A Reconstructed Marriage

"I have been insulted," she cried. "I have been insulted shamefully. Oh, Isabel! that woman will be the death of me!"

"Perhaps she will die herself, mother. Ducie says she has hurt her brain in falling – a concussion, she said."

"Not a bad concussion, though – "

"No, a slight one, but one never knows, and she is so excitable – "

Thus they comforted each other until the porters arrived, and went upstairs for the mattress. Their rough voices and heavy feet, and the natural confusion attending their business roused Mrs. Campbell and her daughters to a pitch of distraction, only to be relieved by motion and loud talking. Walking up and down the room, and striking her large cruel hands together, Mrs. Campbell was heard above all the confusion attending the removal of Theodora; and in the midst of this confusion, Robert came home.

"Whatever is the matter, Jepson?" he asked in an angry voice.

"The doctor will tell you, sir. I fear my young mistress is dying."

He did not answer, but went rapidly to his rooms. They were in the utmost disorder, the windows open and the rooms empty. He rushed upstairs then, and Dr. Fleming met him at the door of Theodora's room.

"Doctor, where is my wife? What is wrong?"

"She had a long fainting fit, fell heavily, and has, I fear, slight concussion of the brain."

"What cause, what reason was there?"

"Her maid will tell you. I will send her."

"But I must see my wife first!"

"You cannot. I shall stay here until I judge it safe to leave her. I have sent for a competent nurse, and expect her every moment."

"Surely, doctor – there is no fear – of death."

"I should not like another lapse of consciousness."

Robert did not speak. He steadied himself by grasping the baluster, and the doctor left him, and sent out Ducie.

"How did this happen, Ducie?" he asked.

Then Ducie told him everything. She described the way her mistress was sitting, and the entrance of Mrs. Campbell. She remembered the words, and the tones in which the conversation had taken place, and the inability of her mistress to answer the last two questions – the snatching of the book from the table, and the flinging of it to the end of the room, and after an emphatic pause she added: "The book was the Bible, sir."

Campbell had not spoken a word during Ducie's recital, but at her last remark he started as if shocked, and then said: "You have told me the truth, Ducie?"

"Nothing but the truth. Ask Jepson."

"I believe you. Go back to your mistress, and as soon as it is possible tell her I was at the door but not allowed to enter."

Then he went slowly downstairs, and the talking and exclamations ceased sharply and suddenly when he entered the dining-room, for his face, and his intentional silence, was like that which Isabel had not inaptly compared to a black frost.

After a short interval, during which he had frozen every one dumb, he looked steadily at Mrs. Campbell and said:

"Mother, I am amazed at what I hear."

"You may well be amazed, Robert," was the answer. "I myself am nearly distracted," and then she told her story, with much skill and all the picturesque idioms she fell naturally into when under great emotion. Her son listened to her as he had listened to Ducie, without question or comment. He was trying to weigh everything justly, for justice was in his opinion the cardinal virtue.

"The dispute arose, then, concerning Dr. Robertson's visit to Theodora?" he asked.

"Yes. I had a right to know why he called, and she would not tell me."

"Theodora had no right to tell you. Out of kindness the reason for his visit had been kept from you. I will tell you now. He wished Theodora to sing at the New Year's service, and he called to see what her selection would be."

"The organist ought to select the music, not Dora Campbell."

"Allow me to finish. She chose 'I know that my Redeemer liveth.'"

He ceased speaking and took his place at the dinner table. "Order dinner, Isabel," he added, in a quiet voice.

Mrs. Campbell was speechless. She was stunned by anger and amazement. Her lips trembled and her eyes filled with tears – a most extraordinary exhibition of feeling in her. Isabel with a piteous look directed his attention to her mother, and he said:

"Take your chair, mother. I want my dinner. I have had a hard day. The men at the works are quarrelling and going to strike. I did not require extra quarrelling at home."

"I cannot eat, Robert. I will not eat again in this house. I can laugh at insults from strangers, but when my son connives with his English wife to deceive me and make me humble myself before her, it is time I went away – I don't care where to."

"You have your own house at Saltcoats."

"It is rented."

Robert made no remark and the dinner went silently on. Just as it was finished the doctor asked for Robert, and he left the room to see him. "Your wife has fallen asleep," he said, "and, Campbell, you must see to it that she is not awakened for anything less than a fire or an earthquake." A short conversation followed, and after it Robert went directly to the library.

Greatly to his astonishment, his mother followed him there. He laid aside his cigar, and placed a chair for her. She had now assumed the only temper likely to influence him, and he was prepared to be amenable to her plea before she made it.

"I am sorry, Robert, that you have to bear this trouble. If it was only me, I would not care. Are you going to turn me and your sisters out of your house for that strange woman?"

"That strange woman is my wife. God has told me to leave father and mother, and cleave unto my wife."

"It is very hard."

"Let her alone, and she will not interfere with you."

"Isabel and Christina know – "

"Excuse me, she has been very kind and helpful to my sisters. She would love you all if you would let her."

"Her singing in the church – "

"Was a great delight, even to you. We were silent about it, out of kindness. I will not discuss that subject."

"Where would you advise us to go?"

"I do not advise you to go at all."

"I could not live with your wife if she is going to faint every time she quarrels with me."

"Mother, I know all about your quarrel with Theodora. I have heard it from Jepson and Ducie, and I know what the doctor thinks of it. Allow me to say your conduct was inexcusable. I would not blame you before the girls, but that is my opinion."

"Her silence was so provoking, you don't know, Robert – "

"I know that no provocation ought to have caused you to make the Bible the missile of your temper. It was an impious act. I shudder at it."

"I did not know it was the Bible."

