CHAPTER III

THE LITTLE HERB-BED

For some days after that unhappy Monday Bella and her aunt scarcely exchanged a word. It was not that Bella was sulky, or bore malice in her heart; it was chiefly that she felt embarrassed and awkward still. Indeed, they both felt so. That scene seemed to be for ever between them, and neither could forget it.

It was holiday time, too, so there was no school to take Bella away from her home, and as she did not like to ask Miss Hender to give her something to do, she wandered about, idle and unhappy, not knowing how to fill her days. Consequently she wandered more than once down the lane to Mrs. Langley's little cottage. The peace and the cheerfulness of that little home drew her irresistibly.

"Oh! if only our house was like this!" she exclaimed one day. "So quiet, and tidy, and clean. I should like to live in a little house like this all by myself when I grow up."

Mrs. Langley looked at her with a shade of sadness in her gentle brown eyes. "My dear, don't say that! It isn't from choice, you know, that I live alone, and it is terribly lonely sometimes. If I had been allowed to have my way, my home would have been as full and noisy as ever yours is; but God saw fit to take them all first, and leave me to follow in His own good time. I expect He has work for me to do first; in fact, I know He has, for He has some special work for each of us, though we don't understand at the time what it is."

Bella felt vexed with herself, as soon as ever the words had left her lips, for she knew quite well the story of the tragedy that had left that home empty—of the fatal epidemic that had taken from it the husband and four children, and left the poor mother alone and heart-broken. Before she could say anything Mrs. Langley's last words arrested her attention.

"Has He got special work for me?" she asked eagerly, her interest swallowing up her shyness for once. "Oh no, He couldn't have, I am so young, and I don't see that there's anything I can do. I only wish there was," she added hopelessly. "I don't seem to be wanted anywhere, and I haven't got any money, and——"

"Don't you make that mistake, dear. It isn't money that's most wanted, it is the wish and the will. Children can do a very great deal, and you especially have many fine opportunities right at your hand, in your own home."

"But Aunt Emma does everything, and she won't let me help."

"I think she would, dear, if you went to work in the right way. Either ask her boldly to give you some part of the work to do, for you would like to help, and you feel you are old enough now; or bide your time, and do all the little things you can, without making any fuss or display. Then, if you do them well, you will find that in time they are left to your care to do always. Even if your aunt will not let you do that much, surely there is plenty to be done outside the house. Your garden is not kept as it was in your mother's time."

"Father doesn't stay at home in the evenings now, like he used to," said Bella, sadly.

"Well, can't you coax him to? Can't you help to make his home more cheerful and comfortable? All this is part of the work God has for you to do, Bella. It seems to me a lot. Can't you show an interest in the garden, and ask your father to help you to make it neat and nice again? I think he would; I am sure he would."

Bella sat with a very thoughtful face, but not such a hopelessly depressed one as she had been wearing. Suddenly, so it seemed to her, a bright light had been flashed upon the road she had to travel, and so many things stood out that she had not seen before, so many hills to climb, so many pleasant valleys to cross, that for a moment she felt awed and silenced. It was cheering and bracing to feel that she was needed, that, after all, there was work for her to do. Lots of work!

"And then there are the boys and Margery. You have many duties to them, dear. They have no mother, and you are left to take her place, as far as you can, and make their lives happy, and teach them to be good. Oh, there is so much for you to do, child. I almost envy you, there is so much."

Bella looked up with shining eyes and a flush on her cheeks. "Aunt Maggie, I came to-day to ask if you would help me to get a little place. I felt as if I couldn't go on living at home as it is now. It is so uncomfortable, and I thought I would like to go out in service. I know I am very young, but——"

Mrs. Langley was looking at her with a grave face, but very kindly eyes. "I know how you felt, dear; but it seems to me plain enough that your place is at home. You see, you're the eldest, and the others are but little things, and if you want Margery to know anything about her dear mother, you must teach her, and 'tis you must help to train her up to be what her mother would have wished her to be."

Bella's bright, eager eyes filled with tears. "I wish mother was here," she cried, "it's all so different now, and so miserable!"

"I know, I know; but, child, you must try and remember how it would have grieved your poor mother, if she could know that her children's home was unhappy, and then tell yourself that it is going to be your work to make it different—to make it what she would wish it to be."

Bella's tears gradually ceased. "But how can I begin, and when?" she asked hopelessly.

"Begin to-day, and with the first chance you see. Be content to begin with little things in a little way. Don't expect to make great changes, and set all right at once. You have to take these words as your motto, 'Patience, Pluck, and Perseverance.'"

