CHAPTER II

"FEAR DWELLS NOT HERE"

LUNCH was had in the tiny dining-room on the other side of the passage. Christina, accustomed to her simple nursery menage, always enjoyed her midday meal with Miss Bertha. She was peculiarly susceptible to pretty things. Miss Bertha's fine linen damask tablecloth, the quaint old sugar bowls and salt cellars in their crimson glass and cut silver mounts, the old-fashioned silver, and the pretty flowers that always graced her table, delighted Christina quite as much as the roast chicken and apple tart, and the ripe pears that followed afterwards.

"When I grow up," she announced, "I shall have just such a house as this, Miss Bertha, and I shall have Nurse for my maid like your Lucy."

"Ah, I shall wish you a fuller house than mine," said Miss Bertha; with a little laugh and shake of her head. "It is very quiet and monotonous to live by yourself. When I was a young thing, I remember thinking that I never could do it, and, as each one of my relations began to leave me, I always prayed that I might be the next to go."

"To go where?" asked Christina with big eyes.

Miss Bertha pointed with a smiling face out of the window up to the blue sky.

Christina looked awed, and her friend said quickly:

"I am not so impatient now. This world is a nice place, Childie, and if you have no family or relations, you can have friends, and there are always some to be helped along the way."

"Like you help me and Dawn," said Christina gravely.

"Ah, there is Dawn! I told him I should bring you to see him after lunch. His aunt Rachael has gone away for the day. So we will go at once."

Christina was wrapped up in her walking things, and very soon she was trotting along the road with the old lady. They did not go into the village with its square-towered church and thatched cottages, but turned up a lane with high banks on each side, and in at a white gate and up an untidy-looking drive.

"Ah," said Miss Bertha, shaking her head. "Here is work that would keep Dawn out of mischief; he could take up every one of these leaves, and sweep the paths."

"And I could help him," said Christina with shining eyes.

It was a queer irregular house they came to, partly built of wood, partly stone. The wooden porch and low roof was covered with a leafless vine with long untidy tendrils and branches. It had evidently not been pruned for years. The front door stood partly open. Inside was a square hall with an open wood fire. In a big armchair drawn up before it lounged Dawn's father smoking. He was on his feet in an instant when he saw his visitors, and welcomed them with a bright smile and slow measured voice.

"Now, I'm sure you didn't come to see me, but my Will-o'-the-wisp; and where he is, I haven't the faintest conception!"

"We are disturbing you," said Miss Bertha; "let us go through the garden; he will be out, not in, I expect."

"I would come with you, but I've got a painting fit on, and am back to my studio after this pipe has been smoked. Ah! Here he is!"

Dawn came flying in with rumpled curls and rosy cheeks, but his face and hands were as black as a chimney-sweep's.

"Oh, Tina, come on! Such a lovely bonfire I've made at the bottom of the garden! Dad gave me three old canvases and I'm getting all the rubbish I can find. It's Hallowe'en, and Aunt Rachael told me what the Scotch people do, and if we're sweethearts, we must jump through the fire together; as you're Scotch you must do it. Come on and try, and don't mind the smoke, it only makes you dirty!"

Christina was divided between fascination and horror, and Miss Bertha took hold of her hand encouragingly.

"We will come and look on, but my jumping days are over, and I don't think yours have begun."

Out into the garden they went, and it was a scene of autumn desolation, for weeds and thorns seemed to be choking all else. Dawn's flying feet hardly touched the ground, and at the very end of the lawn, he pointed with triumph to the bonfire. He certainly was collecting rubbish: a three-legged chair, an old broom, a wooden bucket without a bottom, an old saddle, a piece of frayed carpet, and a variety of smaller articles were all waiting to be sacrificed.

Christina watched him dancing round, and her colour came and went. She squeezed Miss Bertha's hand.

"And Joan of Arc was in the middle. They burnt her!" she exclaimed under her breath.

"Come on, Tina, jump across with me; don't funk it."

Dawn took hold of her hand.

Christina drew a long breath, made a step forward, then burst into tears.

"I can't! I can't! I'm a coward!"

"I'm not a coward," said Miss Bertha briskly, "but I can't jump across! Look here, Dawn, don't you know that at this time of year bonfires are made to burn leaves and dry sticks, and not chairs and tables! Get your wheelbarrow and spade and sweep up your garden paths; Christina will help you. Pile the leaves on your bonfire and all the weeds you can find. You will be tidying up your place, and having some fun into the bargain. I want to see a sick child in the cottage next to you. I shan't be gone long, and then I am going to take Christina home. Make the most of your time."

