"That freer step, that fuller breath,That wide horizon's grander view,That sense of life that knows no death,That life that maketh all things new."
"That freer step, that fuller breath,That wide horizon's grander view,That sense of life that knows no death,That life that maketh all things new."
For the singer had filled every note of the immortal music with her own beautiful, happy soul, and the congregation—old and young—went to their homes loving her.
Robert's heart burned within him, for while sharing the enthusiasm of the crowd he had also his personal delight in the knowledge that this dear, clever woman was his wife, and that she loved him. He went to the foot of the gallery stairs and waited there for her. He clasped her hand and looked into her face with beaming eyes as the elders and deacons gathered round her with eloquent thanks, and all the way home he forgot every one but Theodora.
A few days after Easter Sunday, Robert came home earlier than usual, but he entered his wife's presence with such a pleasant countenance, that she rose smiling and went to meet him.
"I have come to tell you something I hope will please you, Dora," he said. "Mr. Oliphant has taken a furnished villa at Inverkip, and there is another to let a few hundred yards distant. Inverkip is so near Glasgow, I could run down to you frequently—always on Friday or Saturday until Monday. What do you say, if I take the vacant villa?"
"O, Robert, I should be delighted!"
"Then I will hire it for the season, and you can have your piano and books and what other things you wish easily shipped there. Consult Mrs. Oliphant, she will advise you just what to do."
"Dear Robert, you make me more happy than I can tell."
"And the Oliphants will be delighted you are going to be near them. There may be some nice families there, and it is not unlikely Dr. Robertson will be of the number."
All came to pass like a wish, and early in April Theodora was comfortably settled at Inverkip, and the Oliphants and Dr. Robertson soon followed her. Inverkip was hardly a fashionable summer resort, but it was pleasant and secluded, and also beautifully situated—facing Inellen, and the slopes of Cowal, with a fine background of mountains.
After a winter in dark, wet, bitter Glasgow, the country in April was like Paradise. Robert went down with her one lovely Friday, Ducie and two other servants, with such furniture and ornaments as they thought necessary, having preceded them nearly a week. So the villa was in comparative order and a perfect little dinner awaited them. Theodora experienced a child's enchantment; her simple, eager surprise, her deep sense of the wonder and beauty of the brooding spring, and her delightful expression of it, went to Robert's heart. For her tender eyes were laughing with boundless good humor, her lips parted as if forced to speak by the inner fulness of her happy heart, and he saw in her
—"a soulJoying to find itself alive,Lord over Nature, lord of the visible earth,Lord of the senses five."
—"a soulJoying to find itself alive,Lord over Nature, lord of the visible earth,Lord of the senses five."
"There is even a taste of green things in the air, Robert," she said; "and look at the trees! They are misty with buds and plumes, and tufts and tassels; and the larches and pines are whispering like a thousand girls. O, it is heavenly! And listen to the waters running and leaping down the mountains! It is a tongue of life in the lonely places," and as she passed the open piano, she stood still, touched a few notes, and sang in a captivating, simple manner:
"O the springtime! the springtime!Who does not know it well?When the little birds begin to build,And the buds begin to swell,When the sun and the clouds play hide and seek,And the lambs are softly bleating;And the color mounts to the maiden's cheek,At her lover's tender greeting,—In the springtime, in the joyous springtime."
"O the springtime! the springtime!Who does not know it well?When the little birds begin to build,And the buds begin to swell,
When the sun and the clouds play hide and seek,And the lambs are softly bleating;And the color mounts to the maiden's cheek,At her lover's tender greeting,—In the springtime, in the joyous springtime."
Then Robert stayed her simple song, saying: "Let us go and walk in the garden while I smoke my cigar." And she went gladly, and they walked and talked together until the soft gray afternoon was verging to purple and red on the horizon.
That night her heart was too full of hope and sweet content to let her sleep. She had not been as happy for many months. She had not been as hopeful. She told herself this detached life was all that was required to secure Robert's affection, and that six months of it would make him impatient of any intrusion into the sacredness of his home. And she was full of sweet, innocent plans to increase and settle certainly and firmly the treasure of his love. They kept her waking, so she rose long before morning, and, opening a casement, looked out into the dusky night full of stars. She sat there, watching Nature in those ineffable moments when she is dreaming, until the cold white light of the dawning showed her the waning moon blue in the west.
The next day Robert went fishing, and Theodora put in order the china, crystal, and fine damask, and the books and ornaments she had brought down to Inverkip. Robert praised what she had done, vowing she would make the best of housekeepers; and the evening and the next day were altogether full of love and sweet content.
Then Robert went back to Glasgow and business, and Mr. and Mrs. Oliphant and Dr. Robertson's family arrived. The young wife visited and helped her friends, and they spent long, pleasant evenings at each other's houses. Theodora said to herself: "Things are not going as badly with me as I thought, and I wonder if we ever know if bad is bad, or good is good."
Many happy weeks followed this initial one and Theodora was grateful for every pleasant hour, for she was facing the trial and the glory of maternity and she wished her child's prenatal influences to be favorable on every side. The social life of Inverkip could not in its present conditions be called fashionable, and that was a good thing, for few women can go into fashionable society without catching its fashionable insanity, whatever it may be at the time. Theodora spent many quiet, delightful hours with her friends the Oliphants and Robertsons, but her chief pleasure she took from the hand of Nature.
Every fine day she was up among the great hills, and it is a bad heart that is not purified by walking on them. She was passionately fond of birds, and had the power to attract them to her. Morning and evening she fed at her dining-room window
"The bird that man loves best,The pious bird with scarlet breast,The little English robin."
"The bird that man loves best,The pious bird with scarlet breast,The little English robin."
They crowded the sweet briar bush that grew beside the window, and praised and thanked her in the sweetest songs mortal ever heard. The blue cushat's "croodle" and its mournful love monologue moved her to sympathetic tears. She was sure the pretty faithful creature had a forgetful, or unkind mate. The swallows cradling themselves in the air, and chattering so amiably; the tiny wren's quick, short song; the fond and faithful bullfinch couples; the honest, respectable thrushes; the pilfering blackbirds; the nightingale's solemn music in the night; the lark's velvety, supple, indefatigable song in the early morning—these, and many more of the winged voices of the firmament, she understood; but to the humble, poorly-clad lark, she gave an ardent affection. To her it was a bird of heaven, living on love and light, singing for half-an-hour without a second's pause, rising vertically a thousand yards as she sang, without losing a note, and sending earthward exquisite waterfalls of song.
