THE BRIDE'S HOME-COMING
Robert Campbell's home-coming was after the fashion Isabel had supposed
it would be. On the eighth of November, Jepson received a telegram from
him before nine in the morning, ordering fires to be kept burning
brightly all day in his rooms. At eleven there was another telegram,
directing Jepson to have the ferns and plants in the hall renewed, and
flowers in vases put in the parlor and Mrs. Campbell's dressing-room. At
two o'clock Jepson's message contained the information that Mr. and Mrs.
Campbell would be at the Caledonian Railway Station at half-past three
o'clock, and they would expect the carriage there for them.
So when Theodora arrived at Traquair House, she was met by Jepson with
obsequious attentions, the door was wide open to receive her, and the
rooms were shining and glowing with light and warmth and beauty. Thus
far, all her expectations were realized, but she missed the human
welcome which ought to have vitalized its material symbols. Robert was
evidently annoyed at the absence of his mother and sisters, and he asked
sharply after them.
"They went to their rooms after lunch, sir, before I had time to inform
them of the train you specified," Jepson answered.
Campbell seemed glad of so reasonable an excuse, and, turning to
Theodora, said: "You must have a cup of tea, dear, and then rest for a
couple of hours. I dare say we shall see no one before dinner. I suppose
dinner is at seven, Jepson?"
"Yes, sir. Seven o'clock exactly, sir."
After her cup of tea Theodora went through their rooms with her husband
and was charmed with everything that had been done for her comfort.
"Robert," she said, "there is nothing wanting in these rooms. Everything
I could desire is here, except the smile and the kind words of welcome
to them from your family."
"Those will come later, my sweet Dora. The Scotch are slow and
undemonstrative. My mother and sisters always retire to their rooms
after lunch, and it is extremely difficult for them to break a habit.
That is their way."
"If habits are kind and good, it is a very good way--in its way. But do
you not think, Robert, that a little spontaneity is sometimes a
refreshing and comforting thing?"
"It may be, but our temperaments are not spontaneous. Now, try and sleep
before you dress. I will come for you at two minutes before seven. Be
sure you are ready! Mother waits for no one, not even myself."
But in spite of all the thoughtful care which her husband had taken for
her comfort, Theodora was invaded by a feeling of melancholy. Her heart
sank fathoms deep, and she could not follow his advice to sleep. She
felt chilled and depressed by the atmosphere she was breathing--an
atmosphere impregnated with the personalities of people inimical to her.
Being conscious of this hostility, she began to reason about it, a thing
in itself unwise; for happiness should never be analyzed.
Very soon she became aware of the futility of her thoughts. "They lead
me to no certain end, for I am reasoning from premises unknown to me,"
she said to herself. "I have heard of these three women, but I have not
seen them. I will wait until we look at each other face to face."
Then she called her maid, a fresh, honest-hearted girl from the
Westmoreland fells, whom she had hired in Kendal. "Ducie," she said,
"have you been in the kitchen yet?"
"Oh yes, ma'am. They are a queer lot there. Only one old man had a good
word for any of the family. They were asking me if you knew that the
Crawfords of Campbelton had been occupying your rooms for two weeks.
'Plenty of hurrying and scurrying,' they said, 'to get them away and put
the rooms in order, and the old lady beside herself with anger, at Mr.
Campbell not giving a longer notice of his coming.'"
"Mr. Campbell gave plenty of time, if the rooms had not been occupied."
"And, if you please, ma'am, the trunks sent here from Kendal just after
your marriage have all been opened, and I may say, ma'am--ransacked.
Every thing in them is pell-mell, and the dresses not folded straight,
and the neckwear and such like, topsy-turvy. And, ma'am, your beautiful
ermine furs have been worn, for they are soiled; other things look
likewise. I don't know what to make of such ways, I'm sure."
To this information Theodora listened in dismay and anger. It seemed to
her such an incredible outrage on decency, honor, and even honesty. She
rose instantly and went to look at her trunks. Ducie had made a very
moderate complaint. It was only necessary to lift the lids to convince
herself that the accusation was a just one. For a moment or two she
stood looking at the disarranged garments; her face flushed, she locked
her fingers together, and was speechless. Then she sat down to consider
the circumstance, and her lovely face had on it an expression
half-pleading and half-defiant. It was the face of a woman you could
hurt, but could not move.
In half-an-hour she called Ducie. "Do not touch the four trunks that
were sent here from Kendal," she said. "Open the one we had with us, and
take from it my steel-blue silk costume, and my set of pearls."
"Will you wear the silk waist, ma'am?"
"No, the lace waist of the same color. And, Ducie, keep silence
concerning all you see and hear in these rooms. I know you will do so,
but it does no harm to remind you, for you are not used to living among
a crowd of servants, and might fall into some trap set for you. Just
remember, Ducie, that every word you say will likely be repeated, for
we are in a strange country and in a way among strangers."
"I know, ma'am. New relations are not like old ones. The old ones feel
comfortable like old clothes; the new ones, like new clothes, need a
deal of taking in and letting out to make them fit."
"That is so, Ducie. I am a little annoyed about the open trunks,
but--but, I must dress now, or I will be late."
"I wouldn't be annoyed, ma'am, for brooding over annoyances just hatches
more; and I will have little to say to any one. You may trust me. I will
be as good as my word."
Theodora dressed carefully, and when Robert came for her he was charmed
with the quiet beauty of her costume. "It is just right, Dora," he said,
"perhaps the pearls are a little too much."
"Oh no, Robert. The dress requires them. They are like moonlight on it,
and make each other lovelier."
"Come, then, we have not a moment to lose. It will strike seven
immediately."
They entered the dining-room as it struck the hour. Mrs. Traquair
Campbell had taken her seat at the foot of the table, and Robert with
his bride on his arm walked to her side and said:
"Mother, this is Theodora. I hope you will give her your love and
welcome."
Mrs. Campbell did not rise, but, looking into Theodora's face, asked:
"Had you a pleasant journey? Are you tired? Railroads are fatiguing
kind of travel."
That was all. She did not say one kind word of welcome, nor did she
offer her hand. In fact, she had lifted the carving knife as they
entered the room, and she kept it in her grasp. Then Robert took her to
his sisters, and as Isabel sat on one side of the table, and Christina
on the other, the introduction had to be made three times. In each case
it was about the same, for the girls copied both their mother's attitude
and her words.
But all were frank and friendly with Robert, asking him many questions
about the places they had visited, and as he invariably referred some
part of these queries to Theodora, she was drawn unavoidably into the
conversation. Very soon the desire to conquer these women by the force
and magnetism of love came into her heart, and she smiled into their
dark, cold faces, and discoursed with such charming grace and social
sympathy, that the frost presently began to thaw, and Isabel found
herself asking the unwelcome bride all kinds of questions about their
travel, and saying at last with a sigh: "How much I should have liked to
have been with you!"
"I am sorry you were not with us," answered Theodora, "but we shall go
again to the Mediterranean--for we only got glimpses of places and
things, and must know them better. We shall go again, shall we not,
Robert?"
Then Robert denied all his promises and said: "I fear not, for a long
time. Business must be attended to."
"I am glad you are regaining your senses, Robert," said his mother.
"Your business has been dreadfully neglected for more than half-a-year."
"It has taken no harm, mother, and I shall double my attention now."
"I hope you will--but I doubt it."
"Dora," said Christina, "may I call you Dora?"
"Dora, certainly," interrupted Mrs. Traquair Campbell. "Theodora is too
long a name for conversation. Do you wish any more ice? Do you, Isabel?"
Theodora was confounded by such rude and positive ignoring. The question
had been addressed to her, and referred to her Christian name--the most
personal of all belongings. Yet it had been peremptorily decided for her
without any regard to her right or wish. Her cheeks flushed hotly, and
she looked at her husband. Surely he would spare her the distressing
position of denying her mother-in-law's decision, or affirming her own.