"Do try one little jump!" urged Dawn, when Miss Bertha had disappeared. "Just see me! It's quite easy."

"No," said Christina; "I know I should tumble down and be burnt up in the middle, and I couldn't be burnt!"

"You wouldn't be. What a pity it is that you are a girl! You're never up to any games. Let's come and get the leaves!"

"But I love to play games," asserted poor Christina: "I make up lovely ones in my own head, and wish you were with me to play with me; but jumping through a fire isn't the only game to play!"

"No," said Dawn, running to an old shed and bringing out a wheelbarrow; "we'll make up an end to the babes in the wood. You go and lie down on the path over there and cover yourself over with leaves. And I'll be the wicked uncle, and will come along to get some leaves for my—my pigs, and then I'll find your dead body, and will be very frightened, and then will take you along to burn you, and the heat of the fire will make you come alive, and then you must jump up and point your finger at me, and I'll be so frightened, that I shall tumble back into my own fire, and be burnt to a cinder myself."

"And then," added the more merciful Christina, "just before you burn, I'll drag you out, and you'll fall down on your knees and say you're sorry for all your sins, and then I'll forgive you, and we'll go and look for my brother, who isn't dead either!"

This game was carried out, and the paths did not receive much attention in consequence. But when it was over Dawn began to talk:

"We're painting another picture."

"What's it about?"

"Red and yellow leaves in a wood, and a little old man with sticks coming through it. I was the little man. I put on dad's greatcoat. I'm first-rate in the picture."

"How clever your dad is!"

A sigh followed.

"I wonder if my father paints pictures?"

"I'm sure he doesn't."

"What will he do all day?"

"He'll ride a horse and smoke a pipe and read a newspaper," said Dawn with serious conviction.

"And mother?"

"She'll—I don't know about mothers. Aunt Rachael helps to cook the dinner and mends our clothes and makes jam. She made some apple jam out of our garden yesterday! Come in and taste some!"

To think was to act with Dawn. He dropped his broom and dashed away to the house. Christina followed him.

"Aunt Rachael gave me some skimmings in a saucer. I believe I left it in dad's room. Come on, and we'll find it."

Without any ceremony Dawn flung open the door of his father's studio. His father was standing before his big canvas, painting earnestly. He did not look round or speak till Dawn had seized hold of his saucer of jam. Then he turned and smiled at Christina.

"When are you going to let me put you into a picture?" he asked.

Christina's cheeks became crimson, but she did not speak.

"She says she couldn't have you stare at her, dad. Tina is very shy, like my black rabbit Loo was. Loo would shake all over when I took hold of her, and she never left off shaking till she died. Put your finger in, Tina, and lick it. I've got no spoon. It's just scrumptious!"

"You'll find a spoon in my cupboard," said Dawn's father.

And Christina the next minute was sitting down on a rug with her small friend, sharing his delicious compound.

"So your father is coming back," Dawn's father, Mr. O'Flagherty, said after a pause.

"And Tina doesn't know what he's like, but we hope he'll be something like you," said Dawn eagerly.

His father shook his head and went on painting.

"I expect he'll be nice," said Christina loyally.

"Fathers are always nice, aren't they, Jack-in-the-box? It's their children who are the tyrants and taskmasters; the poor fathers have a sad time of it, but they never complain; not even when a year's work is spoilt in one moment by a meddlesome imp applying the wrong varnish!"

Dawn put his saucer of jam down and flung himself upon his father with tearful eyes.

"I've told you thousands of times how sorry I was. I did mean to help you, dad; you know I did! I begged you to give me a thrashing; but I've helped you with some of your pictures, haven't I? Oh, I wish you wouldn't make me keep remembering that varnish! I wish you had had a girl like Tina instead of a boy like me!"

His father put his brush in his mouth, and for a minute rested his hand on the curly head that was burrowing itself into his coat pocket.

"You're my plague and joy, sonny, and as necessary to me as my paint is! Now be off with you. I hear Miss Bertha calling."

"I hope my father will speak to me like that," said Christina, as they left the room.

"Dad and I are very old friends," Dawn responded quaintly. "We've learnt to understand each other."

All the way home Christina turned over these words in her mind.