In this sane and peaceful life, month after month went onward delightfully, while she waited in the fulness of health and hope for the child which God would give her. During these months Robert also had been happy. Now and then there had been invasions of the lower man, but in the main he was joyous and amiable, thoughtful for her comfort, and delighted to share all her hopes and pleasures. He had insisted on his mother and sisters going to the Bridge of Allan for the summer months, had given Jepson and Mrs. McNab holiday, and practically closed the Glasgow house until September. And he had found Inverkip so pleasant, that he was even more with Theodora than his promise demanded.
One day near the end of July Mrs. McNab came to Inverkip and called on Theodora, who was delighted to see her. In a few minutes she began to take off her bonnet and shawl. "I hae been thinking things o'er," she said, "and I hae made up my mind to stay wi' you the next four weeks—for there's nane that I can see about this house fit to take my place—a wheen lilting lasses, tee-heeing and giggling as if life was a dance-hall."
"They are nice, good girls, McNab."
"They may be, but they are flighty and nervous, and they hae no experience. I am going to take care o' you and the house mysel'. When you are sick——"
"McNab, I am in splendid health."
"That's a' right. Splendid health you have, and splendid health you will require, and some one to keep people out o' the house that arena wanted near it. I am not going awa', so you needna speak the word. Is your ain mother coming to you?"
"She cannot. They will have to move next month."
"Weel, then, you arena to be fretted wi' any other mother, and it will take an extraordinar' woman—like mysel'—to be all you want, and to fend off all you don't want. I am gey fond o' newborn babies—poor wee things, shipwrecked on a cold, bad world—and if there isna some sensible kind-hearted body wi' your bairn, they will be trying their auld world tricks wi' it. I shall stay here and see the bonnie wee thing isna left to their mercy."
"What do you mean? You frighten me, McNab."
"I mean, that if the bairn is left to any auld-farrant nurse, she will wash it in whiskey as soon as it comes into the world, and there is nae doubt in my mind, that the spirit isna pleasant to the tender skin o' the poor wean."
"Oh, McNab! what a dreadful custom!"
"Weel, it is an auld, auld custom, and though some are giving it up, there are mair that stick to it. If Mrs. Traquair Campbell should be here, I'm feared the whiskey bottle would be gey close to the washbowl. And you wouldna like it."
"I would not permit it."
"How would you help it? Tell me that. The only time you managed that woman you had to nearly die to do it, and I'm not clear that you got the better o' her then."
"She will not be here, McNab. She will not be asked."
McNab snapped her fingers. "'Asked,' is it? She will walk into this house as if it was her ain. 'It is my son's house,' she will say, and then she'll proceed to use her son's house as if the de'il had sent her to destroy everything that belongs to other folk; and day and night she'll make quarrelling and misery. That's Mrs. Traquair Campbell's way, and the hale o' her brood is like her."
"Now, McNab, you know Mr. Robert Campbell is very different. You must not speak ill of my husband."
"No, ma'am. There's two Robert Campbells. Ane o' them is weel worth the love you're giving him; the other is like the auld man that tormented the Saints themsel's. He'll get kicked out some day, nae doubt o' it."
"Mr. Campbell told me he had given you a holiday until the first of September. He spoke very well of you."
"I have had mair holiday than I want now."
"Where were you?"
"I was in Edinburgh, seeing the world and the ways o' it."
"What did you think of the world and its ways?"
"I dinna think them fit to talk about. I'll go now, and give things a bit sort up. I'll warrant them requiring the same."
So McNab got—or rather took—her way, and soon after appeared in the kitchen in her large white mutch and apron. "Now, lasses," she said in her most commanding manner, "I am come here on a special invite to keep you and the house in order during the tribulation o' the mistress. But you'll find me a pleasant body to live wi', if you behave yoursel's and let the lads alane. If you don't, you will find you have got to do wi' the Mischief."
"The lads, ma'am?" said a smart young lassie; "the lads! We have not a particle o' use for them—auld or young."
"What's your name?"
"Maggie."
"Weel, Maggie, you are a sensible lass, and you may now make Mistress McNab—that's mysel'—a cup o' tea, and if there's a slice o' cold beef or a bit o' meat pie in the house——"
"There's neither meat nor pie in the house."
"Then, Maggie, gie me a rizzard haddie wi' my tea. I'm easy pleased except wi' dinner. A good dinner is a fixed fact wi' me, and when I've had a cup o' tea I'll feel mair like Flora McNab. At the present hour, I'm fagged and wastered, and requiring a refreshment. That's sure!"
At first Theodora did not feel satisfied with McNab's gratuitous offer of service, but Robert quickly made her so. "I am delighted," he said. "I have known the woman ever since I can remember. She stood by my father in his long sickness as faithfully as she stands by you. I can never be uneasy about my wife if McNab is with her."
So McNab took the place she had chosen, and the house was soon aware of her presence. There were more economy, better meals, perfect discipline, and a refreshing sense of peace and order. For she had a rare power of ruling, and also of making those ruled pleased to be so. Thus, for two weeks, Theodora had a sense of pause and rest that was strengthening both to the inner and outer woman. Then in the secret silence of the midnight, her fear was turned into joy, for McNab laid her first-born son in her arms and Robert knelt at her side, his heart brimming with love and thanksgiving. And had he fully realized the blessing given, he would have known it was, Thy Kingdom come, from the cradle.
Surely this great event would make all things new! This was Theodora's constant thought and hope, and for a while it seemed to do so. But the readiness with which we come to accept rare and great blessings as customary is one of the most common and ungrateful of our blasphemies against the Father from whom all blessings flow. And very soon the beautiful babe became as usual as the other everyday incidents of life, to all excepting his mother and McNab. Robert, indeed, was fond and proud of him, and as long as they remained in Inverkip the little fellow was something new that belonged to himself in a manner wonderful and satisfying.
But with the return of the family to Glasgow, the child lost the charm of the Inverkip environment. In Traquair House he received even from his father only the Campbell affection, which had no enthusiasms, no baby talk, no petting, no foolish admirations. It was almost impossible for the mother to accept this change of attitude with nonchalance, or even cheerfulness. She could not withstand the influence of the dull, gray house, and the toiling, moiling, money-grabbing city, though she felt intuitively that the influence of both was inimical to her domestic happiness. For the house was impregnated with the Campbell personality, so much so that the very apparatus of their daily life had become eloquent of the moods of those they ministered to; and Theodora often felt as if the sofas and chairs in their rooms resented her use of them.
A prepossession of this kind was an unhappy one, and easily affiliated itself with the spirit of the house, which was markedly a quarrelsome spirit. Nurtured and indulged for more than two generations, it had become an inflexible, almost an invincible one. All Theodora's smiling efforts, all her charms and entreaties had failed to conciliate, or even appease its grudging resentment. It was a piteous thing that the first trouble after her return to Glasgow, should be concerning the child. Robert had been pleased by the assurance of his friends in Inverkip that his son resembled him in an extraordinary manner. He was himself sure of this resemblance, though Theodora could only see "that difference in sameness" often enough pronounced between fathers and sons.