But Robert Campbell was as one that heard not. His eyes were upon his
plate, and he was embarrassed even in the simple act of eating. At that
moment she had almost a contempt for him. But seeing that he did not
intend to interfere, she smiled at Christina, and said:
"You will call me Dora, I suppose, as you are bid to do so, and when I
feel like it, I shall answer to that name. When I do not feel disposed
to answer to Dora, I shall be silent. That is, you know, my privilege."
She spoke with a smile and charming manner, and then, looking at her
husband, rose from the table. Robert sauntered after her, making some
remark about tea to his mother as he passed her.
She could not answer him. This leave-taking, unauthorized by her
example, stupefied the elder woman. "Do you see, Isabel," she cried,
"what I shall have to endure?"
"Dinner was really finished, mother."
"That makes no difference! No one has a right to leave the table until I
rise. I consider Dora's behavior a piece of impertinence."
"I do not think she intended it to be impertinent."
"Her intention makes no difference. No one has a right to leave my table
until I set the example. And if Dora's behavior was not impertinent,
then it was stupid ignorance, and I shall instruct her in the decencies
of respectable life. And I tell you both to remember that her name is
Dora. I will have no Theodoras here. Fancy people going about the house
calling 'The-o-do-ra.' Ridiculous!"
"Well, mother, I ask leave to say that I should not like any one without
my permission to call me Bell, nor do I believe Christina would care to
be called Kirsty. And I really think Robert's wife wished to be
agreeable, and even friendly, if we had encouraged her. Why not give her
a fair trial? I think she could teach Christina and myself many
things."
"I think you are bewitched as well as your brother. I never knew you,
Isabel, to make any exceptions to my opinions--or to see me insulted
without feeling a proper indignation with me."
"Oh, dear mother, you are mistaken! The day will never come when your
daughter Isabel will not stand shoulder to shoulder with you."
"I am sure of that. I wish Christina had not asked such an obtrusive
question. I had to answer it as I did, in order to show that woman that
we--in our own home here--would call her just what we preferred to call
her, without let or hindrance; yet I wish that Christina had kept her
foolish question for a little longer. I was hardly ready for active
opposition. It is premature. Christina always interferes at the wrong
moment." So Christina, snubbed and blamed for her malapropos question,
subsided into sullen indifference externally, while inwardly passing on
the blame for her correction to Theodora, who, she decided, was going to
be unlucky to her.
In the meantime Robert had walked with his wife to the parlor door of
their own apartments, but he did not enter with her. "I am going to
leave you half-an-hour, Dora," he said. "I wish to smoke a cigar in the
library."
"I should like to go with you, Robert, as I have always done. I enjoy
good tobacco."
"Walking on some lovely balcony, overlooking the Mediterranean, it was
pleasant; but here it is not the thing. If you went with me, I might
have the whole family, as the library, like the dining-room, is common
ground. Circumstances alter cases, Dora. You know that, my dear! I will
return in half-an-hour."
She had a slight struggle with herself to answer pleasantly, but that
free and loving thing, the human soul, was in Theodora's case under kind
but positive control, so she replied with a smile:
"As you wish, dear Robert--yet I shall miss you."
She was alone in her splendid rooms, and her heart fell. The day had
been a hard one. From the moment they left Kendal, Robert had been
disagreeably silent. He knew that he was going home to a struggle with
his family, and he dreaded the experience. Had it been a struggle with
business difficulties he would have risen bravely to its demands. A
dispute with women irritated him. In his thoughts he called it
"trivial." But had he known all that such a dispute generally involves,
he would have sought out for it the most portentous and distracting word
in all the languages of earth.
So Theodora left to herself sat down with a sinking heart. The change in
her husband's temper troubled her; the total absence of all human
welcome to her new home troubled her still more. The occupation of her
rooms by strangers, the rifling of her trunks, the half-quarrelsome
dinner, the despotic changing of her name might be--as compared with
death, accident, or ruin--"trivial" troubles, but she was poignantly
wounded in her feelings by them. And their crowning grief was one she
hardly dared to remember--her husband's failure to defend the name he
had so often passionately sworn he loved better than all other names.