Bella's face brightened. It cheered her heart to feel that she could do something, and do, too, what her mother would have had her do. It was with less reluctance than usual that she got up to go back to her home.

"I often wish, Aunt Maggie," she said affectionately, "that I could live with you, but it would never do, would it?"

"I often wish so, too, dear. Good-bye now. Run home quickly, you may be wanted."

Bella ran up the lane with a very much lighter heart than she usually bore. She was fired with the thought of her new endeavours, and anxious to begin. She would keep her eyes always open to see things that she could do,—and almost as the thought was passing through her mind her chance came, for as she opened her own gate she saw that the fowl-house door was standing wide, and that the hens were scattered all over the garden, scratching up the beds.

"Tom promised to put a nail in the latch of that door," she sighed, "and he has never done it." Then the thought flashed through her mind that here was a beginning! Here she could help. By the aid of a long pea-stick she collected the greedy hens and drove them all into their run again, and fastened them in securely; but it took her some time.

"Wherever have you been?" demanded Aunt Emma coldly; "here's tea-time nearly, and you've been out all the afternoon."

"I was down at Aunt Maggie's part of the time, and when I got back I found the hens all out and all over the garden, and I drove them in and shut them up."

"Oh!" Aunt Emma was visibly mollified. If there was one thing she disliked more than another, it was struggling with stupid, obstinate hens, as she called them, and she was really thankful now that she had been spared the task of getting them out of the garden. In her relief at this she forgot her annoyance at Bella's having been down at Mrs. Langley's.

"If there's time before tea I'll go and put the nail in the latch,", said Bella, "for it won't stay shut very long, unless the latch is mended."

The hammer, though, was not to be found, and the only nail was a crooked one, so the latch-mending was put off till after tea. The children came in from the orchard, and went to the pump to wash their hands and faces. Bella spread the cloth and arranged the cups and plates and mugs. As a rule, she put them down in any haphazard fashion, but to-day she did try to arrange the things nicely.

Miss Hender was busily taking out cake and cutting bread and butter. Bella knew it would be of no use to offer to do either of these, but she did ask if she might put some water in the teapot to warm it, and, to her astonishment, her aunt said, "Yes, you may if you like."

The meal would have been a very silent one if it had not been for the children, but with their chatter it passed off pleasantly enough, and when it was over they all made a hunt for the lost hammer and another nail, and then trooped out with Bella, to mend the latch of the hen-house door.

"That's easy enough," exclaimed Tom, as he watched Bella; "I could have done that."

"Then why didn't you?" retorted his sister. "That bit of latch has been hanging loose for weeks, and the hens were always getting out."

"I didn't think about it. Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't think about it, either," admitted Bella; "but I am going to try and remember things better. Tom, if you want a job, there's one of the palings of the pigsty broken away. If it isn't mended, the pig'll break it away more, and get out, and there's no knowing what trouble we shall have. You can mend that, I'm sure."

Tom, well pleased, went off at once. It made him feel manly to be doing real work. Charlie, of course, followed his brother. Bella was strolling back through the untidy garden with Margery by her side, when a sudden thought sent her hurrying back to the house.

"Aunt Emma, can I help you wash up the tea-things?"

She put her question rather nervously, and her cheeks were rosy red, but she had broken through her shy reserve, and was glad of it.

Miss Hender was standing at the table with a pan of water in front of her. "I've nearly finished," she said shortly, in her usual ungenial tone, but added, a moment later, "leastways I soon shall have." Bella had seen that although several cups and plates were washed, none of them were wiped, so she took up the tea-cloth lying on the table, and began to dry the things and put them away. She was very anxious to do it all carefully and well, so that her aunt might have no cause for complaining.

It almost seemed as though Miss Hender did not want to find fault if she could help it, for when Bella hung the cups on the wrong hooks on the dressers, she only said, "I don't know that it matters;" which was so unlike her usual self that Bella marvelled.

"I s'pose you didn't see any sage in the garden when you were there just now?" she asked presently. "I wanted some sage and onions to cook for supper, and I don't believe we've got either. There doesn't seem to be scarcely anything in the garden."

"I'll go and see," said Bella, "but I don't believe there's any."

She walked down the rambling old garden, and all over it, and looked in all directions, but not a leaf of sage or any other herb could she see. The herb-bed was empty and trampled flat, a few onions lay ungathered in the onion-bed, and there were some potatoes, but that was all, except some gooseberry bushes and roots of rhubarb.

When Bella remembered what their garden used to be, and all that they used to get out of it, she, young though she was, was startled. She was more than startled, she was shocked too, for if this was the state of things now, what were they going to do for vegetables all the rest of the year? There was nothing to come on for the winter, no carrots or turnips, no onions or cabbages, leeks or celery,—and they used to have all in abundance. The difference between care and neglect, thrift and waste, plenty and want, were brought home to her very plainly at that moment.

She had always been so much with her father and mother and other grown-up people, that she understood as well as a woman how much they depended on the garden for food.

Tom and Charlie came up and joined her, wondering what she was looking at so solemnly.

"What's wrong?" they asked. "What are you looking for?"

"Sage," said Bella, gravely, "and there isn't a bit; there isn't anything. Whatever we shall do all the winter, I don't know."

"Where's the herb-bed?" asked Tom.

"Here, we're looking at it. Mother used to keep it nice and full, she used to see how many kinds of herbs she could grow. Oh, you remember, Tom, don't you?"

"Yes," said Tom; "she had thyme and lemon-thyme, parsley, and sage, and endive and borage, and—oh, I forget. She used to make me say them over, and tell her which was which. I wish we'd taken more care of it," he added, with sudden shame for his neglect.

A brilliant idea flashed into Bella's mind, filling her with pleasure, "Oh!" she cried, excitedly, "I know what I'll do, I'll make it nice again, I'll take care of it, and plant herbs in it, just as mother used to do. Where's the fork, Tom? I want to begin."

"I'll get it, but let me help. Let me dig it over the first time; shall I, Bella?"

Bella agreed, but reluctantly. She wanted to do it all herself. "I wonder where I can get parsley seed, and all the rest of it. Oh, I know, Aunt Maggie will give me a little sage-bush, she has lots; and p'raps she'll be able to give me some lemon-thyme too!" and away she ran through the garden and out of the gate and down May Lane as fleet as a hare.

Miss Hender saw her dash past the house, and pressed her lips tightly together. "Forgotten all about what I sent her for, of course," she said sourly. "I thought that new broom was sweeping too clean."

When Bella returned in about ten minutes' time, carrying a basket full of roots, and a sage-bush on the top, her aunt came to the door to greet her.

"How about that sage I asked you to look for?" she began, but when her eye fell on the basket the rest of her scolding died away,—"Oh, so you've got some. Well, it isn't too late," she stammered, trying not to look foolish, and to speak graciously. It was Bella's turn to colour now. She had completely forgotten all about her aunt and the supper. "There wasn't a bit, Aunt Emma, and—and I forgot to come in and tell you, but I am going to plant some fresh things in the herb-bed. Tom's digging it over, and I am going to look after it. I asked Aunt Maggie to give me a root or two, and you can have some of the sage leaves before I plant it; but "—and she put down her basket, and began to grope in the bottom of it—"Aunt Maggie sent you a bottle of dried sage, and one of parsley. She dried them herself. She said if you hadn't got any at any time, they might be useful,"; and she put the two little bottles into her aunt's hand with great joy, looking up at her to read her approval in her face.

But Miss Hender's face showed nothing of the sort. "I don't believe in such new-fangled notions," she said ungraciously; "here, give me a bit of that," breaking off a sprig of sage, "I want something that's fit to eat, and has got some goodness left in it!"

The light and pleasure died out of Bella's face. It always hurt her to hear her Aunt Maggie, or anything of Aunt Maggie's, spoken contemptuously of, and sudden anger at such petty spitefulness swelled up in her heart, for it was petty of her aunt, and it was spiteful, and Bella knew it. Indeed, every one knew it, but no one dared say anything to the foolish woman, for fear of making matters worse.

In her pleasure, though, at the sight of the work Tom had done in her absence, Bella recovered herself, and this time she did not forget her aunt or the supper, but coming upon a few onions she gathered them into her basket and sent them in by Margery.

By the time Miss Hender came to the door again to call them all in to supper and bed, the sage bushes and thyme, the roots of mint and borage, were standing sturdily erect in the newly-turned bed, which was neatly outlined by large stones. Bella went to bed that night very tired and very happy, and dreamed of her mother.

While the children lay asleep, their father, coming home late and taking a turn round his neglected garden while he finished his pipe, drew up before the little herb-bed with almost a startled look on his face. He stood there minute after minute, gazing at the newly-turned earth and the sturdy little bushes showing out so clearly in the moonlight; the one neat and hopeful spot in the whole untidy waste, it seemed almost to speak reproachingly to him.

What his thoughts were no one knew, but he sighed deeply more than once, and when at last he moved away his pipe had gone out, though it was not empty.