CHAPTER I

"AND IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN ME!"

"AND it might have been me!"

Christina's eyes were big with horror as she clasped her tiny hands round her knees, and stared into the fire in front of her.

She was in her father's library: a large dimly-lighted room with books lining the shelves on the walls from top to bottom. It was an afternoon in early autumn; the last rays of the setting sun were stealing in through a stained glass window and colouring the dingy writing-table with red and blue patches. It was a silent, unused room; but it seemed as if it wanted wise spectacled scholars in it, and not a small pale-faced child in a short frock and white frilled pinafore.

Yet she looked as if she were quite at home there, and indeed she was. The library was her ideal of bliss.

Christina's father had been abroad since her mother's death, which took place when she was born. She had been brought up entirely by her old nurse, and though Bracken Towers held innumerable rooms of every sort and size, Christina had been limited to her two nurseries. She lived in them entirely and it was only during the last year that she had made acquaintance with the library.

Mrs. Hallam, the housekeeper, had always seemed to Christina to be the real owner of the house. She was a tall, severe-looking woman, with sharp eyes, and a still sharper tongue. Nurse was the only privileged person who drank tea with her in her private sitting-room. Christina was never allowed in there. Mrs. Hallam made no secret of her dislike to children.

"They either are so forward and unmanageable that they'll be upsetting and spoiling all one's personal possessions, or else they'll sit by as dumb as a dog, and take in all you'll be remarking and repeat it to the first person they come across."

This was her verdict when Nurse one day wanted Christina to accompany her to tea, and she had never tried to take her again.

It was a happy day when Christina found herself in the library. It was the only room that nearly always had a fire, and she had been passing the door when the housemaid was going in to light it.

"Is this Mrs. Hallam's room?" asked the child innocently.

And Emily, the housemaid, had laughed at her.

"Come in and see it. 'Tis your father's wish that it should always be kept well aired. He does set store on his books so! Mr. Tipton says 'tis most vallyble library, and 'tis to keep the books from getting damp we have so many fires."

So Christina had stolen shyly in, and looked with awe and wonder at the treasures it contained. And then from awe she passed to wistful longing, and when Nurse one day said lightly, "If you're a good girl and put every book back where you find it, you can read them," she had joyfully taken advantage of this permission, and had made the library her retreat whenever Nurse was "called away on business" from the nursery.

The books in the library proved an inexhaustible pleasure to the little maiden. There were old books and new books; books with pictures, books without. An illustrated series of Froissart's "Chronicles" kept her entranced for two months, and now, on this particular day, she had seized an old "History of France" and had been following, with breathless interest, the fortunes and fate of Jeanne d'Arc.

She shut her book up with a little shiver when she read of the heroine's shameful death. And there, upon the hearthrug, she was doing what she always did after reading about any heroine of fiction: transferring herself—Christina, aged eight—into the circumstances and position of the heroine.

"And it might have been me!"

Christina had a very big conception of what ought to be done, and a very tremulous and small opinion of her own courage.

Slaughter of any kind was abhorrent to her. The death of a fly on a window pane, a mouse in a trap, or a bird in the garden, was the occasion for a flood of tears and much lamentation. Now she murmured to herself:

"If I had heard the voice, I should have had to get a sword and go; I should have been obliged to lead the soldiers into battle and kill; I should have been wicked if I had said no; and oh, I couldn't, couldn't have done it! And it might have been me!"

Tears began to crowd into her eyes. She shook her curly head, and unclasping her hands, she knelt on the rug, and with closed eyes put up this passionate prayer:

"Please God, never send a voice to me to tell me to fight in battle. I shall be a coward, I shan't be able to do it. O God, never tell me to kill anybody! And oh, please, never turn me into a Joan of Arc!"

After which prayer she dried her eyes and was slightly comforted.

She did not turn again to her book. The tragic fate of the maid of France was too vivid and real to be easily effaced. It was almost a relief when she heard her nurse call her. She trotted upstairs and met her at the nursery door. That good woman had a perturbed look on her round good-tempered face.

"Come in, Miss Tina, and hear what I've got to tell you. Me and Mrs. Hallam have both been struck down by a letter—such news, and so little time to prepare; but we have had rumours, and I always said the master would never come home again till he got a lady to come with him. 'Tis eight years this coming Christmas that your sweet mother was taken, and 'tis not to be wondered at. And now you'll have to prepare yourself to meet your father and a stepmother all at once, and that not a day later than next Saturday. There will be change here at last. Me and Mrs. Hallam have lived so quiet that it has quite upset us; but 'tis only natural and right after all, and I'm not the kind of ignorant, uneducated person to be speaking to you against a second mother. She may be the very one to slip into your mother's shoes, and she may not, but we'll hope for the best."

Christina looked up at her nurse with big eyes.

"I don't understand," she murmured. "Is father coming home?"

