A Reconstructed Marriage

"I always was a busy woman, Robert, and I will be thankful to have my hands full again. I am sure the thought o' Christina's playing and singing, and her goings out and in, and the visitors she will have, and the news coming with them, and the children, special the bit lassie wi' her soft black een, and her wonderfu' resemblance to mysel' – all these things, sure enough, will make the old house a deal more pleasant. But where will you keep yourself?"

"At my club. I have a room there anyway, and I shall always take my breakfast in it. Sometimes, I will come here for dinner, but Jamie will be the man of the house, and a better master than I have ever been – he will have more time to help you, mother."

These conditions, carefully considered and elaborated, were carried out with all the haste possible. But haste is not in a Scotchwoman's faculty. She can do many things well, but she must carefully prepare for their doing, and then move with care and caution.

A few days after this arrangement, Mrs. Campbell and Christina went out together to do some shopping found necessary for it. Isabel remained at home to answer a letter from the Grafton family. This letter gave her great anxiety; it said: "Lady Mary's illness had become more serious than was at first anticipated, and there was almost a certainty that she would not be able to travel at the time fixed; consequently, they would leave to Miss Campbell the option of changing the date, or of cancelling the engagement, as seemed best for her own pleasure and interest."

Poor Isabel was much troubled at this disappointment. She feared all was going wrong with her plans, and the thought of the coming invasion with the noise of the children, and the joyous hilarity of Christina and her husband, and her mother's renewed importance, was not, in her present mood of disappointment and uncertainty, a pleasant anticipation. She sat silent and motionless, her eyes fixed on the neatly folded routes she had prepared. And her heart sank low, and a few tears gathered slowly and remained unshed. "All my desires are doomed," she thought sorrowfully. "Nothing I plan comes to pass. How unfortunate I am!"

Then there was a tap at her door, and a maid told her there was a visitor. She rose despondingly, took the card, threw it on the table, and went slowly to the drawing-room. Before she had quite opened the door, she heard hurrying steps coming to meet her, and the next moment Sir Thomas Wynton was holding her hands, and trying to tell her how happy he was to see her again.

She had an instantaneous sense of hope and relief, and they were soon heart and soul in the conversation they both enjoyed. Very soon she went for the routes she had prepared, and showed them to the baronet, who was amazed and delighted:

"I never saw anything so beautifully and carefully done," he exclaimed, "and when do you start on Route No. 1.? I see it takes in Russia, Sweden, and Norway, and home by the Netherlands and Orkneys. Why, I never thought of that! How good, how excellent an idea."

"I intended leaving Glasgow in nine days, but Lady Mary Grafton, whose party I was to join, is ill with measles."

"Good gracious! Measles! I never heard of such a thing, what is the woman up to? She is not a baby or a schoolgirl, is she?"

"She is forty-four years old."

"Oh! And measles? How absurd! What will you do?"

"I was trying to decide, when you came. Can you help me? If you can, I shall be grateful. If I can find no one to go with me, I shall go alone."

"Nonsense, impossible! May I call early to-morrow morning?"

"Ten o'clock if you wish."

Then he thanked her for the sensible, interesting letters she had written him. They were "a kind of little newspaper," he said, "and I counted those days happy and fortunate on which I received one. I have brought you some laces. I noticed that you always wore pretty lace, and so whenever I was at a place where lace was made, I got a little for you."

"Oh, Sir Thomas!"

"And to-morrow morning, I hope I will be able to tell you something about a companion for your journey. Do you know Mrs. Foster?"

"No. I have heard of her only."

He seemed on the point of going, but did not go until Mrs. Campbell came home. Then he stayed to lunch, and sat chatting with the two ladies until three o'clock. Even then he seemed reluctant to go away.

"Why should he come here at ten o'clock in the morning?" asked Mrs. Campbell, when Sir Thomas had finally gone away.

"Lady Mary is too ill to travel. Sir Thomas thinks he can get me a proper companion. If not, mother, I shall go alone. I will not let anything disappoint me again."

"You will be talked of from Dan to Beersheba."

"I shall be doing nothing wrong, and I shall be happy. Let them talk."

In the morning Sir Thomas was in the drawing-room at ten o'clock, and Isabel, in a pretty lavender lawn gown, went with a smile to meet him. He looked at her with delight, and said: "I have found you a companion – one that will take the greatest care of you. It is myself. I will trust you with no one else."

"But, Sir Thomas," and she attempted to draw her hand out of his.

"No, no," he said, clasping it still tighter. "Sit here by my side, and listen to what I say. I love you dearly, wisely, with all my heart. I will make you Lady Wynton to-morrow, if you desire it, and you and I – you and I – will take all those excellently planned journeys together. We will travel slowly and comfortably, luxuriously when we can; we will see everything worth seeing. We will take a long, long honeymoon trip, all over the world. Say 'yes,' Isabel. May I call you Isabel?"

"Yes."

"My Isabel."

"I am your sincere friend."

"My wife! I want you for my wife."

"A wedding means a great deal of trouble. It would keep me back."

"Not an hour. We will meet in Dr. Robertson's parlor, each with a friend or two. My carriage will be at his door, and as soon as the ceremony is over, we will drive to the railway station, and take a train for London, be in London for dinner, and ready next day to start Tour No. 1, first landing-place St. Petersburg; eh, dear? Say yes, say yes, Isabel. Do!"

And how could Isabel say anything but "yes"? It was the dream of her life coming true.

"This is Wednesday," he continued joyfully, "what do you say to next Monday? Can you be ready for Monday?"

"I can be ready by Monday, Sir Thomas."

"We will drop the 'Sir,' my dear, forever. Now, I will go and arrange with Dr. Robertson for the ceremony at nine o'clock, Monday morning, and in the meantime, see your brother about the necessary business matters, and put all right at Wynton village for at least a year's stay. For after London, we will follow the route you laid out – nothing could be better."

And as this was one of those destined marriages, that may be delayed but cannot be prevented, every particular relating to it went as desired. Isabel in a pretty travelling suit, with her mother and brother, was at Dr. Robertson's at nine o'clock on the set Monday morning, and found Sir Thomas Wynton and his brother-in-law and sister, Lord and Lady Morpeth, waiting for them. It was a momentous interval for two of the party, but soon passed; for in twenty minutes, Isabel received the congratulations due to her as Lady Wynton, and then amid smiles and good wishes she began with her husband their long wedding trip, of all over the world.

"It is the last of my Isabel," said Mrs. Campbell between smiles and tears.

"No," answered Robert, "it is the beginning of Isabel. When she comes back we shall hardly know her. It is a real marriage; they will improve each other," and he turned away with a sigh.

Mrs. Campbell had really no occasion for tears. She was not inclined to weep, even when weeping would have been in order, and Isabel had not lately been notable, either as a help or a comfort, so that her mother felt it no trial to exchange her presence, for the pleasure of talking of her dear daughter, Lady Wynton, her journeyings and her experiences. There was also the returning home of Christina, the rearranging of Robert's rooms for her and her family, their moving into them and settlement, and these things engaged her warmest interest. She felt indeed that as regarded Robert's rooms falling to Christina's lot, she owed Providence a handsome acknowledgment. They had been prepared at an extravagant cost for an Englishwoman and a stranger, but had come, as it were, naturally, to her own daughter. But then she said: "Providence had always looked after the Campbells, and it was not likely that in this flagrant case Providence would forget its duty."

She was busy from morning to night until she had the new family under the same roof with her, and Robert also appeared to take a great interest in the change. He was very generous to his sister, and gave her freely all the beautiful furniture and ornaments he had bought for Theodora, even the piano would know her touch no more. All the books, music, and pretty ornaments and embroideries she had accumulated during her miserable six years of married life, she left behind her; and all were given to Christina. Christina had no reluctance in appropriating them. She began her new tenure in Traquair House by taking everything she could get, likely to add to her comfort or pleasure.

Robert was a great deal about the house while the change was in progress, afterward his visits decreased, until they settled into the Sunday dinner with his family. No one complained of his absence. Christina and Rathey introduced a new life – a life of constant visiting, gaiety, and entertaining; and Mrs. Campbell accepted it without dissent. Jamie Rathey indeed ruled her more absolutely than he ruled his wife. And she petted him, as she had never petted her own sons – ordered luxuries for his eating, gave him presents, paid his bills, and excused all his extravagances.

"Between Jamie and little Margaret, I am not my own woman at all," she admitted, and as time went on, it was difficult to say which of these two treated her with the most tyrannical affection.

Two erroneous conclusions are likely to be formed concerning Robert Campbell on this unlooked for transformation of life in Traquair House – one, that he had suddenly developed a most unusual generosity, and the other, that he had forgotten his wife, and become resigned to her loss. Neither of these conclusions would be correct. Few, indeed, of our actions ring true through all their depths, and Robert's generosity to his sister arose from a desire to make his own life more bearable. Those lonely, lifeless, deserted rooms, over which he had spent so much love and gold filled him with a terror he hated to face. If Christina would bring into them life and song, and the voices of children, perhaps their haunting misery might die out of his heart. He could not prevent Isabel leaving home, but he did dread the house with no one but his mother and himself in it. So when Christina stepped into both dilemmas, with a comfortable solution, he felt grateful to her, and it was pleasant to give her things, and pleasant to help Jamie Rathey, and to see the dark, silent house alive with mirth and company, and the prattle of little children.

But there was another Robert that none of these things touched, who in fact would neither see them, nor listen to them. This Robert sat hours motionless and speechless, dreaming of the woman he still loved – longing for her with heart-breaking accusations and remorse. Oh, to hear from her! Oh, to see her, if but for a moment! Would the hour for their reconciliation never, never come? This was the faithful, bitter cry of his best nature, as raking in the ashes of memory, he made of his lost wife a thousand lovely and sorrowful pictures. And this Robert Campbell, no one but Robert's angels, and Robert's God knew.

To the world in general he seemed to be harder than ever, indifferent to all interests but money-making, stripped even of his old time gloss and politeness, yielding only when necessary to get his own way. His kindness to Christina had been in the main kindness to himself, and the ready help given to Jamie Rathey was the result of several selfish reasons, united with that singular liking which men occasionally feel for some other man gifted as they never can be – an affection doubtless dating from some life anterior to this life. With these exceptions, Robert Campbell was the old Robert Campbell, a little older, and a little rougher, and the national emblem of the repellent Thistle, with its churlish command, "Hands off!" represented him very fairly.

CHAPTER XII

ROBERT CAMPBELL GOES WOOING

It will not now be difficult for any one to construct in their imagination the life in Traquair House for the next two years. But at the end of that time, a great change was approaching, and the bringer of it was Isabel, Lady Wynton. She was sitting at her husband's side one afternoon, in the office or foyer of a large hotel in San Francisco. Sir Thomas was smoking and watching with her the constant kaleidoscope of humanity passing in and out. They were not talking, but there was a thorough, though silent sympathy between them. Sometimes Sir Thomas looked at her with an admiring glance, which she answered with a smile, or a move of her chair closer to him; but her attitude was that of a woman silently interested and satisfied. It was the old Isabel in a repose, informed, vigilant, and conscious of a perfect communion of feeling.

Suddenly her whole appearance changed. She became eager and watchful, and her personality appeared to be on the tiptoe of expectation. With her eyes she followed every movement of a beautiful young woman attended by a scholarly-looking man, nearing sixty years of age. The couple were quickly joined by a much younger man, they walked with him to the main entrance, stood talking a few minutes, and then bid him farewell. The woman and older man then turned back into the hotel, and Lady Wynton had a full leisurely look at them. She did not recognize the man at all, but she was perfectly satisfied as to the identity of the woman, and she stepped hastily forward, crying softly:

"Theodora, Theodora! I know it is you. I have found you at last. Oh, how glad I am, how glad I am!"

"Isabel!"

"And here is my husband, Dora."

"I need no introduction, Mrs. Campbell," said Sir Thomas, with smiling courtesy. "I remember you perfectly, though you have been growing younger, instead of older."

Theodora quickly introduced her father, leaving him with Sir Thomas while she and Lady Wynton went to the Wyntons' parlor for conversation. "I must write Robert at once," said Lady Wynton. "It will be such a wonderful thing to him, for I am sure he has given up all hope of ever seeing you again, Dora. Two years ago he left Traquair House; he could not endure his empty lonely rooms any longer."

"Poor, dark, sad rooms! I try to forget them also."

"They are not dark and empty now, Christina and her husband and babies are living in them, and they make them lively enough, I have no doubt."

A shadow passed over Theodora's face, and she did not speak for a few moments. Then she asked: "What was done with the furniture and the things I used to believe were mine?"

"Christina wrote me that Robert had given everything in the rooms to her."

"How kind of him!" There was a little scorn in her voice, and she asked, "What about my piano, and my music?"

"Oh, Theodora, you must not feel hurt. Poor Robert! He was nearly broken-hearted. He never expected to see you. He had spent a fortune on detectives, who looked all over Europe for you. One night I sat with him, and I really thought he was insane. He acted like it."

"But he gave my piano and music away."

"I suppose he could not bear to see them – and you had left them, you know."

"Isabel, he gave me that piano as a birthday gift, one week before we were married; but then, of course, he took it back after the ceremony. He told me once my wedding ring was his property, and that he could sell the very hair off my head if he chose to do so."

"He must have been in a vile temper to say such things. Legally, I suppose he was right, but no good man ever does such things."

"But if a woman has the ill-fortune to marry a bad man? and many women innocently do this, then – "

"Then what?"

"If she has any self-respect, she emancipates herself from such a condition of slavery."

"Are you still angry at Robert?"

"I never was angry at him. He was only the rock on which my love bark struck, and went down."

"How is David?"

"Come home with me, and see him. We shall be home for supper, and it is about time we were leaving."

"Both Sir Thomas and I will come with you gladly."

For nearly ten miles their road lay through a delightful country, and just at the darkening ended in a plateau among some foothills. A number of white houses were scattered over it, and towards one of these Theodora drove her carriage. They entered an inclosure studded with forest trees, and kept in fine order; and as they neared the dwelling, came into a lovely garden full of all kinds of flowers and fruits. The house was square and large, surrounded by deep piazzas, and covered to the chimney-tops with flowering vines, chiefly with jasmine and passion flowers. On either side of the wide hall there were cool, large parlors, and from its centre rose the white stairway leading to the upper rooms – and everywhere there was an indefinable sense of peace and comfort.

"What a beautiful home! What a heavenly place!" cried Isabel, and Theodora answered:

"My father bought it when we first came. We have lived here ever since. It is beautiful. The sun shines on it, the winds blow through it, in every room there is happiness and peace. You were asking about David," she said in a tone of exultation, "here he comes!" and they went to the window and watched his approach. He was riding a fine, spirited horse, and riding like Jehu the son of Nimshi, who doubtless rode – as well as drove – furiously.

"How wonderfully he rides, Dora."

"David can do anything with a horse, or a rifle, and he is so strong, and tall, you would think him much older than he is. Come, we will go down and have supper, and let unpleasant memories die."

For two weeks the Wyntons stayed with Mr. Newton – two weeks of perfect delight to them. They visited various lovely towns along the coast, they hunted, and fished, and talked, the women of household things, and family affairs – the two men of their college days, and sports, and poetry; Sir Thomas quoting the Greek poets, and Mr. Newton the English, old and new. In the evenings, Theodora played and sang, and David recited stirring lines from "The Lady of the Lake" and other works. Night and day followed each other so happily and so quickly, that the week promised became two weeks, without notice or protest.

No letter during this time had been sent to Robert. Theodora insisted on this point. "I do not like letters, Isabel," she said. "They say too much, or too little. When you see Robert, tell him what your eyes have seen, and your ears heard – just the plain truth – and leave him to act on it, as he wishes."

"Then remember, Dora, that we are not intending to hurry home. We shall remain a few days at Salt Lake City, Denver, St. Louis, Chicago, and of course visit Niagara. It may be a month before we reach New York. You must give us five or six weeks before we reach Liverpool, and so do not lay the blame of our loitering to Robert's indifference. Be patient."

"I have been four years without a word. You see that I am neither impatient nor unhappy."

"Tell me, Dora, who was that dark, handsome man you seemed so much at home with in the hotel? I am curious about him. He appeared to be so familiar with your father and yourself."

"He is a neighbor. His house is about two miles from ours. The two eldest girls you saw reading and singing with me are his daughters. I am educating them with the three younger girls, who are the only children of a neighbor in another direction."

"He seemed very fond of you – I mean the man at the hotel."

"He is a good friend. He spends much time with my father. When he bid us good-bye, he was going to his mining property. That is the reason you have not seen him. Had he been at home, he would have made your visit here much pleasanter."

"Then I think we should never have got away. What a book full I shall have to tell Robert? I wish I was home. It will be good to see the light come into his sad face, when I say, 'Robert, I have found Theodora!'"

"Say nothing to influence him, one way or the other. His own heart must urge him to seek me, or he will never find me. It is a long journey to take, for a disappointment."

"He will doubtless write to you at once."

"I should take no notice of a letter."

"Why?"

"I have learned that a woman who lets slip the slightest respect which is due her, invites, and perhaps deserves the contempt she gets."

"Sir Thomas is very respectful to me, Dora."

"And very kind and loving. And you must know that you are much handsomer than you were before your marriage. You converse better, your manner is dignified yet gracious, your dress is rich, and in fine taste, and the touch of gray in your abundant black hair is exceedingly becoming to you. You are a fortunate woman."

"But, Dora, remember how long I waited for good fortune. I am in real living only two years old; all the years before my marriage were blank and dreary. I am forty years of age according to my birth date, and I have lived two, out of the forty."

"Thank God for the two years!"

"I do. We both do. Sir Thomas is very religious."

At length the Wyntons departed, and when Theodora had made her last adieu, and watched their carriage out of sight, she turned to her mother, who stood pale and depressed at her side.

"I am glad the visit is over. It has been something of a trial to you, mother – and to me also."

"The last week I was a little weary. But father and David enjoyed it, so it does not matter."

"Yes, it does matter. The men in a house should not be made happy at the cost of the women's exhaustion."

"How soon do you expect your husband?"

"Not for eight weeks – it may be longer, and it may be never."

"Do you love him at all now?"

"I love the Robert who wooed and married me, as much as ever I did; the Robert of the last five or six years, I do not wish to see again. I have been away from him four years, and I cannot hope that his manner of life has improved him."

"How has he lived?"

"From what Isabel told me, I should say his family had full dominion over him for two years; the result being the tearing to pieces of the home he made for me, and the handing over to his sister everything that was mine. The last two years he has lived a solitary life at his club, no doubt self-indulgent, self-centred, and self-sufficient."

"Theodora, no one but God knows anything about Robert. He would show himself to no one – I mean his real self. Do not judge him on the partial evidence of his sister. She would look no further than his words and actions."

"I wish I had heard nothing about him. I thought he was out of my life forever."

"Do not let the matter disturb you, until you are compelled to. Grace for the need is sure. Nowhere have I seen, grace before the need promised."

"You are right, mother, we will go on with our lives just as if this visit had never happened. I will neither hope nor doubt. I will do my day's work, and leave all with God."

So the Newton House went back to its calm routine, and Theodora taught and wrote, and helped her mother with her housekeeping, and her father with copying his manuscripts, and her boy with his lessons, and the days passed into weeks, and the weeks into months, and the promise of Robert's coming became as a dream when one awakeneth.

Yet all was proceeding surely, if leisurely, to the appointed end. In about eight weeks, the Wyntons arrived in London, and following their usual habit delayed and delayed there, for a whole week before starting for Scotland. But once at Wynton Castle, Isabel felt freed from her promise of silence, and she wrote to Robert a few days after her return home, the following note:

"Dear Robert: – We reached home four days ago, and found everything in perfect order. I hope mother and Christina and you yourself are well. I am in fine health, never was better. When we were in California I came unexpectedly upon Theodora. We stayed two weeks with her, very pleasant weeks, and if you will come to Wynton as soon as convenient, we shall be glad to see you and tell you all about your wife and child. You need have no anxiety about them. They could not be happier. Give my love and duty to mother, and tell Christina I have a few pretty things for her.