"If my father isn't old friends with me, we can be new ones perhaps. I hope, oh, I do hope he will like me!"

When Miss Bertha left her at the door of her home, she said to her softly:

"I am going to give you a nice little verse, Childie, to think of when you get frightened of people and of things. It is this:

"'What time I am afraid, I will trust in Thee.'"

Christina repeated it over to herself as she climbed the nursery stairs. She met Nurse with a glad light in her eyes.

"I've had the most lovely day, Nurse, and I don't think I shall mind very much my father and mother coming home."

"Mind!" exclaimed Nurse aghast. "I should think you oughtn't to mind, indeed! A little girl ought to be full of happiness at the very thought!"

The eventful day came. Christina wandered up and down the house rejoicing in the blazing fires and cheerful rooms. To her, before, her home had been a puzzle and a mystery. There had been so many locked doors and darkened rooms; rooms that even in the light of day were shrouded with linen coverings. Now all was changed. Curtains were drawn aside; coverings taken away; the silver and china and pictures delighted and astonished the child. She watched the gardeners fill the big hall with flowering plants; she looked on whilst Mrs. Hallam arranged flowers in every room: flowers which had come from the greenhouses, into which Christina had never been allowed to go.

"Why, Nurse!" she exclaimed drawing a long breath. "We have more pretty things than Miss Bertha has!"

And Nurse laughed outright at the comparison.

Dusk set in, and the travellers had not arrived. Christina had her tea, and sat expectantly at the nursery window; but when eight o'clock came, Nurse insisted upon putting her to bed.

"They'll not be here now till nearly ten o'clock. They must have missed the train."

And Christina did not know whether she was glad or sorry that the meeting was deferred. She was too tired with the excitement of the day to keep awake, and slept soundly till she was roused by Nurse the next morning.

"Have they come, Nurse; what are they like? Did they come to see me when I was asleep?"

"No," said Nurse a little reluctantly; "but your father asked if you were well. 'Twas just a bustle and confusion from the time they arrived. I was glad that you had not waited up."

Nurse's face was rather gloomy. Christina's spirits sank at once.

"Shall I have to go and see them before I have my breakfast?"

"No, indeed. They'll sleep late themselves, and won't want to be disturbed. No, you must wait till you're sent for, my dearie."

Nurse was very silent through breakfast; but Christina's quick ears caught the unusual stir of feet and voices through the house. She was in a fever of unrest and of fear, and when breakfast was cleared away, and Nurse had left her alone, she sat down on a low chair by the fire, and with clenched hands repeated over and over to herself:

"'What time I am afraid, I will trust in Thee.'"

And then suddenly the door burst open, and like a small whirlwind a young girl swept in.

"There! I am right after all, and this is the nursery! Phew! What a heat! It's like a hothouse. Why there she is! Now, you small girl, let me look at you! They have so laughed at me for having a ready-made daughter. You aren't very big, that's one comfort! What is your name? How old are you? And what do you think of me? Can't you stand up? Come over to the window and let me have a look at you! But we'll have some air first, I can't breathe in such an atmosphere. No wonder you're such a white-faced creature!"

Talking without a pause, Christina's new stepmother flung open the nursery window, and Christina recoiled instinctively as the blast of cold air met her.

"Your nurse is one of the coddling sort, I can see! Now, I've been brought up in the fresh air, and I shall try if I can't make you as hardy as myself. I shall see that you're not kept in a glass case any longer. Now, aren't you pleased to see me? Dear me! I wish Puggy was here!"

Christina looked up into the laughing girlish face bent over her. Her stepmother was in a short tweed coat and skirt, and looked like an overgrown schoolgirl. Her hair, which was a pretty golden-brown, was drawn back from a decidedly fresh attractive face. Rosy cheeks, blue eyes and a mouth that was never anything but smiling, completed the picture. Christina's fears disappeared at once.

"Yes," she said smiling in return. "I think I shall like you to be my mother."

"You queer little soul! I can tell you I didn't like the idea of a stepdaughter at all, but I was told that I should have no bother, for your nurse had you entirely in her charge. And I love children if they're no bother—ah, here is your nurse!"

She turned to meet Nurse's look of horror at the open window.

"No, don't shut it, Nurse; you have this room ever so much too warm. Look at this child's pale cheeks!"

"Miss Christina has a cold, and is very delicate ma'am. You must excuse me if I act contrary to your wishes!"

