A Reconstructed Marriage Part 25

"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 flas.h.i.+ng 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 pa.s.s-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 circ.u.mstances 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 gla.s.s 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 pa.s.sions 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 pa.s.sed 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 circ.u.mstance. There is no necessity for you to go over the news."

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

"I a.s.sure 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 pa.s.sed.

"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 a.s.surance, 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 Sat.u.r.day 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 s.h.i.+pped 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 pa.s.s 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 fas.h.i.+onable 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 soul Joying 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 ta.s.sels; 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 pa.s.sed the open piano, she stood still, touched a few notes, and sang in a captivating, simple manner: