Kitabı oku: «A Reconstructed Marriage», sayfa 10

"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.

CHAPTER VIII
A RUNAWAY BRIDE

At seven precisely Mrs. Campbell re-entered the dining-room. Isabel was already there, and Jepson was bringing in the broth. Neither Robert nor Christina was present, and she wondered a little, but asked no questions. In a few moments Theodora took her place, and without remark permitted Jepson to serve her. But she was evidently in trouble, and she did not touch the food before her. At length Mrs. Campbell asked:

"Where is Robert? Is he not ready for dinner?"

"He is asleep. I suppose he is not ready for dinner."

"What time did he return home?"

"Very early. He said he was sleepy. He is always sleepy. I fear he is ill, a healthy man cannot always be needing sleep."

"The Campbells, all of them, are famous for their ability to sleep. They can sleep at all hours, and in any place – a four-inch-wide plank would suffice them for a sofa. They can order a sleep whenever they desire, and it comes. It is very remarkable."

"Very," answered Theodora, in a tone of unavoidable contempt.

"I have heard people say it was a great gift, and it is quite a family gift."

"I hope my little David will not inherit it," said Theodora.

"There is nothing of the Campbell family about the boy," replied Mrs. Campbell.

Theodora did not say she was glad, but she looked the words, and her expression of satisfaction was annoying to both Isabel and her mother. The former said with petulant decision:

"I can sleep at any time I wish. I think this family trait is a great and peculiar blessing."

"Circumstances may sometimes make it so, Isabel," answered Theodora, "but I would rather wake and suffer, than sink into animal unconsciousness half my life. Robert has slept, or pretended to sleep, twelve hours out of the last twenty-four, and he does not even dream."

"Dream!" cried Mrs. Campbell in disgust, "dream, I hope not! Only fools dream. My children go to bed for the purpose of sleeping. Dream indeed! The Campbells have good sense, and they don't lose it when they sleep."

"Oh, but I think dreaming is one of the most sensible things we do. The soul is comforted by dreaming, instructed and warned by dreaming. I should feel spiritually dead, if the blessed, prophesying dreams failed to visit me."

"I wonder where Christina is taking dinner," said Mrs. Campbell. She refused to continue a conversation so senseless and disagreeable, and her way of doing so, was not only to ignore Theodora's topic, but also to introduce a subject which she considered important and interesting. And of course Christina's dinner was a matter that put dreaming out of court and question.

Isabel thought she was dining with the Brodies, and Mrs. Campbell said, "In that case she ought to have sent a message to her family."

"She is so occupied, mother, she forgets. We must make some allowances at this time."

"Of course, Isabel. I expect to do so."

Then the door was suddenly thrown open and Robert entered. His face was dark, he was biting his thumbnail, and his eyes were full of a dull fire. He had not a word for any one but Jepson, whom he ordered to remove the broth. "The house smells of it," he said with an air of disgust. He ate what dinner he took without speaking, an act Gothic, almost brutal, when it can be avoided, but none of the three women cared to break the silence, lest they might turn silence into visible, audible anger.

Theodora made a pretence of eating, but it was only a pretence and she left the room as soon as the cloth was drawn. Robert did not in any way notice her departure, but he began a grumbling kind of conversation with his mother, as soon as the three Campbells were alone. He said he was worn out with the expense and rioting anent Christina's marriage. It had been fine dinners, and suppers, and fooleries of all kinds for weeks, and more weeks, and money wasting away like water running into sand. He saw no good coming of it. He was glad the end was in sight, etc., etc. – grumble, grumble, grumble, his voice never lifted above a deep, sulky monotone, his face dark with frowns and discontent.

He was so ill-tempered Mrs. Campbell thought it best to leave him alone with his cigar. It seemed better to worry out her anxieties with Isabel, who, however, was not in a mood to talk them away. "I am so depressed, mother," she complained. "I hardly know what I am saying. I feel as if I had a great sorrow. The room is dark, the air heavy, the whole house feels full of trouble. It is crowded, too. With a little effort I feel that I could see the crowd. Do you understand?"

"My God! Isabel, control yourself. We want no Second Sight here. The Argyle Campbells are great seers, and you must close your ears to their whisperings, and whatever sights are under your eye-balls, deny them vision. You must, you must! For, as your grandfather, Ivan Campbell, used to say, 'the Second Sight, children, isna a blessing, it is aye dool and sorrow, or ill chance it shows you.'"

