into a chair. Bella, white and almost fainting, lay on the floor motionless. At sight of her Charlie began to scream again. "You've killed our Bella! You've killed our Bella!" he cried, while Margery ran over to the still heap on the floor. "Bella, look up, look up! Bella, it's me, it's Margery; speak to Margery!" Tears poured down her little white cheeks, and one, falling on Bella's, roused her. Putting out one stiff, aching arm, she feebly drew her little sister to her and kissed her.

Margery was delighted, for she had really thought Bella was dead, and she hugged her in an ecstasy of relief. "Can't you get up?" she asked. "Oh, do get up, Bella."

Bella made an effort but she was too exhausted, and falling back again, she, for the first time, lost consciousness.

And so, when Tom presently arrived with his father, whom he had rushed at once to fetch, they found her, with Margery beside her weeping and beseeching her to speak; Charlie standing at the door, too scared to go nearer; and Miss Hender seated, white and frightened and ashamed, gazing at her temper's handiwork, too ashamed to go near to render the child any aid after reducing her to that, for in her heart of hearts she felt that after the scene of that afternoon Bella would shrink from even a kindness at her hands.

Without a word the father strode across and picked his little daughter up. "Get some water," he said, in a low, hoarse voice to Tom, and, still holding her in his arms, he bathed the brow and the limp, lifeless hands, and the pale cheeks, where the scarlet patch across one told its own tale.

Emma Hender rose stiffly from her chair and handed him a soft cloth, but he would not take it from her. "Keep away!" he said harshly; "don't you dare to touch her again. You've done enough harm for one day, you and that temper of yours!" Emma Hender shrank back without a word, then, after a moment's struggle for self-control, dropped into a chair and burying her face in her apron burst into violent weeping. She was so tired, so faint, and so ashamed of herself, and no one cared, she thought bitterly; no one cared for her, or believed her, or pitied her.

She worked for them all, and looked after their home from morning till night, but it was all nothing, she told herself bitterly, and felt herself a very ill-used person. But what she did not tell herself, or perhaps did not realise, was that it is not so much what we do for people but the spirit in which it is done, that makes it a real kindness and wins their affection.

There was one tender little heart there, though, that bore her no ill-will, that, indeed, forgot everything but that she was in trouble and needed comforting.

"Auntie Emma, don't cry! Bella'll be better soon. Don't cry, Auntie Emma, or Margery'll cry too!" and two soft little hands tried to pull the work-worn ones away, and a gentle baby voice tried to bring comfort and cheer to the unhappy woman.

Aunt Emma, in a burst of real feeling, let the little hands uncover and gently pat her face, then, clasping the baby form to her, kissed her passionately again and again.

"You do care for your auntie, don't you, dear?" she sobbed, but softly and sorrowfully now. "You always will care for your poor auntie, won't you, dear?"

"Oh yes," promised Margery readily, anxious only to comfort and cheer, "when auntie isn't cross," she added innocently.

Miss Hender's loving clasp loosened a little. "Everybody is cross sometimes," she muttered excusingly. But many and many a time after that the memory of Margery's words came back to her, and stayed the first angry word or ill-natured act, and so averted a storm and hours of reproach.

"Bella is better! Look, her eyes are open!" and Margery clambered joyfully down from her aunt's lap and ran over to her sister's side.

For a moment Bella looked about her in a dazed fashion, then, memory returning, she raised herself and tried to stand.

"I am all right, thank you," she said, but she was glad enough to drop on to the old sofa and rest. Miss Hender rose too.

"I—think she'll be better for a cup of tea," she said; "we all shall." It cost her an effort to speak, for she felt awkward and embarrassed, and her words were very faint and stumbling, but she went to the fire and stirred it up to make the kettle boil. Then, by degrees, recovering herself, she quietly cut some bread and butter for all, and made the tea.

Bella shrank a little from her aunt when she handed her cup, and beyond the faintest "Thank you," did not utter a word. She was still suffering from the shock of the sudden assault and the blows. Her nerves were quivering, her head throbbing, and the only feeling she as yet experienced strongly was a kind of shame—shame for her aunt and for herself.

It was a most uncomfortable meal that, in spite of Miss Hender's efforts. William Hender sat morose and thoughtful; Bella, like her aunt, was embarrassed and very silent. The two boys and Margery alone found anything to say, or spirit to say it, and though all felt better and more cheerful for the meal, no one was sorry when it was ended.

Miss Hender was the first to rise. She returned to her washing-tub, William Hender to his work, and the children went out to their play in the garden. All went on as usual, and not a word more was said of the scene that had brought them all together. Yet all felt that in that short hour things had altered, and for ever. That something had happened which meant changes, perhaps not great, but changes for them all, and that life would never be quite the same again.