So McNab got – or rather took – her way, and soon after appeared in the kitchen in her large white mutch and apron. "Now, lasses," she said in her most commanding manner, "I am come here on a special invite to keep you and the house in order during the tribulation o' the mistress. But you'll find me a pleasant body to live wi', if you behave yoursel's and let the lads alane. If you don't, you will find you have got to do wi' the Mischief."
"The lads, ma'am?" said a smart young lassie; "the lads! We have not a particle o' use for them – auld or young."
"What's your name?"
"Maggie."
"Weel, Maggie, you are a sensible lass, and you may now make Mistress McNab – that's mysel' – a cup o' tea, and if there's a slice o' cold beef or a bit o' meat pie in the house – "
"There's neither meat nor pie in the house."
"Then, Maggie, gie me a rizzard haddie wi' my tea. I'm easy pleased except wi' dinner. A good dinner is a fixed fact wi' me, and when I've had a cup o' tea I'll feel mair like Flora McNab. At the present hour, I'm fagged and wastered, and requiring a refreshment. That's sure!"
At first Theodora did not feel satisfied with McNab's gratuitous offer of service, but Robert quickly made her so. "I am delighted," he said. "I have known the woman ever since I can remember. She stood by my father in his long sickness as faithfully as she stands by you. I can never be uneasy about my wife if McNab is with her."
So McNab took the place she had chosen, and the house was soon aware of her presence. There were more economy, better meals, perfect discipline, and a refreshing sense of peace and order. For she had a rare power of ruling, and also of making those ruled pleased to be so. Thus, for two weeks, Theodora had a sense of pause and rest that was strengthening both to the inner and outer woman. Then in the secret silence of the midnight, her fear was turned into joy, for McNab laid her first-born son in her arms and Robert knelt at her side, his heart brimming with love and thanksgiving. And had he fully realized the blessing given, he would have known it was, Thy Kingdom come, from the cradle.
Surely this great event would make all things new! This was Theodora's constant thought and hope, and for a while it seemed to do so. But the readiness with which we come to accept rare and great blessings as customary is one of the most common and ungrateful of our blasphemies against the Father from whom all blessings flow. And very soon the beautiful babe became as usual as the other everyday incidents of life, to all excepting his mother and McNab. Robert, indeed, was fond and proud of him, and as long as they remained in Inverkip the little fellow was something new that belonged to himself in a manner wonderful and satisfying.
But with the return of the family to Glasgow, the child lost the charm of the Inverkip environment. In Traquair House he received even from his father only the Campbell affection, which had no enthusiasms, no baby talk, no petting, no foolish admirations. It was almost impossible for the mother to accept this change of attitude with nonchalance, or even cheerfulness. She could not withstand the influence of the dull, gray house, and the toiling, moiling, money-grabbing city, though she felt intuitively that the influence of both was inimical to her domestic happiness. For the house was impregnated with the Campbell personality, so much so that the very apparatus of their daily life had become eloquent of the moods of those they ministered to; and Theodora often felt as if the sofas and chairs in their rooms resented her use of them.
A prepossession of this kind was an unhappy one, and easily affiliated itself with the spirit of the house, which was markedly a quarrelsome spirit. Nurtured and indulged for more than two generations, it had become an inflexible, almost an invincible one. All Theodora's smiling efforts, all her charms and entreaties had failed to conciliate, or even appease its grudging resentment. It was a piteous thing that the first trouble after her return to Glasgow, should be concerning the child. Robert had been pleased by the assurance of his friends in Inverkip that his son resembled him in an extraordinary manner. He was himself sure of this resemblance, though Theodora could only see "that difference in sameness" often enough pronounced between fathers and sons.
Mrs. Campbell scouted the idea. She said: "The child had not a single Campbell feature or trait. He did not even suck his tongue, a trick all the Campbell babies had, as McNab knew right well. And she understood there had not been a single Campbell in the room when he was born – an important and significant mistake that never could be rectified. She could only say, and she always would say, that the boy was Theodora's child."
"I hope he is," answered Robert, who was nettled by the criticism. "He cannot do better than take after his mother in every way."
"And I am fairly shocked, Robert," she continued, "that the child – who's ever it is – hasna yet been baptized. Seven weeks old and not baptized! I never heard the like. My children were covenanted Christians before they were two weeks old. It was my first thought for them."
"Well, mother, we wanted to be quite sure of the name. A boy's name means much to him when he becomes a man."
"There is but one name proper for the child, that is his grandfather's."
"Do you mean Traquair?" asked Robert.
"Yes, Traquair – a fine family name."
Theodora looked entreatingly at Robert, and he understood her dissent and shared it.
"Mother," he answered, "I have a great objection to Traquair."
"Objection! Pray, why?"
"It was not a fortunate name for my father. It is not a good business name."
"My father was a Traquair, and he made a great deal of money."
"Your father was called Donald Traquair. That is different. Traquair is a good family name, but it is not a good Christian name."