True, she had permitted him to call her Dora, but that was a secret,
sacred, pet name, to be used between themselves, and by that very
understanding denied to all others.
She could not but admit to herself that she was bitterly disappointed in
her home-coming. She had thought Robert's mother and sisters would meet
her on the threshold with kisses and words of welcome. She had yet to
learn the paucity of kisses and tender words in a Scotch household. The
fact is general, but the causes for this familiar repression are
various, and may be either good or evil. Theodora felt them in her case
to be altogether unkind. What could she do about it? There was the
perilous luxury of complaint to her husband and there was her father's
lifelong advice: "Shut up a trouble in your heart, and you will soon
sing over it." Which course should she take? She was waiting for a true
instinct, a clear, lawful perception, when Robert entered the room.
She looked up with a smile that brought him swiftly to her side, and
when he spoke kindly, all her fearing discontent slipped away. Very soon
their conversation turned naturally to their apartments. Robert was
proud of them, not so much for the money lavished on their adornment, as
for the taste he thought himself to have shown. Going here and there in
them, he happened to find, on a beautiful cabinet, an old curl paper
and a couple of bent hairpins.
"Look here, Dora," he said, and his voice was so full of displeasure,
that she rose hastily and went to him.
"What kind of maid have you hired? She ought to know better than to
leave these things in your parlor."
"And you ought to know better, Robert," was the indignant answer, "than
to suppose these things belong to me. Do I ever put my hair in newspaper
twists? Do I ever fasten it with dirty, rusty, wire pins like these?"
"Then tell Ducie to keep her pins and curl papers in her own room."
"They are not Ducie's. She would not put such dreadful things in her
pretty hair."
"How do they come here, then?"
"I suppose the people who have been occupying these rooms left them."
"No one has occupied these rooms since they were redecorated and
refurnished."
"You are mistaken, Robert. They have been fully occupied for the last
three weeks."
"Dora, what are you saying?"
"The truth! Call any of your servants, and they will tell you so."
Without further words he rang the bell, and Ducie appeared. "Ducie," he
asked, "who told you there had been people staying in these rooms?"
"The kitchen, sir; that is, the men and women in the kitchen. I was
taken all aback, for my lady had told me----"
"Do you know who the people were?"
"Mrs. and Miss Crawford, Mrs. Laird and her granddaughter, Miss
Greenhill."
"Oh, they were relations, Dora," he said in a voice which indicated they
had a right there, and that he was neither grieved nor astonished at
their invasion of his apartments.
"If you please, sir," interposed Ducie, "my lady's trunks were all
opened by Mrs. Crawford and the rest. It gave me such a turn!"
"The rest? Who do you mean?"
"Miss Crawford, Mrs. Laird, and Miss Greenhill."
"Then give the ladies their proper names."
"Yes, sir, Mrs. and Miss Crawford, Mrs. Laird, and Miss Greenhill have
opened and ransacked all the four trunks belonging to my lady, which
were sent on here directly after her marriage. She had given me the keys
of them, and when I saw them open it fairly took my breath away. I am
afraid many things are destroyed, and some things that cost no end of
money stolen. Not liking to be blamed for the same, I wish the matter
looked into."
"Stolen! You should be careful how you use such a word."
"Sir, excuse me, but people who open locked trunks, and use and destroy
what is not theirs are just as likely as not to carry off what they
want. My character is in danger, sir. I wish the trunks examined."
"I suppose you have been through them."
"No, indeed, sir. When my lady went to her dinner, I called in one of
the kitchen girls. I wanted a witness that I had never touched them."
"How dare you make such charges, then?"
"Ask my lady."
"Dora, is there any truth in this girl's words?"
"I fear she speaks too truly, Robert. I have only looked cursorily
through one trunk, but I found much fine clothing spoiled, and I fear
some jewelry gone. The ruby and sapphire ring given me by my college
history class as a wedding gift is not in the jewel case it was packed
in, and my turquoise necklace was scattered among my neckwear. It ought
to have been in the jewel box."