"Mother, I must tell you the truth. I am unhappy about Christina."

"So am I."

"She ought to have sent us a message. She would, had it been possible. Oh, mother, what or who prevented her?"

"Perhaps she did. Have you asked Scot?"

"No, but if any message had been sent by him he would have told Jepson at once, and Jepson heard our conversation about her absence at the dinner table, yet he made no remark."

"What do you fear?"

"My fear has no form. That is what frightens me. If I knew – "

"You are nervous, Isabel, very nervous. She left home well, and in good spirits."

"I never saw her in better health, or finer spirits."

"Do you not remember, that she once stayed at Colonel Allison's till near midnight, without sending us any message? We were in a fright about her at that time."

"But you commanded her never to do the like again."

"Christina has not obeyed my commands very particularly of late. They do not seem important to her."

"She has had so much to do, and she knew Sir Thomas would not be in Glasgow to-night. If I knew she was well and safe, I should be glad she was not here, for this is an unhappy house with Robert in the devil's own temper, and Dora looking like the grave."

"Dora makes Robert ill-tempered. It is all her fault, and we have to suffer for it."

"She evidently suffers also."

"She deserves to suffer."

"Suppose we send for Scot. He must be in the stable yet."

"As you like."

In a quarter of an hour Scot stood within the dining-room door respectfully indignant at the summons and the delay it would cause him. He was rather glad the ladies were anxious and quite in the mood to tell anything he thought might be disagreeable.

"Where did you take Miss Christina first of all this morning, Scot?" asked Mrs. Campbell.

"To the florist's shop on Buchanan Street. She bought a posy of daffy-down-dillys and came out with them in her hand."

"Where next?"

"To Madame Barnard's. She didna stop five minutes there, but Madame cam' to the doorstep wi' her, and bid Miss Christina good-bye and wished her a' the good luck in the round world itsel'."

"Then?"

"She told me then to go back to the stable, but to be sure and come for her at four o'clock. I asked where I was to come, and she laughed pleasantly and said, 'Come to Bailie Brodie's,' and gave me the Crescent, and the number o' the house forbye."

"Did you go to Bailie Brodie's at four o'clock?"

"I did that same thing, ma'am."

"Well?"

"A servant lass told me Miss Campbell hadna been there that day, nor that week. So I drove home again, and at half after five I went to the train for Mr. Campbell, but I missed him. He had come by an early train, while I was at Brodies'."

"Did you notice any one speak to Miss Campbell?"

"No one."

"Did she take the right way to Brodies'?"

"She took the best way – up Sauchiehall Street."

"That will do, Scot."

Scot shut the door, and the two women looked with troubled eyes into each other's faces. Mrs. Campbell then turned to the clock and said, "It is on the stroke of nine, Isabel. We will wait until ten; then I shall speak to your brother."

The hour went miserably, almost silently away, and then Mrs. Campbell went to her son. He treated her fears with contemptuous indifference. "It is like you women," he said, "you always make a mountain out of a molehill. If any one of the women in this house knows how to take care of herself, it is Christina Campbell! Go to your beds, and tell Jepson to sit up for her."

"Robert, do you understand that she said she was going to the Brodies', and then did not go?"

"Who said she was not there?"

"One of the Brodie servant lasses."

"Tush! She went there, no doubt, but did not stay long enough to acquaint that particular servant with her visit. I have no doubt Marion Brodie and Christina went off somewhere together, and they are likely together at this hour."

"I never thought of that, Robert. Indeed it is very likely they went to Netta Galbraith, who is to be second bridesmaid."

"Of course, and they are having a mock marriage in order to practise their parts. I hope we shall have no more marriages in the family, they are ruinously expensive, and make nothing but misery and anxiety."

Mrs. Campbell sighed, and lifted her eyes heaven-ward, but she did not remain with her son. She was really afraid to leave Isabel, for she looked almost distracted, and on the point of vision. "And I will not have it," she whispered to herself, "no, I will not. There shall be no prophecy of calamity in this house, whether from the dead or the living – not if mortal woman can help it."

She opened the dining-room door to this thought, and Isabel stayed her rapid walk and asked anxiously, "Well, mother?"

