THE NEW CHRISTINA
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 the _not 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, as
_Rob Roy_ and _Macbeth_. 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.
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_,"
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.