"Perhaps you forgot in the hurry of packing where you put it."
"I was not hurried. Those four trunks were all leisurely and carefully
packed, and the day we left Kendal for Paris----"
"You mean our wedding-day?"
"Yes."
"Then why do you avoid saying so!"
"I do not, but on that same day these four trunks were forwarded here.
If you remember, I only took one trunk on our--wedding journey. I
supposed these four would be quite safe in this house. But look here,
Robert," she continued, lifting a set of valuable ermine furs, "these
were given me by Mrs. Priestley. They were of the most exquisite
purity, but they look now as if they had been dipped in a light solution
of Indian ink."
"The Glasgow rain," he answered carelessly. "Ducie, I do not think we
shall blame you."
"Sir, I will take no blame, either about things spoiled, or stolen."
"There is no question of theft. If the ladies using these rooms for a
day or two----"
"For three weeks, sir."
"Used also some clothing found in the rooms----"
"Not found, sir, I beg pardon, but locked trunks were opened for them,
which the men in the kitchen say is clear burglary--perhaps wishing to
frighten me, sir. But this way, or that way, sir, things have been
ruined that cost no end of money, and when I saw my lady's spoiled gowns
and furs, and broken jewelry, they fairly took my breath away! Yes, sir,
they did."
"You may go now, Ducie."
"I cannot and will not be blamed, sir, and I want that fact clear."
"You may go, now. I have told you that once before. If I have to tell
you again, you can leave the house altogether."
"Ducie," said Theodora, "I wish you would look after clean linen for the
beds and dressing tables."
"What is the matter with the linen, Dora?"
"It is not clean. It looks as if it had been used for two or three
weeks."
"Are you sure?"
"Look at it! I can do without many things, Robert, but I cannot do
without clean linen."
"Of course not! It is awfully provoking. I tried so hard to have
everything spotlessly clean and comfortable, but----" He turned away
with an air of angry disappointment.
Dora went to his side and praised again all he had done. She said she
would forget all that was spoiled, or broken, or stolen for his sake,
and for sweet love's sake, and she emphasized all her tender words with
kisses and endearing names.
And she found, as many women find, that the more she renounced her just
displeasure and chagrin the harder it was to conciliate her husband's.
Whether he enjoyed Dora's efforts to comfort him, or was really of that
childish temper which gets more and more injured, as it is more and more
consoled, it was at this stage of her married life impossible for
Theodora to decide. However, in a little while he condescended to
forgive Theodora for the annoyances others had caused him, and said: "It
is later than I thought it. We have forgotten tea."
"I do not want any."
"I am going to speak to mother. Shall I send you a cup?"
"No, thank you. Do not stop long, Robert."
She went to the window and looked out into the dreary night. A heavy
rain was falling, and not a star was visible in that muffled atmosphere.
Sorrowful feelings pervaded all her thoughts, and she asked her soul
eagerly for some password out of the tangle of small trials, which like
brambles made her path difficult and painful. For the circumstances in
which she so suddenly found herself, confounded and troubled her. Had
Robert deceived her? Had she been deceived in Robert?
It was, however, a consciousness of having fallen below herself, which
hurt her worst of all. She had made concessions, where concession was
wrong; she had made apologies for her husband, whereas he ought to have
made them to her.
"I have been weak," she whispered to her Inner Woman, and that truthful
monitor replied:
"_To be weak is to be wicked._"
"I have resigned my just rights and my just anger."
"_And so have encouraged others to be unjust and unkind, and to sin
against you._"
"And I have gained nothing by my cowardly self-sacrifice."
"_Nothing but humiliation and suffering, which you deserve._"
"What can I do?"
"_Retrace your first wrong step, in order to take your first right
step._"
Ere this mental catechism was finished, Ducie entered the rooms with her
arms full of clean linen, and Theodora said: "I see you have got the
linen, Ducie. Make up my bed first."