"We could call him Donald," said Theodora. "Donald is a good name, though I think Robert likes David best of all."
"David!" ejaculated Mrs. Campbell with anger. "I will have no David Campbells in this house! I will not suffer my grandson to be called David. It was like you to propose it."
"I thought it would please you. I am quite willing my son should be called David."
"I think David is a very good name," said Robert, but his opinion was given with that over-decision which cowardice assumes when it forces itself to assertion.
"To have a David Campbell in the house will be a great annoyance to me," continued Mrs. Campbell. "It will be enough to make me hate the child."
Then Theodora left the room. She felt that the argument had gone as far as it was likely to be reasonable. In a short time Robert followed her and his face wore a look of vexation and perplexity.
"Have you decided on the name yet, Robert?" she asked.
"No."
"Why not call him after yourself?"
"Because in the course of time I should likely be compelled to write 'senior' after my own name. I do not care to look forward to that. Mother has set her mind on Traquair."
"It is the only Scotch name I object to. It has not one noble association. If you say Robert, you think of Robert Bruce, and Robert Burns, and a score of other great men. Call him Donald, or Dugald, or Duncan, or Angus, or Hector, or Alexander, they are all Christian names and will not subject the little lad when he goes among the boys and men, to mockery. Traquair will give them two objectionable nicknames – Tray, which is a dog's name, and Quair will easily slip into queer. Think of it – Tray Campbell, or Queer Campbell. It will not do, Robert."
"No. Traquair will not do. It will not do."
"There is one good reason for not calling the child Robert, not the 'senior' reason at all. I want you to keep and make famous your own name. You are really a good natural orator. I noticed your speech, and its delivery at Dr. Robertson's dinner, when we were at Inverkip. It was the best speech made. It was finely delivered. You are rich and going to be richer; why not cultivate your gift, and run for Parliament? No one can put political views into a more sensible and eloquent speech than Robert Campbell."
"I think you overrate my abilities, Dora," replied Robert, but he spoke with a kind of musing satisfaction.
"No, you could become a good speaker, and if you wish, I am sure you may write M. P. after your name. Why not decide on David? You love your big brother yet. You never speak of him without emotion. He will come back to you, I am sure. And how proud you will be to say: 'I never forgot you, David. I called my first-born son after you.'"
"You are right, Dora, you are right. The boy's name is David. I have said it and it shall be so. Mother must give way. She must remember for once, that we have some feelings and prejudices as well as herself."
At that moment Ducie entered with the child, and Theodora took him in her arms and said: "Ducie, the baby is to be called David." Then she kissed the name on his lips and he opened his blue eyes and smiled at her.
The next Sabbath the child was solemnly baptized David, and Robert entered his name in the large family Bible, which had been the first purchase he made for his home after Theodora had accepted him.
But in neither ceremony did Mrs. Traquair Campbell take any part. She did not go to church, and when Robert asked her to come into his parlor and see the entry of her grandson's name in the Book, she refused. All of the household were present but the infant's grandmother and aunts; and all blessed the child as Theodora put him a moment into the arms of the women present. McNab kissed him, and made a kind of apology for the act, saying she "never could help kissing a boy baby, since she was a baby hersel', and even if it were a girl baby a bit bonnie, she whiles fell easy into the same infirmity."
In this case Theodora gained her desire, and some will say she gained it by flattering her husband. It would be fairer to say by admiring her husband. A wise wife knows that in domestic diplomacies, admiration is a puissant weapon. In a great many cases it is better than love. Men are not always in the mood to be loved, their minds may be busy with things naturally antagonistic to love; and to show a warmth that is not shared is a grave mistake. But all men are responsive to admiration. It succeeds where reasoning and arguing and endearments fail. For the person admired feels that he is believed in, and trusted. He has nothing to explain and nothing to justify, and this attitude makes the wheels of the household run smoothly.
Is then Theodora to be blamed? If so, there are an unaccountable number of women, yesterday, to-day, and forever, in the same fault. It would be safe to say there is not a happy household in the land where the wives and mothers do not use many such small hypocrisies. Is there any wife reading this sentence, who has not often made a pleasant evening for her whole family, by a few admiring or sympathizing words? For though a woman will go through hard work and distracting events without praise or sympathy, a man cannot. If admiration and kindness fail him, he flies to the black door of oblivion by drink, or drugs, or a pistol shot. A man with a wife whose sympathy and admiration can be relied on, is never guilty of that sin. Is there a good wife living who has not pretended interest in subjects she really cares nothing about; who has not listened to the same stories a hundred times, and laughed every time; who does not in some way or other, violate her own likes or dislikes, tastes or opinions every day in the week in order to induce a household atmosphere which it will be pleasant to live in?
This is not the place to discuss the ethics of this universal custom. Women, with reckless waste have always flung themselves into the domestic gulf. They choose to throw away their own happiness in order to make others happy, forgetting too often that they who injure themselves shall not be counted innocent.
CHAPTER VII
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.