"Your brother says there is no occasion to worry. He made out a very clear case of the circumstance," and she explained his supposition concerning Christina's and Marion Brodie's visit together to Netta Galbraith.

Isabel shook her head. "That is not it," she answered positively.

"He advised us to go to bed."

"I will not until Christina returns, or Robert does something to clear up her failure to come."

"How do you feel?"

"Unquiet and unhappy. Mother, something extraordinary has happened."

"I hope you are not seeing things."

"No. The 'visiting' is past – but it will come again."

"It must not! It must not! Deny it every time! Oh, Isabel – if anything should happen to put off the marriage, whatever should we do?"

"Bear it."

"The talk of it! The wonder of it! The mortification of it!"

"Mother, why are you fearing such a misfortune? Robert says all is right. You have always believed Robert's word."

"Yes, yes! Robert knows, Robert feels, when he is in the right mood, but to-night he is in a bad mood – cross and evil as Satan."

Dismally they talked together for another hour, and then Robert joined them. He had caught fear from some source, and he asked for a list of such places as Christina was likely to visit. Then he called a cab and went first to Glover's Theatre. He was just in time to see the exit of the Box crowd, but Christina was not among them. Suddenly the consequences of a delayed marriage struck him like a buffet in his face. The loss of money – the loss of prestige – the talk – the newspapers! Oh, the thing was impossible, and he tried to put the apprehension of it away with a stamp of his foot. He was equally unsuccessful wherever he called. No one had seen Christina that day, and he finally went home puzzled, and even anxious, but sure that her unaccountable absence was the result of some misunderstanding that would be cleared up when morning came. He insisted on the family retiring, but told Jepson to leave the gas burning, and be ready to open the door if called upon to do so. Then he also went upstairs, but sleep was far from him. Theodora appeared to be asleep, but though her eyes were closed, her heart was waking. One kind word would have brought him all the comfort love could give. He was touched, however, by the sweetness and peace that brooded over her, and by the calm and restful atmosphere pervading her room. He stood a moment at the side of the apparently sleeping woman, but was reluctant – perhaps ashamed – to awaken her. David slept in her dressing-room and he went to the child's cot and looked at the beautiful boy. When he was asleep, the likeness to his father was very evident, and Robert noticed it.

"I was once as innocent and as fair as he is. I must have looked just like him," and sitting down by a table he held his head in his hands, and thought of them, and of Christina's delay, listening always for the carriage, the step, the ring at the door, that never came.

The next morning the whole family were late and unrested. Jepson was sorting the mail as Isabel came downstairs, and she asked anxiously, "What time is it, Jepson?"

"Nine o'clock, miss. Here is a letter for you, miss."

She saw at once it was from Christina, and she took it eagerly, and ran back to her own room with it. Trembling from head to feet, she broke the seal and read:

My dear Sister:

I was married to-day at half-past eleven to Jamie Rathey. I met him twelve days ago, and we went into the picture gallery, and sat there all day talking, and I found out that I loved Jamie, and did not love Sir Thomas. I promised to marry him, and we rented a nice floor and furnished it very prettily, and hired two servants, and so after the marriage ceremony, went to our own home for lunch. Do not blame me, Isabel. I have never been happy in all my life, and I want to be happy, and I shall be happy with Jamie. I have sent all the gifts Sir Thomas gave me back, and written him a letter. He will forgive me, and I know you will. Mother will forbid you to mention me, and she will never forgive. I know Robert will feel hurt, but he has no cause. I begged him to secure the fish that was on the hook for him, and he would not. I thought all well over, and I did not see why I should any longer sacrifice myself for the Campbells. For twenty-eight years I was miserable – child and woman. Nobody loved me but Jamie. I had nothing other girls and women had. But I am happy at last! Happy at last! Oh, Isabel, be glad for me. I will write to you every month, but you need not try to find me out. You could not. You might as well look for a needle in a hay-stack. Dear Isabel, do not forget me. Your loving sister,

Christina Rathey.

And Isabel cried and wrung her hands and said softly, but from her very heart, "I am glad, I am glad! You did right, Christina! Yes, you did! You did! And Isabel will stand by you till the last. She will! She will!"

With tears still on her white cheeks, she went down to the dining-room. Robert and his mother were at the table, and evidently not on agreeable terms. "Jepson thought you had a letter from Christina," said Mrs. Campbell, "and I am astonished you did not bring it to us, at once."

