Kitabı oku: «A Reconstructed Marriage», sayfa 17

"You will wish to see Theodora to-morrow, I suppose?"

"I wish to see her at once – to-night."

"That will not do! You want a good sleep, you want a bath and a barber, and some decent clothes on you."

"I am not going courting, David."

"Then you need not go at all. You will require to do the best courting you ever did, or ever can do, if you hope to get a hearing from Theodora."

"She is my wife, David, and she – "

"Will be far harder to win, than ever Miss Newton was."

"Win! She was won long ago."

"Won – and lost. You will not find this second winning an easy one."

"How do you know so much about her?"

"I knew all about her miserable life, before I knew her; but I finally met her at my friend Oliphant's."

"And it was the Oliphants who told you all her complainings. Mother never trusted them. It seems she was right – as usual."

"The Oliphants told me nothing. I heard all her life with you from my foster-mother, McNab."

"McNab, your foster-mother, David?"

"McNab nursed, and mothered me. She was the only mother I ever had."

"McNab! McNab! Now I begin to understand – and the Oliphants are your friends? And you stayed with them when in Glasgow?"

"Always. John Oliphant and I have been acquainted since we were lads together."

Then Robert burst into uncanny laughter and answered: "You are the man, David, I have been wanting to kill all the way across the Atlantic and across the continent." David looked at his brother full in the eyes, as men look at a wild animal, and asked slowly: "Why did you want to kill me, Robert? What harm had I done you?"

"When I told mother Theodora had gone away from me, her first words were: 'Has that black-a-visored dandy, staying at the Oliphants', gone with her?' She added, that she had 'seen you with Theodora and that at parting you held her hand – and seemed very loth to leave her.'"

"Mother was altogether wrong. I never was on any street in Glasgow with your wife. I was never seen in public with her anywhere. I respected your honor, as well as my own, and never by word, deed, or even thought wronged it."

"Why should mother have told such a – lie?"

"Because it is her nature to make all the trouble she can."

"But you advised Theodora to leave me?"

"Never. She acted entirely on her father's and mother's advice. But when I saw they had resolved to come to the United States, and knew nothing of the country, I told Mr. Newton about California, and advised him to make a home here. And as I and my daughters were travelling the same road, I did do all I could, to make the long journey as easy as possible. Could any man seeing a party like the inexperienced minister, and his invalid wife, daughter, and her child, do less than help them all he could? You owe me some thanks, Robert, when you get sane enough to pay your debt."

"I do thank you, David, and what other debt do I owe you? Theodora had no money."

"Her father gave me money to buy two of the best staterooms for them. He paid all their expenses of every kind, and he bought the house in which they are now living, and paid for it. Since then he has preached, and lectured, and written, and made a very good living. He has had no necessity to be indebted to any one. Yet if he had needed money, I would have gladly loaned him all he required."

"Oh, David, David! Forgive me. I am in a fever. I do not know what I am saying. Ever since my wife left me, and wronged me – "

"Stop, Robert. Your wife never wronged you. She allowed you to wrong her six years too long. If she had not left you, she would have been dead long ago. To-morrow, you will see what love, and peace, and this splendid climate have done for her."

"And what has her desertion done for me?"

"If it has not taught you the priceless worth of the loving woman you were torturing daily, it has done nothing. Wait till you see your son, and then try and imagine the wretched child he would have been, if his mother had not braved everything for his sake and taken him beyond the power of the unnatural woman who hated him."

"She hated him because he was called David."

"And she hated me because she wronged me. If she had nursed me, she would have loved me. She sent me to Lugar Hill School because she hated me, and she would have sent your David there for the same reason. Theodora did well, did right to take any means to save the child from such a terrible life. If she had not done so, she would have been as cruel as his grandmother – and father."

"My head burns, and my heart aches! I can say no more now, David."

"Poor lad! My heart aches for you. But there is a happy future for Robert Campbell yet. I am sure of it. Put all thought and feeling away until the morning, and sleep, and sleep, as long as you can."

"I want to see Theodora early in the day."

"You cannot. As I told you before, the bath and the barber and the tailor are necessary. Have you forgotten the spotless neatness and delicacy of Theodora's toilet? You are going a-wooing, and you must be more careful in dressing for Theodora Campbell than you were in dressing for Theodora Newton."

"I cannot think any longer. I will consider what you say in the morning."

"You will be a new man, and begin a new life to-morrow."

"I want the old life."

"You do not. And you will never get it. The old life has gone forever."

In the morning he did not even want it. He he had slept profoundly, and when he had made all preparations for his visit to Theodora, he was quite pleased with his renovated appearance. David spoke of sending a message to her, but Robert thought a surprise visit would be best for himself. He would not give his wife an opportunity to sit down and recall all his past offences, and arrange the mood in which she would meet him, and the words she would say.

"We do not require to hurry," said David. "She is dismissing her classes for the summer holidays to-day, and will not be at liberty until near three o'clock. So we will eat lunch here, and then drive leisurely over to Newton Place."

Robert shrugged his shoulders impatiently. He thought his brother was much too leisurely, but when they were rolling pleasantly along through the beautiful land, he was not disposed to complain. It was indeed a New World to him. Half-a-mile from the Newton dwelling, they heard voices and laughter, and the clatter of horses' feet going at full speed, and immediately there came into view three young riders – two girls, and a tall, gallant-looking lad as their escort.

"Look, Robert, look!" cried David, much excited. "Here come my two girls, and your own little lad. They are racing, and will not stop. Be ready to give them a 'bravo!' in passing." He had hardly finished speaking, ere the gay, laughing party were behind them. They were all in white linen, and the girls' long bright hair was flowing freely, and had pink ribbons in it; and the boy had a black ribbon at his knees, and on his shoes, and an eagle's feather in his cap. And their bright faces were full of light and mirth, and their voices a living tongue of gladness, as they passed crying joyously, "Uncle David! Papa! Papa!"

"My God!" ejaculated Robert. "Is it possible? Can that be my little David?"

"It is your David." Then both men were silent, until Robert heard his brother say, "This is Newton Place," and he looked in astonishment at the house they were approaching. "It is a lovely spot," he said, "and there is a great deal of land round it."

"Yes, Newton made a good investment. The land has increased in value steadily ever since he bought it. You had better get out at this turning. I will take the buggy to the stable, and you can go to the door and ring for admittance." Robert did not like to object, and he did as directed. The door was standing wide open, but he rang the bell. A Japanese boy answered the summons, and opening a parlor he told Robert to take a seat. "Your card, sir," he asked, holding out the little tray to receive it.

Robert grew red and angry, but he took a card from his pocket-book, and threw it upon the tray, and when the boy had left the room he laughed bitterly, and muttered: "It is a fine thing for Robert Campbell to send his visiting card to his wife." He would not sit down, but stood glaring around the cool, dusky room, so comforting after the heat and sunshine. "I suppose I shall be kept waiting while my wife considers whether to see me or not; but she may consider too long. I will not be snubbed by any woman living."

As he made this resolution, Theodora entered. She came forward with both hands extended, and her face was radiant, and her voice full of happy tones. He would have taken her in his arms, but she kept his hands in hers and led him to a seat. Then Mr. Newton came in with David, and he threw open the windows, and let in the sunshine, and Theodora was revealed in all her splendid beauty. In a long white dress, with a white rose in her hair, she lacked nothing that rich materials or vivid colors could have given her. Her beautiful hair, her sparkling eyes, her exquisite complexion, the potent sense of health and vitality which was her atmosphere, commanded instant delight and admiration; and Robert could only gaze and wonder. How had this brilliant woman been evolved from the pale, frail, perishing Theodora he had last seen?

In a short time the three men went out together to look at the fruit trees and the wonderful flowers, and Theodora assisted her mother to prepare such a meal as she knew Robert enjoyed; and when they sat down to it, she placed Robert at her right hand. They were still at the table when David came galloping home, and in a few minutes he entered the room. Every eye was turned on the boy, but he saw at first no one but his uncle.