"Yes, and he's bringing a new wife, and a room has got to be prepared for a young gentleman; but who or what he is, me and Mrs. Hallam can't make out. Now you be a good girl and stay quiet up here, for I've promised to help Mrs. Hallam in unpacking some of the glass and china, and getting the drawing-room put to rights."

Nurse was bustling away, when Christina called after her imploringly:

"May I go to see Miss Bertha?"

"No. I can't spare any one to take you, and it is too damp and cold for you to be out to-day. Stay in the nursery like a good child."

Nurse was a picture of an old woman. Round and ruddy, with silver hair smoothed under her big cap, she looked the embodiment of health and content. Yet she suffered from many twinges of rheumatism, and had an old-fashioned horror of open air. The nursery was like a hothouse in the winter time, and Christina was consequently delicate, and peculiarly susceptible to cold.

The child stood at the large window when Nurse had left her, and looked out with some wistfulness across the park towards the goal of her desire. It was a tiny cottage, originally one of the park lodges, but owing to the alteration of the drive which once ran past it, was now let to a single lady, and stood in half an acre of ground, railed off from the surrounding park.

Christina heaved a sigh. She breathed hard on the panes of glass, and traced some letters with her finger.

"I'm afraid of fathers and mothers," she acknowledged to herself. "I don't know what they're like. Emily's father isn't kind to her, she says, and I've seen some mothers in the village who slap their little boys. I wish I could tell Miss Bertha."

Suddenly she gave a scream of delight.

"Here she is walking up the drive, and I do believe Dawn is with her! Oh, I hope, I hope they're coming to see me. And I forgot Dawn's father. He is kind; oh, I do hope my father will be like him!"

She was not long left in doubt. A very short time afterwards the nursery door opened, and a little old lady, accompanied by a rosy-cheeked, fair-haired boy; came forward.

"We thought we should find you in, dear," Miss Bertha said, "and as Dawn is spending the day with me, I brought him along."

Christina's pale cheeks became pink with excitement. She and Dawn rushed at each other, Dawn with such impetus that he brought her to the ground.

Christina was too happy to mind her fall. She clung to Miss Bertha.

"Father is coming home with a mother," she announced, and if Miss Bertha showed no surprise, Dawn was stricken dumb.

Miss Bertha slipped off her tweed cloak, and drew up a chair to the fire. She then took Christina on her lap, and Dawn flung himself down on the hearthrug, rolling himself over on his back, and pillowing his curly head on his arms behind it.

"You haven't got a mother," he remarked with dancing eyes. "You and me are just the same."

"I s'pose mothers can be made," said Christina thoughtfully.

"Yes," said Miss Bertha cheerily, "and a very happy thing it is to have a new mother. I heard the rumour, Childie, so I just ran along to tell you what a good thing it will be."

"What will she do?"

Christina's little face looked anxious with care.

"Perhaps what I am doing now. She will talk to you and love you and take care of you."

"Nurse does that."

Christina's tone was a little doubtful.

"Ah! You wait and see!" said Miss Bertha, nodding her head. "Fathers and mothers are like nobody else! If I had mine alive now, how happy I should be!"

There was a little silence, which Dawn broke.

"My mother is alive though we can't see her. She takes care of dad and me. And my toad has lost himself, Tina; and Porky, the big black pig, was killed the day before we came from London. And Miss Bertha's given me some lily bulbs for my garden!"

Christina's eyes shone.

"I wish Nurse would let me garden in winter. She says it's too cold. And oh, Miss Bertha, do you like Joan of Arc?"

The little maid's brain was too full of her heroine to forget her. For the next half-hour the old lady and the children talked of the past, with its superstitions and heroism, and then dark settled down, and Nurse came in, and Christina's friends departed. She watched them wistfully from the window, then she ate her tea, feeling a sense of importance and superiority over her boy friend.

"I'm not going to be alone any more. I shall have a father and mother too, and Dawn won't have so much as me!"

She was full of curiosity over the expected arrivals, but Nurse could give her very little information. When she was in bed, she lay awake picturing her new mother.

"She will be in black velvet with feathers, like the picture in the hall; and she will move very soft, and will speak like Miss Bertha when she reads the Bible; and I—oh, I shall be frightened of them both, and I wish they weren't coming!"

Down went her head under the bedclothes.

The unexpected and unknown always had terrors for Christina. It seemed to overwhelm her now. Two strange people coming to take possession of the great unused rooms downstairs, people who would have full control of her actions; who might be kind, but might equally be cruel; people who would pass her on the stairs, invade her nursery, inhabit the library, and might even forbid her to cross its threshold. At this thought Christina lifted up her voice and wept aloud.

She cried herself to sleep, and was astonished to wake the next morning and find herself looking forward with pleasure to what had been a dreadful nightmare to her the night before.

The morning was bright and sunny. Nurse was in the best of spirits.

"Miss Bertha said she would like to have you over to lunch to-day as we are all so busy, so Connie will walk down with you soon after breakfast. Be a good child, and be ready to come back at three o'clock, for 'tis too cold for you to be out after that."