Mrs. Campbell scouted the idea. She said: "The child had not a single Campbell feature or trait. He did not even suck his tongue, a trick all the Campbell babies had, as McNab knew right well. And she understood there had not been a single Campbell in the room when he was born—an important and significant mistake that never could be rectified. She could only say, and she always would say, that the boy was Theodora's child."
"I hope he is," answered Robert, who was nettled by the criticism. "He cannot do better than take after his mother in every way."
"And I am fairly shocked, Robert," she continued, "that the child—who's ever it is—hasna yet been baptized. Seven weeks old and not baptized! I never heard the like. My children were covenanted Christians before they were two weeks old. It was my first thought for them."
"Well, mother, we wanted to be quite sure of the name. A boy's name means much to him when he becomes a man."
"There is but one name proper for the child, that is his grandfather's."
"Do you mean Traquair?" asked Robert.
"Yes, Traquair—a fine family name."
Theodora looked entreatingly at Robert, and he understood her dissent and shared it.
"Mother," he answered, "I have a great objection to Traquair."
"Objection! Pray, why?"
"It was not a fortunate name for my father. It is not a good business name."
"My father was a Traquair, and he made a great deal of money."
"Your father was called Donald Traquair. That is different. Traquair is a good family name, but it is not a good Christian name."
"We could call him Donald," said Theodora. "Donald is a good name, though I think Robert likes David best of all."
"David!" ejaculated Mrs. Campbell with anger. "I will have no David Campbells in this house! I will not suffer my grandson to be called David. It was like you to propose it."
"I thought it would please you. I am quite willing my son should be called David."
"I think David is a very good name," said Robert, but his opinion was given with that over-decision which cowardice assumes when it forces itself to assertion.
"To have a David Campbell in the house will be a great annoyance to me," continued Mrs. Campbell. "It will be enough to make me hate the child."
Then Theodora left the room. She felt that the argument had gone as far as it was likely to be reasonable. In a short time Robert followed her and his face wore a look of vexation and perplexity.
"Have you decided on the name yet, Robert?" she asked.
"No."
"Why not call him after yourself?"
"Because in the course of time I should likely be compelled to write 'senior' after my own name. I do not care to look forward to that. Mother has set her mind on Traquair."
"It is the only Scotch name I object to. It has not one noble association. If you say Robert, you think of Robert Bruce, and Robert Burns, and a score of other great men. Call him Donald, or Dugald, or Duncan, or Angus, or Hector, or Alexander, they are all Christian names and will not subject the little lad when he goes among the boys and men, to mockery. Traquair will give them two objectionable nicknames—Tray, which is a dog's name, and Quair will easily slip into queer. Think of it—Tray Campbell, or Queer Campbell. It will not do, Robert."
"No. Traquair will not do. It will not do."
"There is one good reason for not calling the child Robert, not the 'senior' reason at all. I want you to keep and make famous your own name. You are really a good natural orator. I noticed your speech, and its delivery at Dr. Robertson's dinner, when we were at Inverkip. It was the best speech made. It was finely delivered. You are rich and going to be richer; why not cultivate your gift, and run for Parliament? No one can put political views into a more sensible and eloquent speech than Robert Campbell."
"I think you overrate my abilities, Dora," replied Robert, but he spoke with a kind of musing satisfaction.
"No, you could become a good speaker, and if you wish, I am sure you may write M. P. after your name. Why not decide on David? You love your big brother yet. You never speak of him without emotion. He will come back to you, I am sure. And how proud you will be to say: 'I never forgot you, David. I called my first-born son after you.'"
"You are right, Dora, you are right. The boy's name is David. I have said it and it shall be so. Mother must give way. She must remember for once, that we have some feelings and prejudices as well as herself."
At that moment Ducie entered with the child, and Theodora took him in her arms and said: "Ducie, the baby is to be called David." Then she kissed the name on his lips and he opened his blue eyes and smiled at her.
The next Sabbath the child was solemnly baptized David, and Robert entered his name in the large family Bible, which had been the first purchase he made for his home after Theodora had accepted him.
But in neither ceremony did Mrs. Traquair Campbell take any part. She did not go to church, and when Robert asked her to come into his parlor and see the entry of her grandson's name in the Book, she refused. All of the household were present but the infant's grandmother and aunts; and all blessed the child as Theodora put him a moment into the arms of the women present. McNab kissed him, and made a kind of apology for the act, saying she "never could help kissing a boy baby, since she was a baby hersel', and even if it were a girl baby a bit bonnie, she whiles fell easy into the same infirmity."
In this case Theodora gained her desire, and some will say she gained it by flattering her husband. It would be fairer to say byadmiringher husband. A wise wife knows that in domestic diplomacies, admiration is a puissant weapon. In a great many cases it is better than love. Men are not always in the mood to be loved, their minds may be busy with things naturally antagonistic to love; and to show a warmth that is not shared is a grave mistake. But all men are responsive to admiration. It succeeds where reasoning and arguing and endearments fail. For the person admired feels that he is believed in, and trusted. He has nothing to explain and nothing to justify, and this attitude makes the wheels of the household run smoothly.
Is then Theodora to be blamed? If so, there are an unaccountable number of women, yesterday, to-day, and forever, in the same fault. It would be safe to say there is not a happy household in the land where the wives and mothers do not use many such small hypocrisies. Is there any wife reading this sentence, who has not often made a pleasant evening for her whole family, by a few admiring or sympathizing words? For though a woman will go through hard work and distracting events without praise or sympathy, a man cannot. If admiration and kindness fail him, he flies to the black door of oblivion by drink, or drugs, or a pistol shot. A man with a wife whose sympathy and admiration can be relied on, is never guilty of that sin. Is there a good wife living who has not pretended interest in subjects she really cares nothing about; who has not listened to the same stories a hundred times, and laughed every time; who does not in some way or other, violate her own likes or dislikes, tastes or opinions every day in the week in order to induce a household atmosphere which it will be pleasant to live in?
This is not the place to discuss the ethics of this universal custom. Women, with reckless waste have always flung themselves into the domestic gulf. They choose to throw away their own happiness in order to make others happy, forgetting too often thatthey who injure themselves shall not be counted innocent.
