Chapter II: A Peep at Christina

IT may be remembered that Christina Arbuthnot was an orphan. She had met the Arundels rather more than a year before this at the sea-side, and had become very intimate with them; and eventually she had accepted Dr. Arundel's eldest son, who was now in India.

She had been left by her father in comfortable circumstances, and had intended to devote her life to bringing up little friendless orphans to usefulness and happiness.

Then Walter Arundel had come upon the scene, and had fixed all his life's hopes on winning her.

Christina had hesitated; at first she had felt it to be impossible to yield to his wishes; for there was a grave far away where a great part of her heart lay buried. But after a time, thinking more of Walter than of herself, she had consented, and had settled down at Hampstead with her orphan children quietly content, full more of the present, perhaps, than of the future.

Her house, with its large garden, pleasant rooms, and glorious sunshine, was a home in which any one far less cheerfully constituted might have been happy; and Christina was happy. She loved her aunt, who lived with her; she loved her little orphan children; and the days passed away in her care for both.

There was one little child, "the baby," who had grown very dear to Christina; for her story had been a sad one, and she had been sent to Hampstead under peculiar circumstances. She was at this time a toddling little mite of eighteen months old, with fair hair and white cheeks, in which a tender little colour was beginning to be visible, which was watched by all the inmates of Sunnyside with great interest.

Whether Margaret Fenton, the nurse, or Margaret's own little daughter, Maggie, or Christina herself, loved baby Alice best, was a problem that little Maggie often tried to solve, and she generally ended it satisfactorily by saying in an assured little tone to her mother, "At any rate, God loves her best of all!"

There was, however, no doubt as to which of her devoted admirers baby loved best. Dearly as she liked nurse Margaret, happily as she played with Maggie, her smile of sweetest welcome was reserved for Christina, and it was to her she would go in preference to anyone else.

It was generally understood in the household that, when the young mistress was married, little Alice Forbes was not to be parted from her.

One morning early in January, the nursery door opened, after a slight tap, and Ada Arundel, dressed in hat and jacket, walked into the room.

"Miss Ada, you quite startled me!" said Margaret, looking up pleasantly in the bright young face. "It seems a long time since you were here."

"Yes, I've been dutiful at home, and so I couldn't come. Where's Miss Arbuthnot?"

"She has gone out into the town to get a few things, I believe, miss."

"Is she alone?" asked Ada, glancing round the nearly empty nursery.

"Oh, no! Alfy and Maggie are with her."

"I think I shall wander down the town too, presently, when I am warm, and see if I can find her. I wonder I did not meet her as I came."

"She might be in a shop," suggested Margaret.

"Yes, I daresay she was. And how is 'baby Alice,' Margaret?"

Their eyes turned towards the hearthrug where the little maid was seated. Her warm winter frock was covered by a snowy pinafore, and her flaxen hair was neatly parted, with an attempt at two or three soft little curls.

"She looks pretty well?" said Ada, half questioningly.

"Yes," said Margaret, also with a slight hesitation in her voice, "but she wants a great deal of care, Miss Ada; I doubt if she will ever be strong."

Ada took her up on her lap, and began to talk to her in baby language, Alice staring at her with grave eyes for some moments, and then holding out her arms, with quivering lips, to her nurse.

"She is so shy," said Margaret apologetically, "we have quite a trouble with her sometimes; but we do love her so dearly!" And she fondly kissed the fair little neck, and held her close to her.

"I suppose I am warm now," said Ada, rising; "but your heath is bitterly cold at the open part there, Margaret."

"But very healthy," added Margaret.

Ada made her way once more over the top of the heath—"the abode of the zephyrs," she told Christina it ought to be called—and soon found herself in the midst of the shops.

After walking up and down for a few minutes, she was touched on the hand by a little girl, and was quickly drawn into a draper's shop, where she found Christina seated, while close to her, with very stolid countenance, Alfy Ross was perched, watching the proceedings gravely and without surprise.

"Here you are," exclaimed Ada; "I began to think I should miss you after all."

"It was Maggie spied you; she always knows what is going on, don't you, Maggie?"

Maggie answered by a little smile; then Christina counted her change, and they all turned homewards.

When they entered the hall at Sunnyside, Christina told the children to go at once to the play-room.

"I don't want to," said Alfy, making towards the dining-room.

"Come along, Alfy," said Maggie; "I've got something to show you."

Alfy, still persisted that "he didn't want to," and walked straight into the other room.

"Alfy," said Christina firmly, "come at once, as I told you."