"Got it! Yes, ma'am, after a fight for it. The chambermaid was willing
enough, but madame held the keys, and madame said the beds had been
changed four days ago, and she would not have them changed but once a
week. I refused to go away, and the girl went back to her, and was
ordered to leave the room. Then I went, and told her that whether she
was willing or unwilling I had to have clean linen, as the beds had been
stripped, and Mr. Campbell wanted to go to sleep, and Mrs. Campbell had
a headache. Then she flew into a passion, and I do not think I durst
have stayed in her presence longer, but Mr. Campbell was heard coming,
so she flung the keys to one of the young ladies, and told her to 'see
to it.' Then I had a fresh fight for pillow-cases, and covers for the
dressing tables, and I was told to remember that I would get no more
linen for a week. 'Fresh linen once a week is the rule in this house,'
the young lady said, 'and no rules will be broken for Mrs. Robert. You
can tell her Miss Campbell said so.'"
"Well, Ducie, we must look out for ourselves. I will buy linen
to-morrow, and then we can change every day in the week, if we want to."
Robert had been requested not to stay long, but his interview with his
mother proved to be both long and stormy. The old lady had felt the
irritation of the dinner table, and though she herself was wholly to
blame for its quarrelsome atmosphere, she was not influenced by a truth
she chose to ignore. Ever since dinner she had been talking to her
daughters of Theodora, and her smouldering dislike was now a flaming
one. The application for clean linen had made her furious, and she was
scolding about it when Robert entered the room. But he knew before he
opened the door of his mother's parlor what he had to meet, and the
dormant demon of his own temper roused itself for the encounter. He went
into her presence with a face like a thundercloud, and asked angrily:
"Why did you let any one--I say any one--into my rooms, mother? I think
their occupancy without my permission a scandalous piece of business."
"Keep your temper, Robert Campbell, for your wife. She will need it, I
warrant."
"Answer my question, if you please!"
"Well, then, if it is scandalous to entertain your kindred, it would
have been much more scandalous to have turned them out of the house."
"Kindred! It is a far cry to call kindred with that Crawford and Laird
crowd. I will not have them here! Take notice of that."
"They will come here when they come to Glasgow."
"Then I shall turn them out."
"Then I shall go out with them."
"My rooms----"
"Preserve us! No harm has been done to your rooms."
"They have been defiled in every way--old curl papers, dirty hairpins,
stains on the carpets and covers. I burn with shame when I think of my
wife seeing their vulgar remains."
"Your wife? Your wife, indeed! She is----"
"I don't want your opinion of my wife."
"You born idiot! What do you want?"
"I want you to write to the women who opened my wife's trunks, and
ruined her clothing, and stole her jewelry, or I----"
"Don't you dare to throw '_or_' at me. I can say '_or_' as big as you.
What before earth and heaven are you saying!"
"That my rooms have been entered, my wife's trunks broken open----"
"You have said that once already! I had the Dalkeiths in my spare rooms.
Was I to turn the Crawfords and the Lairds on to the sidewalk because
your rooms had been refurnished for Dora Newton?"
"Campbell is my wife's name."
"I thank God your kindred had the first use of your rooms! You ought to
be glad of the circumstance. And pray, what harm is there in opening a
bride's trunks?"
"Only burglary."
"Don't be a tenfold fool. A bride's costumes are always examined by her
women kin and friends. My trunks were all opened by the Campbells before
your father brought me home. Every Scotch bride expects it, and if you
have married a poor, silly English girl, who knows nothing of the ways
and manners of your native country, I am not to blame."
"Let me tell you----"
"Let me finish, sir. I wish to say there was nothing in Dora Newton's
trunks worth looking at--home-made gowns, and the like."
"Yet two of them have been worn and ruined."
"Jean Crawford and Bell Greenhill wore them a few times. They wanted to
go to the theatre or somewhere, and had not brought evening gowns with
them. I told them to wear some of Dora's things. Why not? She is in the
family now, more's the pity."
"They had no right to touch them."
"I'm sure I wish they had not worn them. Jean and Bell are
stylish-looking girls in their own gowns. Dora's made them look dowdy
and common. I was fairly sorry for them."
"Which of them wore Theodora's ring? That ring must come back--_must_, I
say. Understand me, mother, it must come back."
"If it is lost----"
"It will be a case for the police--sure as death!"
The oath frightened her. "You have lost your senses, Robert," she cried;
"you are fairly bewitched. And oh, what a miserable woman I am! Both my
lads!" and she covered her face with her handkerchief, and began to sigh
and sob bitterly.
Then Isabel went to her mother's side, and as she did so said with
scornful anger:
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Robert Campbell. You have nearly
broken your mother's heart by your disgraceful marriage. Can you not
make Dora behave decently, and not turn the old home and our poor
simple lives upside down, with all she requires?"
"Isabel, do you think it was right to put people in the rooms I had
spent so much time and money in furnishing?"
"Quite right, seeing the people were our own kindred. It was not right
to spend all the time and money you spent on those rooms for a stranger.
You ought to be glad some of your own family got a little pleasure in
them first of all."
"They did not know how to use them. Both the Crawfords and Lairds are
vulgar, common, and uneducated women. They know nothing of the decencies
of life."
"That may be true, but they are mother's kin, and blood is thicker than
water. The Crawfords and Lairds are blood-kin; Dora is only water."
"Theodora is my wife. I see that mother will no longer listen to me. Try
and convince her that I am in earnest. My rooms are _my_ rooms, and no
one comes into them unless they are invited by Theodora or myself. My
wife's clothing and ornaments of all kinds belong to my wife, and not to
the whole family. Write to Jean Crawford, and Bell Greenhill, and tell
them to return all they have taken, or I shall make them do so."
"I suppose, Robert, they have only borrowed whatever they have. They
often borrow my rings and brooches and even my dresses."
"Isabel, when people borrow even a ring, without the knowledge and
consent of the owner, the law calls it stealing; and the person who has
so borrowed it, the law calls a thief. I hope you understand me."
He was leaving the room when his mother sobbed out: "Oh, Robert,
Robert!"
For a moment he hesitated; then he went to her side and asked: "What is
it you wish, mother?"
"I did not mean--to hurt you--I was brought up so different. I thought
it would be all right--with you--that you, at least--would understand. I
expected you knew--all about the marriage customs--you are Scotch. Oh,
dear, dear! My poor heart--will break!"
He touched her hand kindly and answered: "Well, do not cry, mother, I
will say no more about it. Good-night."
"Good (sob) night (sob), Robert!"
But as soon as the door closed, the furious woman flung down her
handkerchief in a rage, saying in low, passionate tones: "You see,
girls! When you can't reason with a man, can't touch his brain, you may
try crying about him, for perhaps he has something he calls a heart."
Returning to his own apartments Robert found that the lights had been
lowered and that Theodora was apparently asleep. He stood looking at her
a few minutes, but decided not to awaken her. She would, he thought,
want to know all that had been said and he was tired of the subject. His
mother's tears had washed all color and vitality out of it. She believed
herself to be right and from her point of view he admitted she was. He
told himself that Theodora did not comprehend the wonderful complexity
of the Scotch character--he must try and teach her. And as for her
destroyed, or lost adornments, they could be replaced. Of course money
would be, as it were, lost in such replacement, but it would be a good
lesson, and lessons of all kinds take money. Thus, by a new road, he had
come back to the usual Campbell appreciation of the Campbells, for
though he was keenly alive to the individual defects of that large
family he was at the same time conscious of their superiority to the
rest of the world.
In the morning he began to give Theodora the lesson he had himself
absorbed. He told her that it was some of their own relatives who had
occupied the rooms, and then explained the wonderful strength of the
family tie in Scotch families. "I think," he added, "that under the
circumstances, mother did the only possible thing."
"And the opening of my trunks, Robert dear, and the use of my clothing,
is that also a result of the Scotch family tie?"
"Yes-s," he answered with easy composure, "they looked on you as one of
us and supposed you would gladly loan what they needed. Isabel says they
often borrow her brooches and rings and gowns. Moreover, mother informed
me, that it is the common custom to open a bride's trunks, and examine
her belongings."
