The Wonderful Garden or The Three Cs

That was the end of the page. The children had to own that they couldn’t understand it.

‘Oh,’ said the Unusual One, ‘it only means if you’re going to ask a favour of any one. One of the herbs was balsam, I believe. Now I must fly. Keep the page till to-morrow if you like.’

They did like. And when he was gone Charlotte spoke.

‘Look here. We shall have to tell the Uncle. Let’s decoct him some balsam and then tell him.’

But the others wouldn’t hear of it. They had to hear of it, however, next day, when at twelve o’clock William allowed them to visit Rupert in his loft. Rupert’s eyes were very bright and his hands were very hot, and he coughed almost all the time – a very little cough, but most persevering.

‘William,’ Caroline came down the ladder to say, ‘we must tell uncle. I’m sure Rupert’s ill. He ought to have a doctor.’

‘You’re right, Miss,’ William replied, ‘What did I tell you from the first?’

Caroline expected stern opposition from Rupert, and even feared that he might say that rather than have his secret given to an uncle he would indeed run away to sea. But he only turned his head restlessly on the straw and said, ‘Oh, I don’t care! Do what you like.’

The day was, most fortunately, fine. So after dinner they all went into the garden to get the balsam. But they couldn’t find any balsam.

‘I’ll get the Language Of,’ said Caroline, ‘and we’ll take the herbs that seem most likely to make a person do what you want.’

In finding suitable ‘herbs,’ first in the book and then in the garden, the time went quickly: there was a good deal of talk, of course.

‘I really don’t think we need worry,’ said Caroline again and again. ‘I think with the herbs it’s sure to be all right, and the Uncle will let us keep him.’ She spoke as if Rupert were a stray kitten or an ownerless puppy. ‘You see the fern-seed came right, and the sorry bouquet we gave to the Wilmington came right, and you’ll see this will. We’ll give him some in his tea as well as the bouquet, and that’ll make quite certain.’

‘It’s all nonsense,’ said Charlotte. ‘Besides, he’ll spit it out. I know I should. You can lead an uncle to the teapot but you can’t make him drink.’

‘We’ll have calceolaria,’ Caroline finally decided, ‘because it means “I offer you pecuniary aid,” or “I offer you my fortune”; and, of course, Rupert’ll cost something to keep. And double china aster, if we can find it, because it means “I share your sentiments.” Straw means agreement, so we’ll have that too. It needn’t show in the bouquet. And eschscholtzia, because that signifies “do not refuse me.”’

They got the calceolarias and the eschscholtzias, but the gardener said the asters weren’t out yet.

‘It’s only two flowers,’ said Charlotte; ‘suppose we wear something in our button-holes to mean “we trust in you”?’

Nothing meaning just that, however, could be found in the book. The nearest was heliotrope, ‘I turn to thee,’ and rhododendron, ‘danger.’ A bouquet of rhododendron and heliotrope was, however, found to be incompatible with the human button-hole, so these flowers were added to the Uncle’s bouquet.

‘And now,’ said Charlotte, ‘let’s go in and express the juices. We can’t chew them this time, because it would be disgusting.’

‘Scissors and tea, I think,’ Charles said, and this bright suggestion was acted on.

The Unusual Clergyman was perhaps partly to blame for what followed. Calceolaria, rhododendron, and eschscholtzia (a word I spell with the greatest pain and difficulty) were cut up very fine indeed with Caroline’s nail-scissors, and secreted in Charles’s handkerchief – a clean one fetched down for the purpose. When the tea-tray was brought in, and the maid had gone to ring the bell which summons uncles, the lid of the teapot was hurriedly raised and a good handful of chopped leaves and petals thrust in.

The magic bouquet was placed on the Uncle’s plate.

He came in, pale and shadowy as ever, and yet looking, the children thought, somewhat different, and took up the bouquet. It was rather an odd one. The eschscholtzias were drooping miserably among the strong rhododendrons; so was the heliotrope. And the calceolarias seemed shrivelled and unhappy; and the straw, of which in his enthusiasm Charles had brought a large double handful, showed much more than Caroline had meant it to.

‘What’s all this, eh?’ the Uncle asked.

‘It’s a sym-what’s-its-name bouquet.’

‘Simple?’ asked the Uncle; ‘it’s anything but that. Sympathetic?’

‘No,’ said Charlotte, ‘sym-what Mr. Penfold was saying to you yesterday about magic.’

‘Symbolic. I see. And what does it symbolise?’ he asked kindly, but without smiling.

‘We’ll tell you when you’ve had your tea,’ they all agreed in saying.

The Uncle sniffed the bouquet, and that was perhaps why he did not sniff the tea. They wondered how he could possibly not smell it, for as Caroline poured it out it seemed to fill the room with its strange mixed scent. However, he just stirred it and talked about the weather, not at all amusingly, and presently he lifted the cup to his lips.

Six anxious eyes followed his every movement; and his movements from the moment the tea entered his mouth were brisk and unusual. He screwed up his nose in a way that at any less important moment would have been funny, went quickly to the window, leaned out, and did exactly what Charlotte had said he would do.

‘Excuse me,’ he said, coming back to the table and taking up the cup; ‘I beg your pardon for that natural if impolite action. I think this tea must be poisoned. Don’t drink any of it, and please ring the bell. I must inquire into this.’

Nobody moved.

‘We aren’t going to drink any,’ said Charles.

‘Oh, don’t inquire!’ said Charlotte anxiously.

‘Was it very horrid?’ asked Caroline. ‘I am so sorry.’

‘Will you kindly ring?’ the Uncle asked coldly. It was a terrible moment, but Caroline met it bravely.

‘No,’ she said; ‘don’t ask the servants, please, uncle; it’s not their fault. We put the stuff in the teapot.’

‘You put poison in the teapot? For me?’ The Uncle suddenly sat down.

‘No, no, dear uncle,’ cried Caroline; ‘not poison. Only calceolaria and eschscholtzia and straw and rhododendron; it isn’t poison. It’s just a little magic spell to make you say “Yes” to what we want.’

‘Have I given you reason to suppose that I could not grant your requirements without spells?’ he asked severely.

‘Oh no! But we wanted to make sure.’

Charlotte held out the translation and the Uncle read it.

‘But this doesn’t say calceolaria and all the rest of it,’ he objected.

‘No, it doesn’t say. That’s just it. So we had to get the nearest things we could. Straw for agreement, because we want you to agree to what we want; and calceolaria, because it means “I offer you pecuniary aid”; and rhododendron to show it’s dangerous not to; and es-what’s-its-name for “do not refuse me.”’

‘Do not refuse you what?’ said the Uncle in an exasperated voice.

The three of them looked at each other and two of them said, ‘You tell, Caro.’

Caroline clasped her hands very tight, and drew a long breath, and said very fast indeed:

‘There was a boy ran away from school called Rupert his master was cruel to him and he came here and we hid him and put the Police off the scent and he’s such a nice boy and his father’s in India like ours and he’s in the straw-loft now with such a dreadful cold and I know the doctor ought to be sent for and if you give him back to that Murdstone man I know he’ll die and I can’t bear it and I’m very very sorry it was silly putting the stuff in your tea but we weren’t taking any chances and if you’re angry about the tea do punish us but stick to Rupert and oh uncle I don’t know what to say but what would you have done if you’d been us?’

‘There, there,’ said the Uncle gently, and not seeming as surprised as they expected; ‘don’t cry. Don’t you begin,’ he added with more sternness to Charles, who was becoming subject to sniffs. ‘There, go and wash your faces. We’ll have some fresh tea made in another pot, and talk it over.’

‘It’s hopeful, I tell you,’ said Caroline, washing her face; ‘he’s not said “No.” Oh, I believe the spell’s working. Stop snivelling, Charlotte. There’s nothing to cry about, yet.’