"Cousin Agnes won!" he cried, "won by two lengths, uncle. Isn't she great?" Then he noticed his father, and for a few moments seemed puzzled. There was not a word, not a movement as the boy gazed. Theodora held her breath in suspense. But it was only for a few moments; joyfully he exclaimed: "I know! I know!" and the next instant his arms were round his father's neck, and he was crying, "It is father! Father, father! Let me sit beside him, mother." And Theodora made room for the boy's chair between them.

The evening was a revelation to the discarded husband. Theodora sang wonderfully some American songs that Robert had never before heard – music with a charm entirely fresh and new; and David recited an English and Latin lesson, and then at his uncle's request, spoke in good broad Scotch Robert Burns' grand lyric, "A Man's a Man for a' That." Robert said little, but he drew the lad between his knees, and whispered something to him which transfigured the child's face. He trusted his father implicitly, he always had done, and his father had a heartache that night, when he thought of the wrong that might have been done to the helpless child.

Soon after nine o'clock, David Campbell said: "Come, brother, we have a short ride before us, and I like to close my house at ten; also I am sure you are weary."

Robert said he was, but he rose more like a man that had received a blow, than one simply tired. He could scarcely speak his adieus – and he could not answer Theodora's invitation to "call early on the following day" except in single words. "Yes – no – perhaps."

They were outside the Newton grounds before he spoke to his brother, then he said: "David, it is too hard. I don't understand. She never asked me to stay – the Wyntons were asked. I feel as if I had no business here. I had better go back to Glasgow. I will go back to-morrow."

"It is not her house. She rents her classroom, and pays her own and her child's board and lodging there. That is all. She had no right to ask you to remain. It is Mr. Newton's house, and he received you in a Christian and gentlemanly spirit. I do not care to say how I would have received a man who had treated my Agnes, or Flora, in the way Theodora was treated."

"I will go back to Glasgow to-morrow."

"You will do so at the peril of all your future happiness and prosperity."

Then they were silent until they reached a great white house standing in green depths of sweet foliage. Robert wondered and admired. Its vast hall, and the spacious room, so splendidly furnished, into which his brother led him, filled him with astonishment. Two pretty girls were sitting at a table drawing embroidery patterns, and they nearly threw the table over in their delight when their father entered.

"Here is your Uncle Robert Campbell!" he cried joyously. "Give him some of your noisy welcome, and then run away, you little cherubs, or you will miss your beauty sleep."

They were soon alone, and David turned out some of the lights and placed a box of cigars on the table, and the two men smoked in silence for a little while. Then Robert said: "You are very rich, I suppose, David."

"Yes, I am tolerably well off."

"And very happy?"

"As happy as a man can be, who has lost the dearest and sweetest of wives."

"But you will marry again?"

"Not until my daughters are married! I will never give them a stepmother; she might make me a stepfather. But when they are settled, I may marry again."

"Do you know any one likely to take the place of your dead wife?"

"No one can ever take her place. There is a very noble woman who may make her own place in my heart and home. I think it would be a very strong, sweet place."

"Is she Scotch?"

"No."

"English?"

"No."

"American?"

"Spanish-American."

"Beautiful?"

"Very – and of lovely disposition and great attainments. She is also rich, but that I do not count."

"What is her name?"

"Mercedes Morena. She is a Roman Catholic, a woman of fervent piety."

"Spanish. And a Papist. What will mother say?

"All kinds of hard things – no doubt – though money makes a good deal of difference in mother's conclusions. But I care nothing for her opinion; a wife is a man's most sacred and personal relation. No one has a right to object to the woman he chooses. It is no one's business but his own."

"When I married Theodora, she looked as she looked to-night, only to-night she is far more lovely. Oh, David, I cannot give her up! She is tied to me by my heart-strings. I shall cease to live, if she refuses me."

"And, Robert, she is good as she is lovely. I marvel that you could live six years at her side, and not grow into her spiritual and mental likeness."

"The Campbells have a strong individuality, David."

"I tell you frankly, she has lifted me upward almost unconsciously. I would not do the things to-day I did without uneasiness four years ago. For instance, I would not to-day go into my mother's home and presence unknown to her. I would not to-day visit you and your works as a stranger. I enjoyed the incognito four years ago. It appears to me now dishonorable and vulgar. No one has told me so, or corrected me for it – the knowledge came with the gradual and general uplift of my ideals, through companionship and conversation with your wife. How did you escape her sweet influences?"