"A very rude and barbarous custom, I think, Robert, and it makes no
excuse for an infringement of manifest courtesy and kindness. And I am
sure that every one can forgive an injury, easier than an infringement
of their rights."
"You must try and look at the matter reasonably, dear Dora."
"You mean unreasonably, Robert, but if you do not care, why should I?"
Robert made no reply, but went on examining his fingernails, apparently
without noticing the look of pained surprise in his wife's eyes, nor yet
the far deeper sign of distress--that dumb lip-biting which indicates an
intensity of outraged feeling.
This was Theodora's first lesson in the complexities of the Scotch
character, and it was a dear one. It cost her many illusions, many
hopes, and some secret tears. And the gain was doubtful. Nature knows
how to profit from every shower of rain, every glint of sunshine, every
drop of dew; but which of us ever learn from any past experience, how to
prepare a future that will give us what we desire?
During the night she had plumbed the depths of depression, but in a
short deep morning sleep, she had found the strength to possess her
soul, not in patience, but in a sweet, firm resistance. She would accept
cheerfully the lot she had chosen, for to bear dumbly and passively the
many petty wrongs which ill-temper and dislike must bring her would only
tempt those who hated her to a continuance and enlargement of their sin.
Every one, even her husband, would despise her, and she suddenly
remembered how God, when He would reason with Job, bid him rise from
his dunghill, stand upon his feet, and answer Him like a man. So, she
would submit to no injustice, nor suffer without contradiction any lying
accusation, yet her weapons of defence should be kind and clean, and her
victory won by love and truth and honor--for in this way she herself
would rise by
--"_the things put under her feet,
By what she mastered of good and gain,
By the pride deposed, by the passion slain,
And the vanquished ills she would hourly meet._"
The prospect of such a victory made her heart swell with a noble joy,
for thus she would be creating her spiritual self, and so being God-like
be also loved of God.
Her first effort was to compel herself to go to the breakfast table. She
wished to have Ducie bring her a cup of coffee and a couple of rolls to
her room, but that would only be shirking the inevitable. So she went to
the family table smiling, and almost radiant in a pretty pink gown, and
beautiful white muslin neckwear. Her manner was cheerful and
conciliatory, but it utterly failed, because the old lady believed it to
be the result of orders from her son. She was sure Robert had seen the
reasonableness of her conduct, and told Theodora to accept the
circumstances as unavoidable, and perhaps even excusable.
So in spite of her smiles and efforts at conversation, the meal was
silent and unhappy and towards the end really distressing. It had begun
with oatmeal porridge served on large dinner plates, and she had
accepted her share without remark, though unable to eat it. But later,
when a dish of boiled salt herring appeared, its peculiar odor made her
so sick that it was with painful difficulty she sat through the meal.
Robert noticed her white face and general air of distress, and slightly
hurried his own meal in consequence.
"Are you ill, Dora?" he asked, when she fell nauseated and limp among
the sofa cushions.
"It was the smell of the salt fish, Robert. I could not conquer it."
"But you must try. We have boiled salt herring every morning. I do not
remember a breakfast without them."
"Then, dear Robert, I must have a cup of coffee in my dressing-room."
"You might learn to bear the smell."
"The ordeal would be too wasteful of life."
"I don't see----"
"No one can afford a disagreeable breakfast, Robert. It spoils the whole
day. And I might waste weeks and months trying to like the odor of
boiled salt herring, and never succeed--it is sickening to me."
"It does not make me sick. I have had a boiled salt herring to breakfast
ever since I was seven years old."
"You have learned to bear them."
"I like them."
"Did you like them at first?"
"No, but I was made to eat them until at last I learned to relish them.
Mother believed them to be good for me. Now, I do not think my breakfast
perfect without a boiled salt herring."
"We can force nature to take, and even enjoy poisons like whiskey and
opium, but I think such an education sinful and unclean."
"Dora, you are too fastidious."
"No, because a wronged body means something to a sensitive soul."
"If you look at such a small thing in a light so important, you had
better take your breakfast alone. Good-morning!"