Home is not ruined in a day, and it is wonderful what rack and strain and tugging the marriage tie will bear ere it snaps asunder. For three years and a half after the birth of the child, Theodora was subjected to an unwearying hostility, always finding fresh reasons for complaint and injustice. And it was a cruel symptom of this intentional malice, that it took as its usual vehicle, little David. He could do nothing right. Baby as he was, his grandmother found him to be a child of many sinful proclivities. She was never weary of pointing out his faults. "He looked so vulgarly English, he had no Scotch burr in his speech; he walked wrong, he made her peaceful home a Bedlam of crying and shouting. He was naturally rude, he would scarcely answer his aunts if they spoke to him; and if she herself but came near him, he ran away and hid himself in his mother's arms. He was also shockingly fond of low company. He could not be coaxed into her room, but was never out of the kitchen; and one day she had found him sitting on the pastry table, watching McNab make the tarts." At this charge Robert smiled and asked:
"Why does not Ducie keep him out of the kitchen? She ought to do so."
"She likes to be there herself. I think it would be well to send her back to Kendal at once. There is no necessity for a nurse now, and the boy ought to be learning how to care for himself—you did so before you were his age. And really, Robert, keeping a maid for Dora is a most unnecessary expense; it also makes a great deal of trouble among the house-servants. The girl is always quarrelling with them about her mistress, and pitying them about their mistress. I fancy Dora makes an equal of her."
"That is not Dora's way, mother. And the girl is not only a nurse, she attends to our rooms also."
"The house chambermaid could do that."
"Could she do it the first thing in the morning?"
"Do you think Dora's rooms ought to be attended to before mine?"
"Dora likes them to be put in order early, and I am willing to pay for her wish."
"More fool you! I dare be bound, she cleaned her own room before you married her."
"If she had married Lord Thurson, instead of me, he would have given her a dozen maids had she wished them."
"Do you think I believe that romancing about Lord Thurson? I am not such a born idiot. You cannot persuade me, that two men in the world wanted to marry Dora Newton.Hout, tout!Men are feckless enough, but not that crazy."
Such conversations as this occurred usually in the library after dinner where Mrs. Campbell now made a point of visiting her son. For this end, she had conquered her dislike both of the room and his tobacco, and there she carried all the small gossip and worries of the household. And Robert soon began to enjoy this visit, and the tale-bearing suspicions and arguments that enlivened it. It pleased him to feel that he knew all that was going on in the house, and he also liked to know whether Theodora had been out or not, whether she had dressed for calling or walking, and, if she had not left the house, how she had been occupied, what callers she had had, and how many letters she had received. He was not even averse to knowing the post-office stamps of these letters.
And when men indulge this petty weakness, they soon learn to enjoy its humbling cruelties and its mean triumphs, hardly considering that under such a disintegrating process all domestic happiness crumbles inwardly away. Thus Robert grew indifferent to the woman he so pitilessly analyzed, and fell gradually into the godless, thankless quiescence of getting used to happiness. It was then easy to regard what had once been a miraculous blessing as a thing monotonous and commonplace.
With Theodora, he had now little companionship. He had ceased to consult her about anything, they neither wept nor rejoiced together, they did not even quarrel, and no legal bill of divorce could have more effectually separated them than did this moral divorce, in which there was neither disputing nor forgiveness. But though Theodora consented to this evil condition outwardly, as a form of sacrifice for David's sake, inwardly she knew it to be overcome. She bore it cheerfully, despised its power, and ignored as much as possible its presence.
Had she been left to herself she must have broken down under the unceasing tension, but constantly visited by thenot herself, she lifted up her head, and when urged too fiercely, walked her lonely room with God, and dared to tell Him all the sorrow in her heart. Her disappointment had been dreadful, but God's pity had touched the great mistake, and she was now waiting as patiently and cheerfully as possible for the finality sure to come.
So far she had hid her wrongs and her disillusions in her heart; not even to her parents had she complained. The heart-breaking cruelties from which she suffered were not recognized by the law, and they were screened from the world by the closed doors of domestic life. So she had bowed both her heart and her head, and was dumb to every one but her Maker. He alone knew her in those days of utter desolation, when her wronged and wounded soul retired from all earthly affections to that Eternal Love always waiting our hour of need.
At this time it was the once snubbed and depressed Christina who dominated Traquair House. From her first interview with Theodora, she had resolved to become like her. With patient zeal she had studied and acquired whatever Theodora had recommended. And quickly divining the bent of her intellectual faculties, Theodora had educated that bent to perfection. The correct technique of the piano was already known to Christina, but Theodora directed it into its proper channel of expression, and showed her how to put a soul into her playing and singing. She found for her the most delicate and humorous portions of literature, and taught her how to recite them. She made her free of all the secrets of beautiful dressing, and urged her to do justice to her person; until very gradually the commonplace Christina had flowered into an attractive woman.
In the third year of Theodora's married life Christina had begun to dress herself with a rich and almost fastidious elegance, and, as frequently happens, she put on with her fine clothing a certain amount of genius and authority. No one snubbed her now, for she had made a distinct place for herself in the special set the Traquair Campbells affected—the rich religious set—and her definite and agreeable accomplishments caused her to be eagerly sought for every entertainment in that set. She had begun to have admirers, flowers were sent to her and gentlemen called upon her, and she received invitations from them to concerts, lectures, and such national and therefore correct plays, asRob RoyandMacbeth. This social admiration developed her self-appreciation and self-reliance to a wonderful extent. She was no longer afraid of any member of her family, and they were secretly very proud of her.
Mrs. Campbell talked of her daughter's social triumphs constantly. "Your sister is the belle of every occasion, Robert," she said to her son. "She has as many as five and six callers every day; she has been named in the papers as 'the lovely and accomplished Miss Christina Campbell'; she has numerous lovers to tak' her choice o', and tell me, my lad, whaur's your Theodora now!" She tossed her head triumphantly to the scornful laugh with which she asked the question.
"Mother, you know that Dora has made Christina all she is. Be honest, and confess that."
"'Deed I will not. The beauty and the talents were a' in the lassie. Dora may have said a word now and then, and showed her a thing or two, here and there, but the gifts were Christina's, and the lassie's ain patient wark has brought them to their perfection. That's a crowned truth and I'll suffer no contradiction to it. We shall have to order her wedding feast vera soon. I have not a doubt o' that."
"I hope she will have the sense not to overlook the baronet in her train of admirers."
"You're meaning Sir Thomas Wynton?"
"Yes. He is quite in the mind to buy a handsome share in the works, and his name and money would be a great thing for us. I intend to bring him here to dinner to-morrow. Tell Christina I am looking to her to bring him into the family, and into the works."
"I'll be no such fool, Robert Campbell. I shall say nothing anent Sir Thomas, save the particular fact of his coming here to dinner. Little you know o' women, if you think any lassie can be counselled to marry the man she ought to marry."
"Take your own way with her, mother, but mind this—the securing of Sir Thomas Wynton will be a special providence for the Campbells. He has one hundred thousand pounds to invest, and I cannot bear to think of him carrying all that capital anywhere but to the Campbell furnaces."