Christina's cheeks got rosy red. It was going to be a golden day indeed! Nurse so seldom let her out of her sight, and Connie, the nursery maid, could tell such lovely stories!

When she started down the drive—a little bundle of wraps and furs with a Shetland veil over her face to shield her from the wind—she felt as if she never wanted to go back to the nursery again. It was a frosty morning. Connie held her hands tight so that she might not slip, and talked without stopping of the master and mistress so soon returning. There were no stories to-day.

"Indeed, Miss Christina, my head is too full of what's coming. The house will be full of company. Lords and ladies and dooks and duchesses have visited here in times past, so Mrs. Hallam says, and I'm just longin' to catch sight of them. There will be dinner parties and balls, and company every day, and 'tis time this dull old house was shook up."

Christina looked quite scared.

"Will I have to see them all?"

"Yes, you'll be dressed up in your best clothes and go down in the drawing-room, and you'll have to speak pretty to all of 'em; and I hope Nurse will let me go down and fetch you up a time or two, for I shall catch sight o' the dresses and the jools, and hear the music agoing!"

Christina heaved a deep sigh.

"I shall never be able to speak, never!" she ejaculated with a shake of her head.

They reached Miss Bertha's little cottage. She was out in her garden looking at her bed of violets, but greeted Christina warmly, and took her into her sitting-room.

Miss Bertha's sitting-room was a paradise to the lonely child. It was furnished with a bright old chintz, and was crowded with everything that could bring joy to a child's heart. There was a stuffed squirrel under a glass case, some queer china figures on a shelf, ivory chess-men, Indian books with coloured illustrations of natives and animals on rice paper. There was a small cabinet of curiosities from all parts of the world; for Miss Bertha had had a brother who was a sailor, and who used to bring her many a queer treasure. There was a model of a heathen temple, an Indian puzzle box, a Chinese doll, a stuffed snake, and some bottled scorpions. Christina was never tired of looking at them all.

Connie took off her walking things and then departed.

Miss Bertha stirred the fire into a bright blaze, produced some knitting, and then prepared herself to listen. All children laved her because she let them talk, and though Christina was shy and silent as a rule, Miss Bertha enjoyed her full confidence.

"What is a coward, Miss Bertha?"

The old lady's keen eyes looked at the child before she replied:

"One who has no courage."

"Is it wicked to be a coward? Because I'm pretty sure I'm one."

Miss Bertha shook her head at her.

"I haven't seen any signs of it, Childie. There are different kinds of cowardice and different kinds of courage. Tiny girls like you are naturally not so fearless as boys. I would rather be afraid of the dark myself than afraid to speak the truth. It is cowardly to tell a lie."

"I haven't any courage," said Christina pitifully, with a quivering under-lip. "If I heard a voice like Joan of Arc did, I should put my fingers in my ears and not listen to it. I couldn't have ridden into battle as she did! I'm afraid of everything, Dawn says I am, and every day I get more things to be afraid of. I'm—I'm afraid of father and mother!"

Her voice faltered. She slipped down from her chair and buried her face in Miss Bertha's black merino gown.

Miss Bertha stroked the soft curly head tenderly.

"That fear won't last long. It is only because they are strangers. Don't think too much about your fears, they are mostly shadows."

"Dawn says a coward ought always to be kicked."

Miss Bertha laughed outright.

Christina raised her head with big tearful eyes. "Oh, please, Miss Bertha, why did God make me a coward? I'm sure I've always been one ever since I was a tiny baby."

"No, darling, God never made you a coward; and if you think you are not as brave as you ought to be, ask Him to make you brave."

Christina dried her eyes, and jumping up clasped her arms round Miss Bertha's neck.

"It wouldn't be too difficult for God, would it?" she asked, hope dawning in her eyes.

"No, it would be quite easy. Shall we ask Him now to take away all fear of meeting your father and mother?"

Miss Bertha was the only person who talked to Christina about good things. She seemed to live so close to God herself that she brought every one she knew close to Him too. Christina's nurse often wondered at the knowledge her little charge seemed to have of God and of His love and power. She was not a religious person herself, but as a matter of duty heard Christina say her morning and evening prayers, and on Sunday afternoons would read her a chapter out of the Bible. Beyond this she never went, and Christina looked upon Miss Bertha as the only one who could solve her childish perplexities and religious difficulties. For the little girl was a thinker beyond her years, and her brain was far stronger than her body.

She was quite accustomed to Miss Bertha's custom of getting down upon her knees at any moment of the day to speak to the One whom she loved and followed; and now, as the grey and golden heads were bowed together, Christina's burden disappeared. She jumped up almost joyfully.

"And now, please, Miss Bertha, may I have your dear little Chinese doll to nurse?"

She was a child again for the time, and her merry chatter and laughter brought a corresponding light and gladness into the face of her old friend.