"I thought it would be better, to see first what news it contained."

"Well? Can you not speak?"

Then Isabel put the letter into her mother's hand.

And in a few minutes there was a cry like that of a woman wounded and crushed to death. With frantic passion Mrs. Campbell threw the letter at her son, and then with bitter execrations assailed the child she accused of killing her.

"Mother, mother! Do be quiet!" pleaded Isabel.

"She has killed me! I shall die of shame! I shall die! She has broken my heart!"

Robert read the letter through, his face growing darker and darker as he read. When he had finished, he threw it on the fire, and Isabel rushed to the grate and rescued it, though it was smoked, and browned, and mostly illegible. But she clasped its tinder and ashes in her hands, cried over them, and finally left the room with the precious relics clasped to her heart.

"Have you gone crazy too?" called her mother.

"Let her alone!" said Robert.

"And pray what is the matter with you?"

"I am ashamed of the way you are behaving."

"It is your sister of whom you must be ashamed. Her disgraceful marriage will kill me."

"It is the result of your own doing, and withholding."

"I am to bear the blame, of course. Poor mother!"

"You never gave her any happiness, and when she got the opportunity she gave it to herself. That was natural."

"She had all the happiness I had."

"You had your husband, your family, your house, your servants, and your social duties. You were quite happy, but none of these things made happiness for your daughters. They wanted the pleasures of youth – gay company, gay clothing, travel and lovers, and none of these things you gave them. I was often very sorry for them."

"Then why did you not help them yourself?"

"Do you remember the year I begged you to take your daughters to Edinburgh and London, and offered to pay all expenses, and you would not do it?"

"I did not wish to go to Edinburgh and London."

"No, you wanted to go to Campbelton, and so you made your daughters go with you, though they hated the place. There Christina met this low fellow whom she married. She had no other lover. To the Campbelton rabble you sacrificed my sisters from their babyhood."

"Robert Campbell! How dare you call my kindred 'rabble'?"

"The name is good enough. Do you think I have forgotten how they treated my wife's clothing, and our rooms?"

"What are you bringing up that old story for?"

"It comes in naturally to-day, and I have not forgotten it. For your cruelty at that time, you are rightly served. Christina has avenged Theodora."

He flung the last words at her over his shoulder as he left the room. She had no opportunity to answer them, indeed she was not able to do so. It seemed to her as if she had been stricken dumb from head to feet; as if her world was being swept away from her, and she could not protest against it. Isabel had left her in anger and opposition. Robert in reproach. As for Christina, she had smitten her on every side, and gone away without contrition and without reproof. And Robert's few words had been keener than a sword, for they were edged with Truth, and Truth drove them to her very soul.

But she had no thought of surrendering any foothold of her position. She only wanted time to consider herself, for this solid defection of son and daughters had come like a cataclysm out of a clear sky, unforeseen, entire, and apparently complete in its misery. Her first resolve was to go to Theodora, and have the circumstance "out" with her. But her limbs were as heavy as her heart, and when with difficulty she reached the door of the room, she heard her son talking to his wife. And it had been brought home to her that morning that Robert could not be depended on, therefore she must risk no more uncertain encounters. Theodora alone, she did not fear; but Theodora and Robert in alliance meant certain defeat.

So she stumbled back to the sofa and sat down. Nature ordered her to lie down, but she flatly refused. "This is a critical time," she said to herself, "and Margaret Campbell, there is to be no lying down. You be to keep on the defensive." But she rang for Jepson, and told him to tell Miss Campbell her mother wanted her. In a few minutes Isabel answered the summons, and as soon as she entered the room she cried out, "Oh, mother, mother, mother! what is the matter? You are ill."

"Ay, Isabel, I am ill, and it would be a miracle if I were not ill." The words came slowly and with effort, and Isabel was terrified by her mother's face, for it was gray as ashes, and had on it an expression of terror, as if she had looked on Death as he passed her by.

"Lie down, mother. You ought to lie down."

"Get me a glass – a big glass – of red Burgundy."

Isabel obeyed, and when she had drunk it, she said in something of her natural voice and manner, "Burgundy is the strong wine. It is full of iron, and we require plenty of iron in our blood. In the common crowd, it goes to their hands, and helps them to work hard, but in the Campbell clans, it goes to the hearts of both men and women."