"I'll manage it. Never fear, Robert, Christina shall be my lady Christina and you shall have the Wynton siller to trade with. It will be a righteous undertaking for me, for it is fairly sinful in Sir Thomas, hiding his hundred thousand talents—as it were—in a napkin. A bank is no better than a napkin; money is just folded away in it; and money is made round that it may roll. The Campbell works will set the hundred thousand pieces rolling and gathering more, and more, and still more.Losh!it makes me tremble to think of them going out o' the Campbell road. That would be an unthinkable calamity."
"If you can manage it, mother, it——"
"'If'—there's no 'if' in the matter." She smiled and nodded, and seemed so sure of success, that Robert found it difficult to refrain himself from making certain calculations, dependent upon a larger capital.
The next day at noon Mrs. Campbell remarked in a tone of inconvenience, or household discomfort: "I believe, girls, your brother is going to bring Sir Thomas Wynton home with him to-night. I am fairly wearied of the man's name."
"He is a very fine gentleman, mother," said Christina.
"He is auld, and auld-farrant."
"He is not over forty-five, and he is far from being old-fashioned. He is up to the nick of the times in everything."
"Your brother never thinks of any manly quality but money. He says Sir Thomas is rich. I wouldn't wonder if he has only the name o' riches. But, rich or poor, he is coming to dinner, and I be to see McNab anent the eatables. A very moderate dinner will do, I should say."
"Make the finest dinner you can, mother, and it will be only a pot-luck affair to Sir Thomas," answered Christina. "He is rich, and he is powerful in politics, and he has one of the finest castles in Midlothian. He is well worth a good dinner, mother, and Robert will like to see he has one."
"What do you say, Isabel?"
"I say Robert is worth pleasing, mother. The other man is a problem, perhaps it may be worth while to please him, perhaps not. The negatives generally win, I've noticed that."
"Well, well! The dinner is all we can cater for—there's accidentals anent every affair, and they are beyont us, as a rule. Are either of you going out this afternoon?"
"There is nothing to take me out," said Isabel.
"I was out late last night," said Christina. "I shall rest this afternoon. Sir Thomas is rather a weariness. We shall all be thankful when he makes his court bow and says, 'Good-night, ladies! I have had a perfectly delightsome evening.'" She boldly mimicked the baronet's broad Scotch speech and courtly debonair manner, without any fear of the cold silence, or cutting reproofs her mimicry used to provoke.
No more was said, and the girls did not take Sir Thomas Wynton into their conversation. He appeared to be a person of no importance to them. As they were parting Isabel asked: "What will you wear to-night, Christina?" and Christina answered: "I have not thought of my dress yet—what will you wear?"
"My gray silk, trimmed with black lace."
"Put on white laces; they are more becoming."
"The dress is ready for the Social Club at the church, Friday. Why should I alter it for a couple of hours to-night? I wish you would wear your rose satin. You look so bonnie in it."
"I'll not don it for Sir Thomas Wynton! I wish to wear it at Mrs. Bannerman's dinner Thursday, and Wynton is sure to be there. I don't want him to think I wore my best dress for him only. It would set him up too high."
But if she did not wish to wear her rose satin for Sir Thomas, she appeared in a far more effective costume—a black Maltese lace gown, trimmed with bright rose-colored bows of satin ribbon. Her really fine arms were bare from the elbows, her square-cut neck showed a beautifully white, firm throat, and the glow of the ribbons was over her neck and arms, and touched the dress here and there charmingly. A bright red rose showed among the manifold braids of her black hair, and she had in her hand a rose-colored fan, with which she coquetted very prettily.
Robert was charmed with her appearance, and told her so. "I want you to charm Sir Thomas Wynton for me," he added. "It is desirable that I should have him for a business partner. Do you understand?"
She laughed, and putting her fan before her face asked in a whisper: "What will you give me, Robert, if I win him for you?"
"Five hundred pounds," he said promptly.
"Done!" she replied, and then, hearing the door open, she turned to see Sir Thomas Wynton entering. She went to meet him with a laughing welcome and with both hands extended. She sat at his side during dinner and kept him laughing, and when she left the dining-room ordered him with a pretty authority to be in the drawing-room for tea, in forty-five minutes. And he took out his watch, noted the time, and promised all she asked.
In forty-five minutes exactly, he appeared in the drawing-room. Jepson was serving tea, and Christina's cup stood on the piano, for as Robert and Sir Thomas entered the room she was playing with lively, racy spirit, the prelude to the inimitably humorous song of "The Laird o' Cockpen." Sir Thomas went at once to her side, and when he spoke to her, she answered him with the musical, mocking words:
"The laird of Cockpen he's proud, and he's great,His mind is taen up wi' the things o' the State," etc.
"The laird of Cockpen he's proud, and he's great,His mind is taen up wi' the things o' the State," etc.
Sir Thomas listened with peals of laughter, and Robert and Mrs. Campbell joined in the merriment. Even Isabel was unable to preserve the usual stillness of her face, though she was far more interested in the singer than the song. Where had all these charming coquetries, this mirth and melody been hidden in the old Christina? This was not the Christina she had known all her life. "It is Theodora's doing," she thought, "and not one of us have given her one word of thanks. It is too bad! And I am sure she stayed in her own room to-night, to give Christina a fair field, and no rival. She is a good woman. I wish mother could like her."
The whole evening was a triumph for Christina. She sang "Sir John Cope" with irresistible raillery, and roused every Scotch feeling in her audience with "Bannocks o' Barley Meal," and "The Kail Brose of Auld Scotland." She told her most amusing stories, and finally induced Sir Thomas Wynton and her brother, mother, and sister to join her in the parting song of "Auld Lang Syne." Then, with evident reluctance, Sir Thomas went away, "thoroughly bewitched in a' his five senses," as he confessed later. Christina knew it, for ere she bid her brother good-night, she found an opportunity to whisper:
"You will owe me five hundred pounds very soon."
"I will pay it," he answered, and she looked backward at him with a laugh. Then he turned to his mother and said: "Who would have believed that Christina had all this fun and mischief in her?"
"Ah, well, Robert," answered Mrs. Campbell, "Scotch girls don't put all their goods in the window. They hold a deal in reserve and there's none but the one man can ever bring it out o' them. I'm thinking Sir Thomas is the one man, in Christina's mind."
"I hope so."
"I have not such a thing as a doubt left."
"Do you tell me that, mother?"
"Yes, I took good notice, and she seemed to be on a very easy footing with him. I'll give him a week to think things o'er, but the marriage o' Christina Campbell and Sir Thomas Wynton is certain."
"We will not go quite that far yet, mother, but I think this evening's events warrant that presumption."
While this conversation was in progress, Christina was going upstairs, and her quick, strong steps were in singular contrast to the slow, inert movements of the Christina of a few years previous. At Theodora's bedroom door she paused irresolutely for a few moments, but finally tapped at it. Theodora herself answered the summons. She was in a long, white gown, and her face was white as the linen.
"Are you ill, Dora?" Christina asked.
"No, I am sleepy. Have you had a pleasant evening?"
"Yes. All went to my wish. Every honor was in my hand, but if you had been present honors would have been easy, if not entirely in your hand. It was kind of you to give me this free opportunity, and I feel sure I have won the game. Good-night."
"Good-night. You are looking unusually handsome."
"This dress is becoming. Good-night," and she went gaily away, timing her steps to the music of the last line of her conquering song:
"And the late Mistress Jean, is my Lady Cockpen,"
"And the late Mistress Jean, is my Lady Cockpen,"
laughing softly to herself as she closed her door. For she knew that she had won Sir Thomas Wynton, and her sharp little bit of a soul had already caught a keen sight of the further triumphs awaiting her. She would travel, she would be presented at many courts, she would entertain splendidly at Wynton Castle, she would be kind to Theodora, and patronize and protect her and she would make the hearts of the Campbelton set sick with envy. So she went to sleep planning a future for herself, of the most stupendous self-pleasing.
But within one week her most unlikely plans had assumed an air of certainty. Sir Thomas Wynton had formally asked Mrs. Campbell for her daughter's hand, and Miss Christina Campbell been recognized as the future Lady Wynton. Then her world was at her feet, every one did her homage, and brought her presents, and praised her for having done so well to herself. And she took the place in the household accorded her without dissent and without apologies, and ordered her outgoings and incomings as she desired.
At first the middle of June had been named for the marriage, but before long the date was forwarded to the eighteenth of April, for Sir Thomas was an ardent lover and would hear of no delaying. Then the house was in a kind of joyful hurry from morning to night, and Christina spent her days between the shops and her dressmaker, and not even Sir Thomas could get a glimpse of her until the day's pleasant labor was over. At first Mrs. Campbell went with her daughter on these shopping expeditions, and sometimes Isabel accompanied them, but soon the various demands of the coming event gave the elder ladies abundant cares, and Christina was permitted to manage her shopping and fitting as she thought best. So then she gained daily in self-assertion, and soon submitted to no dictation even from her brother. But Sir Thomas was a lover sure to make any woman authoritative, for he submitted gladly to all his mistress's whims, obeyed all her orders, and grew every hour more and more infatuated with his charming Christina. The most expensive flowers and fruits were sent to her daily, the Wynton jewels were being reset for her use, and Wynton Castle elaborately decorated and furnished for its new mistress. Christina, indeed, was now drinking a full cup of long-delayed happiness, and late as it was, finding the dew of her long-lost youth.
Mrs. Campbell shared her daughter's triumphant satisfaction. To all her kinfolk, married and unmarried, male and female, she wrote little notes brimming with pride and false humility, and expatiating on Sir Thomas Wynton's rank, wealth and power, his handsome person, and his deep devotion to her daughter; piously trusting that "her dear child might not be lured from the narrow path of godliness, in which she had been so carefully trained."
So in these days Christina was busy and happy, and mistress of all she desired. Yet as the wedding-day approached, she became nervous and irritable; she said she was weary to death, and wanted to sleep for a month. No one cared to cross her in the smallest matter, though her family devotion never deserted her. This feeling was strongly exemplified about two weeks before the wedding-day, in a few words said to her brother one evening when they were alone in the dining-room.
"Robert," she asked, "how near are you to the hundred thousand you expected? You have paid me the five hundred pounds promised. I should like to know if I have earned it. How near are you to your desire?"
"Near enough."
"Has he signed the papers yet?"
"No."
"Why?"
"I have not pressed the matter."
"You are foolish. It will be easier to get his signature before we are married, than after."
"You suspicious woman! Men keep their word about money matters, Christina. Don't you know that?"
"No."
"Well, of course you don't. You know nothing about men."
"You are satisfied, are you?"
"I am perfectly satisfied."
"And sure?"
"And positively sure."
A week later she asked again, though in a joking manner, "if he had secured that signature?" and Robert answered in a tone of annoyance:
"Do not trouble yourself anent my money matters, Christina."
Then she laughed and said: "When I am Lady Wynton, I may find many other ways for the spending of that hundred thousand of lying siller."
"I can trust you," replied Robert. "When you are Lady Wynton, you will not cease to be Christina Campbell, and Campbells stand shoulder to shoulder all the world over."
At these words she gave him her hand, and he clasped it tightly between his own. No further words were necessary. Robert knew assuredly that his sister's influence would always be in his favor, never against him.
As she left her brother, Mrs. Campbell called her, and with a slight reluctance she went into the familiar room.
"What is it you want with me, mother?" she asked, quickly adding, "I am very busy to-day."
"I want to tell you, Christina, that I have had the small room behind this room prepared for your trunks. They ought to have been here yesterday. Are your dresses not finished? It is high time they were."
"Some are finished, others are not."
"Those that are finished had better be sent here at once."
There was a moment's pause, and then Christina said decidedly: "None of my bride things are coming here, mother. When they are all in perfect order they will be sent to my future home."
"To Wynton Castle?"
"Of course. They will be quite safe there."
"Safe! What do you mean, miss? And pray, why are your bride clothes sent to Wynton Castle, instead of to Traquair House? I insist on knowing that."
"Because Traquair House is notoriously unlucky to bride clothes. Poor Theodora's pretty things were all ruined by those dreadful Campbelton people. You said your bride things were treated in the same way. Very well, I am determined that none of my trunks shall be broken open and rifled, and so I am sending them to where they will be guarded and respected."
"You are acting in a shameful, and most unusual manner, and I command you to send your trunks here. I will be responsible for their safety."
"Thank you, mother, but I have already made excellent arrangements for their security."
"I consider your behavior abominable. It is an outrage on your mother's love and honor."
"Theodora trusted you, and you allowed a lot of vulgar, unscrupulous women to ransack her trunks, wear her new dresses dirty, and spoil all they touched, and carry away with them neckwear and jewelry they had no right to touch. I will not give them so much opportunity to injure me. You ought not to wish me to do so."
"Christina Campbell, your behavior is beyond all excuse, it is almost beyond all forgiveness. Isabel, tell your sister her duty."
Then Isabel said in a slow, positive voice: "I think Christina is right. You know, mother, the Campbelton people will come to the marriage, and after Christina has gone, who will be able to restrain them? Not you. It is quite certain that they ruined poor Dora's home-coming, and made her begin her life here, at sixes and sevens."
"Poor Dora! What do you mean?"
"I mean, mother, that the opening of her trunks, and the use of her clothing was a shameful thing. I have often said so, and I will always say so."