"Mother, a Bible is known on sight. No other book looks like it. No form, no shape no color, can hide the Bible. There is a kind of divinity in this personality of the Book. I have often thought so."

"I shall sorrow for that act as long as I live, Robert. She made me do it. Yes, she did!"

"No, she did not."

"Why was she reading the Bible at that hour of the day? If it had been morning or night, I might have thought of it."

"Theodora reads the Bible at all hours."

"She does nothing like any one else."

"Theodora is my wife. I love her. She suits me exactly."

"And I and your sisters no longer suit you."

"You are, as I said before, my mother and my sisters. You are Campbells. That is enough."

"And, blessed be our ancestors, we are a' pure Campbells! Your father was o' the Argyle clan, and I was o' the Cawdor clan, but whether Argyle, Cawdor, Breadalbane, or Laudon, we are a' Campbells. We a' wear the wild myrtle and we hae a' the same battle-cry, 'Wild Cruachan!' and we a' hae hated and loved the same folk and the same things, and even if I had nae ither claim on yen, I would only require to say, 'Robert Campbell, Margaret Campbell is needing ye.'"

"You are my mother. That claim includes all claims."

"Doubly dear for being a Campbell mother."

"Yes. I am glad and proud of that fact."

Then she stretched out her hand, and he clasped and held it firmly, as he walked with her to the door.

"Good-night, mother!" he said. "I must go to Dora now. We will drop this day out of our memories."

Stepping proudly to the lilt of her Campbell eulogy, she went to her daughters with flashing eyes and a kindling face, and after a few moments of thrilling silence said:

"I hae got my way, girls, by the name o' the Campbells. Dod! but it's the great name! It unlocked his heart like a pass-key – yet I had to stoop a wee. I had to stoop in order to conquer."

"Mother, you always manage Robert."

"I ne'er saw the man I couldna manage, that is, if he was a sober man; but I'll tak' the management out o' her – see if I don't. I'll mak' her eat the humble pie she baked for me – I'll hae the better o' the English huzzy yet – I'll sort her, when I get the right time. I can do naething o' an extreme nature just yet. It has been a calamitous day, girls, morning and night. Now, go awa' to your ain rooms, I be to think the circumstances weel over."

"Mother, you are a wonderful woman," said Christina.

"Also a very discreet woman," added Isabel.

And the old lady walked to the sideboard, filled a glass with wine, lifted it upwards, and nodding to her daughters, said in a low but triumphant voice:

"Here's to the Campbells! Wha's like us?"

At the same moment Robert Campbell was stepping proudly upstairs with a heart full of racial pride. He had forgotten the ironworks. He was a Campbell of the Argyle clan, he was kin to all the Breadalbanes, and Cawdors, and Loudons. He was a Campbell, and all the glory of the large and powerful family was his glory. At that moment he heard the dirl of the bagpipes and felt the rough beauty of the thistle, and knew in his heart of hearts, that he was a son of Scotland, an inheritor of all her passions and traditions, her loves and her hatreds, and glad and proud to be so favored.

But even at this critical hour of his wife's life, he could not be much blamed, for all is race. There is no other truth, because it includes all others.

CHAPTER VI

THE NAMING OF THE CHILD

It was four weeks before Theodora could leave her room, and for long afterwards she was an invalid. But in her sickness she had peace, and the solacing company of her friends, Mrs. Robertson and Mrs. Oliphant; and as the winter passed her health and strength and beauty returned to her. This renewed vitality was indeed so certain that the announcement of the Easter services contained a promise that Mrs. Campbell would sing some suitable solo.

At the breakfast table on Easter Sunday, Robert Campbell spoke of this event to his family.

"Theodora will sing at this morning's service, mother," he said.

"The minister has already made fuss enough about the circumstance. There is no necessity for you to go over the news."

"I think you had better not go to church this morning."

"I assure you I intend to go – for your sake. And am I to be denied the comfort of my Easter sermon, because of a song which I shall not listen to?"

"Please yourself. This time you have been warned."

"I shall do my duty, that always pleases me. And I need no warnings. I am not a creature made of nerves and fancies. I am afraid of no woman."

"Christina, as you are so fond of music, Theodora will take you with her to the organ-loft if you wish."

"O, brother, how happy I shall be!"

"Christina Campbell, you will sit decently in our own pew with your sister and myself."

"Poor Christina!" said Robert, and he laid his hand kindly on her shoulder as he passed.

"Poor Robert! Say that, and you say the truth," answered Mrs. Campbell.

It was a glorious day, the church and even the aisles were crowded and the doctor preached the finest sermon of his long pastorate. His tall, stately form, his piercing eyes, his thin face – austere but tender – were never so immediate and so solemnly authoritative, and every heart thrilled as in a grand resonant voice he cried:

"Now is Christ risen from the dead, and become the firstfruits of them that slept."

His preaching was usually logical, invasive, not to be forgotten, but this morning all he said was vitalized by his own lively, living faith. He had caught the very spirit of Paul, and was carried by it far beyond, and above all arguments and sequences, until his glowing climax could find no grander words than:

"Now is Christ risen from the dead, and become the firstfruits of them that slept."

To these words he emphatically closed the Testament, and there were a few moments of profound, sensitive silence. Then, like a lark mounting heaven-ward, Theodora burst into the triumphant melody:

"I know that my Redeemer liveth!"

It was an angelic "Amen" to that old sanguine assurance, which possesses so immovably the heart of humanity. The ecstasy of hope, the surety of faith, the glory of man's destiny filled with unspeakable joy the whole building, and many of the reverent souls in it had momentary experience of

"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."

"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."

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."

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."