CHRISTOPHER AND COLUMBUS

By the Author of Elizabeth and Her German Garden

Frontispiece by Arthur Litle

Garden City New York
Doubleday, Page & Company

1919

[Illustration:  “Oh, yes.  You’re both very fond of me,” said Mr. Twist, pulling his mouth into a crooked and unhappy smile.

“We love you.” said Anna-Felicitas simply.]

CHAPTER I

Their names were really Anna-Rose and Anna-Felicitas; but they decided, as they sat huddled together in a corner of the second-class deck of the American liner St. Luke, and watched the dirty water of the Mersey slipping past and the Liverpool landing-stage disappearing into mist, and felt that it was comfortless and cold, and knew they hadn’t got a father or a mother, and remembered that they were aliens, and realized that in front of them lay a great deal of gray, uneasy, dreadfully wet sea, endless stretches of it, days and days of it, with waves on top of it to make them sick and submarines beneath it to kill them if they could, and knew that they hadn’t the remotest idea, not the very remotest, what was before them when and if they did get across to the other side, and knew that they were refugees, castaways, derelicts, two wretched little Germans who were neither really Germans nor really English because they so unfortunately, so complicatedly were both,—­they decided, looking very calm and determined and sitting very close together beneath the rug their English aunt had given them to put round their miserable alien legs, that what they really were, were Christopher and Columbus, because they were setting out to discover a New World.

“It’s very pleasant,” said Anna-Rose.  “It’s very pleasant to go and discover America.  All for ourselves.”

It was Anna-Rosa who suggested their being Christopher and Columbus.  She was the elder by twenty minutes.  Both had had their seventeenth birthday—­and what a birthday:  no cake, no candles, no kisses and wreaths and home-made poems; but then, as Anna-Felicitas pointed out, to comfort Anna-Rose who was taking it hard, you can’t get blood out of an aunt—­only a month before.  Both were very German outside and very English inside.  Both had fair hair, and the sorts of chins Germans have, and eyes the colour of the sky in August along the shores of the Baltic.  Their noses were brief, and had been objected to in Germany, where, if you are a Junker’s daughter, you are expected to show it in your nose.  Anna-Rose had a tight little body, inclined to the round.  Anna-Felicitas, in spite of being a twin, seemed to have made the most of her twenty extra minutes to grow more in; anyhow she was tall and thin, and she drooped; and having perhaps grown quicker made her eyes more dreamy, and her thoughts more slow.  And both held their heads up with a great air of calm whenever anybody on the ship looked at them, as who should say serenely, “We’re thoroughly happy, and having the time of our lives.”