"Do not dare to say it to me again. I will not listen to such nonsense, and as for you, Christina Campbell, you are an ungrateful child, and you are cocking your head too high, and somewhat too early. Wait until you are Lady Wynton, before you put on ladyship airs."
"Look you, mother, once and for all time, my trunks are not coming near Traquair House. I am as good as married, and I will not be ordered about like a child; it is out of the question."
"Dod!but you are full of bouncing, swaggering words. And what good girl ever sent her bridal clothes away, without letting her mother see them? What in heaven and earth will you do next?"
"I shall be delighted, if you will come with me to Madame Bernard's rooms this morning. I have asked you frequently to do so. You always refuse."
"I intended to examine them here, at my leisure."
"And as to what I shall do next, you will see that very shortly. I am very sorry, mother, to disappoint you, but after I am married you can see me wearing the dresses, and——"
"I do not wish to see them at all now."
"Very well."
"All your life, until lately, you have been a good obedient daughter; the change in you is the work of that wicked, wicked woman Dora Newton."
"All my life until lately, I was kept in a state of nothingness—but I am no longer a nonentity. I have come into a human existence, and you are right, it is Dora Campbell's doing, and I wish I knew how to thank her."
"It would be thanking the devil, for teaching you to sin."
"Mother, you are spoiling my day, and I have a great deal to do. Good-morning, or will you come with me?"
"I will not come one footstep with you. How can you expect it?"
At these words Christina left the room, and Mrs. Campbell began a complaint illustrated by sobs, and sighs, and intermittent tears. She told Isabel that all the pleasure she expected from her child's marriage had been taken from her. She confessed that she had spoken a little to many people of the rich and beautiful presents Christina had received, and now she would not be able to show one of them; and no one would believe what she had said—and she could not blame people if they did not. "Oh, Isabel!" she cried, "for my sake, and for all our sakes, Christina must send her trunks here for a week or two. Do try and persuade her. She always listens to you."
"It is quite useless, mother; she has made up her mind to send them to her new home. I rather think some have gone there already, for two weeks ago there were eight trunks at madame's, and last week I only saw three."
"Why did you not tell me? Oh, why did you not give me a chance to persuade the cruel, selfish girl? So wrong! So wicked! So ungrateful! You know, Isabel, I gave her five hundred pounds to buy that very clothing—I had a right to see it—yes, I had—I had—and it is shameful!"
"Mother, you could have gone with Christina to her dressmaker's. You could not expect her to bring all her things here, they would certainly have been shown and handled—they might have been ill-used as Dora's pretty clothes were. Oh, mother, I do not blame Christina at all! I think she acted for the best."
"So you also are joining the enemy—getting Newtonized like Christina. Do you also hope to become a beauty, and a belle, and marry a baronet?"
"Mother, you are throwing sarcasm away. I have no hopes left for myself. It is too late for me to develop in any direction."
"Whose fault is that?"
"Destiny's fault, I suppose. I was nursing the sick, when I ought to have been in school and in society."
Mrs. Campbell did not answer this reproach. Destiny was a good enough apology. No one could thwart Destiny. She at least was not to blame for the wrongs of Destiny. She sat dourly still and silent, the very image of resentful disappointment. The silence was indeed so profound, that one could hear the passage of Isabel's needle through the silk she was sewing, and for ten minutes both women maintained the attitude they had taken.
Then Isabel—holding her needle poised ready for the next stitch—looked at her mother. Her expression of hopeless defeat was pathetic, and her silent, motionless endurance of it, touched Isabel's heart as tears and complaints never could have done. She rose and, taking her mother's dropped hand, said:
"Never mind, mother. You will often see Christina wearing her fineries in her grand new home. That will be far better than taking them out of a trunk to look at."
"Isabel, I care nothing about seeing them. I wanted to show them. People will never believe she got all I said she did."
"Why should you care whether they believe it or not? And why not pay the newspapers to make a notice of them. They will send some youngster here to item them, and you can give him a sovereign, and a glass of wine, and then you can give Christina all the wonderfuls you like—even to the half, or the whole, of Sir Thomas Wynton's estate."
"That is the plan, Isabel. I'm glad you thought of it."
"Robert is gey fond of a newspaper notice. He'll pay the sovereign without a grumble."
"I'm sure you are an extraordinar' comfort, Isabel."
"And I thought you were going to order the wedding cake this morning. There is really no time to lose, mother."
"You are right, Isabel, and I must just put back my own sair heartache and look after the ungrateful, thrawart woman's wedding cake. It's untelling what I have done for Christina, and the upsetting ways o' her this morning and the words she said, I'll never forget. I shall come o'er them in my mind as long as I live; and I'll tell her what I think of her behavior, whenever I find a proper opportunity."
"Very well, mother. Tell her flatly your last thought; it will be the best way."
"I will."
"But do go about the cake at once. It is important, and there's none but yourself will be heeded."
Then with a long, deep sigh, she went slowly out of the room, and Isabel watched her affected weakness and indifference with a kind of scornful pity. For women see through women, know intuitively their little tricks and make-beliefs, and for this very reason a daughter's love for her mother—however devoted and self-sacrificing—lacks that something of mystical worship which a son feels for his mother. The daughter knows she wears false hair and false teeth and pink and white powder; the son simply takes her as she looks and thinks "what a lovely mother I have!" The daughter has watched her mother's little schemes for happy household management, and probably helped her in them; the son knows only their completed comfort and their personal pleasure. He never dreams of any policy or management in his mother's words and deeds, and hence he believes in her just as he sees and hears her. And her wisdom and love seem to him so great and so unusual, that an element of reverence—the highest feeling of which man is capable—blends itself with all his conceptions of mother. And the wonder is, that a daughter's love exists, and persists, without it. Knowing all her mother's feminine weaknesses, she loves her devotedly in spite of them—nay, perhaps loves her the more profoundly because of them. And if she is not capable of this affection she does not love her at all.
Isabel watched her mother leave the house on the wedding cake business and then she went to her sister's room. She found her dressing to go out. "I have an appointment at eleven, Isabel," she said, "and I am so glad you have come to sit beside me while I dress. The days are going so fast, and very soon now you will come to my room, and Christina will not be here, any more in this life."
"You will surely come back to your own home sometimes, Christina?"
"No. I shall never enter Traquair House again, unless you are sick and need me—then I would come. I have just been going through my top drawer, Isabel; it was full of old gifts and keepsakes, and I declare they brought tears to my eyes."
"Why? I dare say the givers have forgotten you—they were mostly school friends, and the Campbelton crowd."
"Do you think I had a tear for any of them? No, no! I was nearly crying for myself, for it was really piteous to see the trash a woman of my age thought worth preserving. I sent the whole contents of the drawer to the kitchen—the servant lasses may quarrel about them."