Nurse banged down the wide window sash with no very gentle hand.

Christina's young stepmother laughed in her face.

"You are a foolish woman," she said; "not fit to have the charge of a child!"

Then humming a song she sauntered out of the room, and Nurse sat down in her easy chair and began to cry.

"And if this is the beginning, what will be the end!" she sobbed. "And 'tis the same all over the house; but there, Miss Tina, don't you mind what a foolish old woman says. I'm not fit to have the charge of you."

Christina stood on the hearthrug not knowing what to say. She was relieved when Connie came in and asked Nurse to go to Mrs. Hallam, who wanted her.

"I think my mother won't be unkind," said Christina to herself with a wise little shake of her head, "but I should like to see my father."

She waited for some time in the empty nursery, and then, weary of her own company, determined to slip down to the library and read a book.

Very softly she crept downstairs, and was relieved to meet no one on the way; the library was empty. Christina climbed up on the steps, and took out the volume of French History that she was last reading. Then she sat down on the hearthrug, and in a few minutes had forgotten all about her father and mother. Outside surroundings had faded away; she was living inside her book.

Suddenly a voice made her start.

"Is this Christina?"

She jumped up in fright, for there, standing before her, stood her father. Very tall, and very big he seemed to her. His dark eyes were fixed upon her, and though she could not see his mouth for the heavy moustache that concealed it, it seemed to her that he was looking displeased.

"Yes," she said trying hard to be brave; "oughtn't I to be here?"

Her father drew her to him, and placing one hand under her chin raised her face to his, then he stooped and did what her stepmother had not done—he kissed her.

"And is this where you hide yourself?" he asked. "Are you fond of books?"

"I love them!" Christina answered with glowing eyes.

Her father smiled.

"And so do I, so we shall be friends at once."

He sat down, and took her on his knee.

In a few minutes Christina was chatting unreservedly to him, asking him innumerable questions about things that had puzzled her.

"What do these words mean that are stamped across all your books? Nurse doesn't know, do you?"

"It is our family motto. Don't you know it? It means this in English: 'Fear dwells not here.' The Maclahans have neither been better or worse than most folks, but right back to the first annals of their history, no cowardly deed has been done by them. They have not known what fear is."

There was silence, then very timidly from Christina:

"And I'm a Maclahan?"

"Yes," said her father heartily, "and though you're not very grand yet, either in looks or size, you must grow up a brave courageous woman, or you will be the first to disgrace your family."

Christina drew a long breath, but said nothing for some minutes; then she asked:

"And have all the little girl Maclahans been brave always?"

"Let us come and look at some of them," said her father; and he led her to the long picture gallery that wound round the house.

Christina had sometimes been there with Nurse, and had vaguely wondered who all the grand ladies and gentlemen were. It had never entered her head that they were in any way connected with her. Now she looked up at them eagerly and curiously. Her father knew them all by name, he could remember their different histories. Christina looked at and admired the men, but it was the women about whom she asked most.

"And they were really little girls like me, and always brave, father? They never felt afraid of anything?"

"Do they look as if they feared anybody or anything?" her father returned, a little triumph in his tone.

And Christina shook her head decidedly.

"No, they look so straight and high."

"And that is the look of a Maclahan," said her father. "Hark, I hear your—your mother calling!"

He left her. Christina's little soul was perturbed and miserable. She went back to the nursery and did some thinking by the nursery fire, then she laboriously traced out in big pencil letters, on a sheet of white paper, "Fear dwells not here," and pinned it to the wall over the mantelpiece. After that, she walked up and down the room holding her head as high as she could, and practising with patience and care the kind of look she fancied was upon the faces of the ladies in the picture gallery.

"If only," she murmured; "if only that was not our motto! Oh, if father only knew, if he only guessed—what would he do with me!"

She shut her eyes, and pictured in the olden days a castle, and all the household gathered round the gates. Soldiers were marching out guarding a prisoner, one who had disgraced her family by an act of cowardice, one who was to be banished outside for ever, whose picture in the gallery was to be taken down and burnt: the coward herself, sent out into the cold strange world to perish with hunger, disowned, cast out by her family! Some Spartan tales that she had read helped her to picture this scene with great reality. Then she tried to adapt it to her own day. What would happen if one day she brought disgrace upon the whole family by her fears?

Poor little Christina! Her vivid imagination made her very miserable, and Nurse wondered when dinner time came that she seemed to have no appetite.