Alfy held on by the table, and looked determined not to give in.

Christina took no more notice, but closing the door upon him, went up with Ada to take off their things.

"Do you often have him troublesome?" asked Ada, noticing a shade upon Christina's usually calm face.

"Yes; he is very difficult to manage; but I have found out now what to do when he is naughty. I take no notice of him at all."

"Does he care for that?" asked Ada.

"Oh, dear, yes, in the end. But it always makes me sorrowful when they are naughty, so you must not mind, Ada."

"Is Maggie ever tiresome?"

"Never to me. She is the sweetest little thing, and so well brought up. Oh, if all were like Maggie, there would be no trouble. But sometimes Margaret fears whether she has will enough of her own."

"Oh, dear!" said Ada. "One has too much, and one too little. Why, Christina, I am always struggling because I have too much."

Christina smiled sympathizingly. "Yes, Ada; so it is."

"Now at home," pursued Ada, "I do dislike to give in to Nellie, dearly as I love her. She is so methodical, and nice, and wise; and I am 'harum-scarum,' and full of spirits, and when I am wild to do some outlandish thing, she advises me not—almost commands me—says mamma would not wish it; and then up rises my will, and I can't give in."

"But Nellie does not do it to destroy your pleasure, dear Ada, I am sure. Can you not try to consider whether it would be your mamma's wish?"

"I do, Christina; but don't you think it is a little hard to be ruled by elder sisters?"

"I daresay it is," answered Christina; "but I often wish I had one."

"Well, I am afraid I'm not a good temper, and that makes me so annoyed over little things."

"So you feel it is like a sore place that you have just got to bear."

Ada looked up at the tone in which Christina said this, and found there was a glimmer of a smile in her eyes.

"Well, what else can I do?" she asked, a little nettled.

"When we have sore places, what do we do?"

"Bear them."

"Nothing else?"

"Not that I know of."

"Do we not seek a cure?"

"There's no cure for bad temper."

"Is there not? Is there no balm that can be applied? No touch that can soothe and heal?"

"Oh, well," said Ada, softening, "I daresay there is in that way. But do you really think now, Christina, that if I felt a bad temper coming, I could get it cured before it got beyond me?"

"Yes; if you were willing to have it cured, most certainly. Try it, Ada.

"'Come unto Me, all ye that are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take My yoke upon you, and learn of Me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls. For My yoke is easy and My burden is light.'"

"I'll remember that," said Ada, with that tenderness in her face which Christina loved to see in the proud young girl. So she kissed her lovingly, and they went down stairs.

Christina went through the dining-room purposely, and entered the play-room from that way. Margaret was at work, baby Alice slept in a crib in the corner, and Maggie was seated at the table doing her lessons.

Christina showed Margaret her purchases, and after glancing at the baby, she and Ada went into the drawing room.

Christina stirred up the fire and drew a chair close, and telling Ada to sit there, pushed one forward for herself.

"It will soon be dinner-time, but we can have a chat first. Must you be home by dark?"

"Yes; I am to leave at three o'clock."

"Ada, I believe I have found another little child!"

"Have you? Where?"

"You know I have not increased the numbers as much as I at first intended. Somehow, as I knew more about it, the responsibility seemed very great, and I thought it would be wiser to wait till—"

"Till Walter comes to share it, I suppose?" said Ada archly.

"Partly, but not wholly, Ada. I do not think it would be right to take more children than I could provide for out of my own funds, if circumstances did not permit of my taking care of them myself."

"I see," said Ada.

"But, however," continued Christina, "I have found a fourth child, and I am to fetch him this afternoon."

"Are you? Oh, do tell me."

"It is a very sad case, Ada; a drunken mother. I was travelling home from a short visit to some relations in the North last week, as you know, and when the bustle of settling ourselves in our carriage was over, and everyone subsided into quiescence, I looked round me, as I generally do, trying to fancy what homes my fellow-travellers come from, and where they are going to."

"Do you?" said Ada. "How funny."

"At the other end of the carriage was a man in shabby-genteel clothes, holding on his knee a baby of about eighteen months old. Oh, his face, Ada! I said to myself—for I saw he was alone, and the child had been dressed by no careful, loving hands—I said to myself, 'You have lost your wife, and are obliged to take your baby somewhere to be looked after.' The child sat very still; it seemed as if want of love and cherishing had pressed the life out of its little nature, and my heart ached for it."

"What a loving heart you have," said Ada, as she gazed at the beautiful face, with its eyes full of tears.

"By-and-by, the man began talking to the person next him, and I caught the words, 'It's the last of eight. I'm taking him away from his mother; she is no mother to him, and I can bear it no longer.'

"How hopelessly sad was the tone of those words.

"When the carriage cleared at Peterborough, and we were left alone, I drew nearer to him, and asked if I should hold the baby for a few minutes. I assure you its quietness was touching. It seemed unaccustomed to notice or cheerfulness, and when I cooed at him, he looked wonderingly at me with no answering smile."

"Poor little baby!" said Ada.

"Then the broken-hearted father told me his story, impelled to it, I suppose, by my sympathy and his own sad need.

"He had married for love, and for years had been perfectly happy.

"He and his wife kept a draper's shop in York, and had got on comfortably, and been able to educate their children. By-and-by, he noticed a gradual change in his wife; he thought it was illness, and used to comfort and nurse her with the utmost solicitude. But the often-recurring symptoms, which no doctoring relieved, at last made him consult a physician, who took him aside and told him what was the cause of it all.

"'She takes spirits secretly,' he said.

"Then the poor man returned to his ruined home.

"He tried to stop it by entreaty, by denial, by commands; all to no purpose. The business was slighted, the children were neglected, the home was left ungoverned, and he had to remove one child after another from her influence.

"At first she had promised amendment, but the craving for the exciting, stimulating glass was too strong to be withstood, and she let all her resolutions go to the winds.

"The tale, Ada, was long and very, very sad. The climax of taking the baby away was brought about by the wretched father finding its cradle on fire on the previous night, while its mother slept heavily by its side.

"I asked him what he intended doing with the little one.

"'I don't know,' he said. 'To tell you the truth, I am taking it without warning to my sisters; but she has a large family, and I don't know that she can possibly take it. Folks don't want other people's babies,' he added, sadly smiling, while he clasped it tighter in his arms.

"The little fellow looked up then, and gave the first faint smile I had seen.

"Then I told him that if his sister could not have it, he could come to me, for that I knew some one who took care of such little ones. I gave him my address, and told him, you may be sure, where the only comfort and help could be found; and so we parted, he to his sister's, and I to Hampstead.

"The next morning, true to my expectation, he came; not, however, bringing the little boy with him. He soon told me that he had found his sister, in poor health and poor circumstances; that she had, in spite of this, promised to take the child for a few months, till he could see what could be done; but she had so evidently offered this in sisterly love, without really the ability to carry it out, that he had come to me to ask my advice, and to enquire about the home I spoke of.

"What could I do, Ada? I told him all, and I shall never forget how he went to the window and stood struggling with his emotion. Then he turned round and took my hand in his, and blessed me, and saying a smothered word about the baby being his only joy, and about writing to explain, he hurried out of the house, too much overcome to say anything more.

"He, however, came back in an hour, and it was arranged that the aunt should keep the baby for a week, and then I should fetch it here.

"Oh, Ada, I do believe that the poor father went back to York with a little bit of hope in his heart; for he wrote to me afterwards, and told me that he had found, as I had said, that 'God was a refuge and strength, and a very present help in time of trouble.'"

The maid now entered and announced dinner, and Christina rose and led the way into the dining-room once more.

Ada whispered on the way, "What shall you do with Alfy?"

But she received no answer, as they were already in the room. There stood the poor little man, looking unhappy enough, by the table; and there sat Maggie, as sweet and smiling as could be, opposite.

Christina asked a blessing, and served the dinner without taking the smallest notice of the offender. He followed the plates in Ellen's hands with his eyes, but did not deign to turn his head.

The meat was eaten and removed, and the pudding came on before he moved a finger. Ada looked appealingly towards Christina, who, however, shook her head. Ellen was just taking up the pudding-dish to carry it out, when Alfy's bravery gave way, and with a sob in his voice he turned to Christina, and, hiding his curly head against her, said, "I sorry, auntie!"

"That's a darling!" said Christina.

And Ada could not help admiring the motherliness which welcomed the first signs of relenting, and caused her to kiss the wet cheek and receive him instantly into favour.

Alfy's dinner was perhaps rather light that day; for he missed his meat altogether. Christina helped him to a large share of pudding, however, but did not keep it on the table for more.

"You can have as much bread with it as you want, dear," she said; "but you know it is a sad truth, that if we do not do right, we must suffer for it."

So a sunny little face climbed up to the table, and a little face opposite gave an angel's smile to welcome him.