"Was there nothing worth taking to your new home? No single thing that had a loving, or a pleasant memory?"
"Not one. The whole mess of needlework, and painted cards, toilet toys, and sham trinkets represented my existence until Dora came. It was just as useless and unsatisfying as the trash flung into the kitchen. Dora opened the gates of life for me. Poor Dora!"
"Why do you say 'poor Dora'?"
"She is unhappy, disappointed, I have sometimes thought almost frightened. She is much changed. Robert is not kind to her, and he ought to be ashamed of himself. I wonder if my intended husband will act as Robert has done?"
"Sir Thomas is much in love with you."
"Robert was much in love with Dora. See how it ends. He sits reading, or he lies asleep on the sofa the evenings he is with her—and he used to feel as if the day was not long enough to tell her how lovely and how dear she was. I suppose Sir Thomas will act in the same way."
"I do not think he will."
"He had better not."
"Oh, Christina, do not talk—do not even think of such contingencies. Women should never threaten."
"Pray, why not?"
"Because it is dangerous to themselves to show their teeth if they cannot bite, and they cannot. Women in this country are helpless as babies."
"Then there are other countries."
"Hush!This is uncanny talk. What a pretty suit! Are you going to wear it to-day?"
"Yes, it is a spring suit, and this is a lovely spring morning. I heard the robins singing as you came upstairs."
"Mother has gone to order the wedding cake—you ought to be a happy woman, Christina."
"I am—and yet, Isabel, life will be bare without you. All my life long you have been my comfort, and I love you, yes, I love you dearly, Isabel."
"And I love you, Christina. I shall miss you every hour of the day."
Then they were both silent, they had said all they could say, and much more than was usual. Christina finished her toilet, and Isabel sat watching her, then they clasped hands and walked downstairs together, and so to the front door, which Jepson opened as Christina approached it. For a few moments Isabel stood there and watched her sister enter the waiting carriage, and felt well repaid when Christina, as the horses moved, fluttered her white handkerchief in a parting salute.
Mrs. Campbell returned in time for lunch. She had quite recovered her dignity, and was indeed more than usually vaunting and exultant. "I have ordered a cake twice the ordinary size," she said, "and the small boxes, and the narrow white ribbon, in which to send friends not present at the ceremony a portion. It will be a labor to tie them up, and direct them, but there will be a house full to help you. When will your dress be done, Isabel?"
"To-night, mother."
"And Christina's comes to-morrow night. Mine is finished. I called at Dalmeny's to examine it. The lace is particularly effective, and it fits—which is a wonder. Will Sir Thomas be here to dinner?"
"He has gone to Edinburgh for the Wynton diamonds. He has set his heart on Christina wearing them at the marriage ceremony."
"I do not approve his determination. A bride, in my opinion, ought to be dressed with great simplicity. I was. A few orange blossoms, or the like of them, are enough."
"Not always. A young girl looks well enough with a few flowers, but a woman in the prime of life, like Christina, can wear diamonds even on her wedding-day, and look grander and lovelier for them."
"Well, well! Your way be it. I do not expect my opinions to be regarded, but can tell you one thing—if Sir Thomas goes on giving her gems at the rate he has done, the Wynton baronage will be in a state of perfect beggary, before the end of their lives. I was just telling Mrs. Malcolm that I verily believed the sum-total o' Sir Thomas Wynton's gifts to my daughter might reach all o' a ten thousand pounds, and she was that astonished, she could barely keep her composure."
"That is just like yourself, mother. I do wish you would not boast so much about Sir Thomas. He is not any kind of a miraculous godsend, for Christina is quite as good as he is."
"Isabel, if my family has been honored with extraordinar' mercies, I am not the woman to deny them, or even hide them in a napkin, as it were. I am going to be thankful for them and speak well of them to all and sundry. I am going to rejoice day and night over the circumstance. I think it just and right to testify my gratitude so far; and I would think shame o' myself if I did not do it."
"Very well, mother. Christina had a new spring suit on to-day. She looked exceedingly handsome in it."
"Bailie Littlejohn remarked to me lately, that my daughter Christina was the very picture o' myself, when I was about her age. And he remembered me ever since we were in the dancing class together—that is forty years—maybe forty-one, or two, or perhaps as many as forty——"
"Never mind the years, mother. It is very nice of the Bailie to remember so long."
"I always made long—I may say lasting impressions, Isabel. It was my way—or gift—a kind of power I had. People who once know me, never forget me. It is rather a peculiar power, I think."
"Christina seems very happy, mother."
"Of course she is happy! It would be a black, burning shame if she were not. Sir Thomas is all she deserves, and more too, yet I am glad he has withdrawn himself to-night, for I am fairly fagged out with fine dinners, and I shall tell McNab to give us some mutton broth and collops to-night. It will be a thanksgiving to have the plainest dinner she can cook."
"Christina may not like it."
"Then she can dislike it. I am not fearing Christina. I wish you would ask Dora what she is going to wear."
"Tell Robert to do so."
"I have heard tell of no new dress, and it would be just like her to wear her own wedding dress."
"Is there anything against her doing so?"
"Is there anything against it? Certainly there is. We do not want any one in white satin but Christina."
"Oh! I see. Robert must explain that to her. Tell him so to-night. You had better take a sleep this afternoon, mother. You look tired."
"I will rest until seven. What time will Christina be home?"
"She did not tell me."
"Where was she going?"
"To Marion Brodie's. She spoke of Flora McLeod being with Marion to-day, and of the necessity of making each of them understand their duties."
"Duties?"
"As chief bride-maidens."
"Yes, yes, of course! But she will be home to dinner?"
"Oh, certainly; and Marion may come back with her. If so, how will the plain dinner do?"
"Well enough! Marion's mother was brought up on mutton broth and haggis; and the wealth o' the Brodies is o'er young to be in the fashions yet awhile. I will be down at seven, and meanwhile you may speak to Christina anent her duty. I do think her wedding dress ought to be home even the now."
"Mother, it will not come until the day before the marriage. She is afraid of it being handled."
"Preserve us! Why shouldn't it be handled? It is pure selfishness. She is against sharing her pleasure with any other soul. That is the because of her ill-natured conduct. See that dinner is ready punctual. Your brother was in one of his north-easter tempers this morning, and the day's work isn't likely to have sorted him any better."
Then half-reluctantly she went upstairs. She would rather have remained with Isabel and talked affairs over again; but Isabel was depressed and not inclined to conversation. The old lady wondered, as she slowly climbed the stairs, "What the young people of this generation were made of?" She felt that she had more enthusiasm than either of her daughters, and then sighed deeply, because it received so little sympathy.