"I kept out of their way."

"Did you never make any effort to find your wife and child?"

"I spent four thousand pounds looking for her. Then Isabel advised me to give the search up, and leave the whole affair to Destiny. I did not mind the money – much, but I did mind terribly the talk and the newspapers. I felt it to be a great trial to face even my workmen."

"How did mother take the event?"

"She defied it – laughed at it – defended her cruelty – said she would do it all over again."

"I have no doubt of it."

"Dr. Robertson – who heard the whole story from Mrs. Oliphant – came out to the works to see me, and he said some awful things. He even told me, that until I repented of my sinful conduct, and acknowledged it before a session of the Kirk officers, he would refuse the Holy Communion."

"He did right, Robert, and I am glad to hear that Scotch dominies are still brave enough to reprove sin in the rich places of the Kirk."

"Then he went to mother, and told her the same thing."

"Well?"

"He could do nothing with mother. She ordered him to 'attend to his Kirk and his bit sermons, and leave her household alone.' I will not repeat their conversation – you would not believe any one would dare to browbeat a minister as she did. He forbid her the sacramental occasion, and she ordered him out of her house. It made a great scandal. It made me wretched."

"What did you do about the Sabbath Day?"

"There was a new church very near to us, and they were a struggling congregation, with a boyish kind of minister. Mother was gladly received there. She rented the most extravagant pew, gave one hundred pounds to the church fund, and took the minister into her personal care and protection. Christina and her husband went with her. Mother owns the Kirk and the minister, and the elders and the deacons, and all the congregation now. Every one praises her orthodoxy and her generosity, and she does as she thinks right in Free St. Jude's."

David laughed heartily, and Robert continued: "All the ladies' societies meet in Traquair House, and all of them are prosperous. She is president of some, treasurer of others, and she entertains all of them with a splendid hospitality. And Christina tells me, she never fails to speak with pitying scorn of Dr. Robertson and his Kirk. I heard her myself one day tell them, 'that he was clean behind the times in Christian work. What is a Kirk worth?' she asked, 'without plenty of Ladies' Auxiliary Societies? The women in a Kirk must work, God knows the men won't! They spin a sovereign into the collection box, and think they have done their full share. Poor things, it is maybe all they can do! The women of Free St. Jude's must be an example to the Robertson Kirk, and the like o' it.'"

"She is a great woman, is mother, in some ways," said David, and he laughed disdainfully.

"She is," answered Robert. "I think I will go home to-morrow. Theodora no longer loves me, and yet, David, I love her a million times more than ever. No, I can not give her up; I can not, I will not! I will win her over again – if I stay a year to do it."

"You would be unworthy of love, or even life, if you gave her up. But you are worn out and not able to arrange yourself. Come, I will take you to your room, and to-morrow go and ask her plainly, if she still loves you."

"I will."

CHAPTER XIII
THE RECONSTRUCTED MARRIAGE

During the following three weeks, Robert lived in an earthly paradise. His brother drew him with cords of strong wisdom and affection always into the ways of pleasantness and peace. Theodora grew every day more lovely and more familiar; her little coolnesses vanished in the warmth of Robert's smiles, her shy pride was conquered by his persistent and passionate wooing; and the days went by in a glory of innocent amusements. Theodora and little David were clever and fearless riders, and they soon made the accomplishment easy to Robert, who was delighted with its joyful mastery, and greatly disappointed if bad weather, or any other event, prevented their morning gallop.

Very frequently he accompanied his brother into San Francisco, met many of her great financiers and merchants, and was their guest at such elaborate lunches and dinners as he had never dreamed possible. Or, he went with Mr. Newton to his vineyard and watched the process of raisin-making. And Theodora had a dance for him, and the lovely young girls present taught him the American steps, and made him wonder over their beauty, their brightness, their perfect ease of manner, and their manifest superiority and authority over male adorers, who appeared to be perfectly delighted with their own subjugation. A full course at the greatest university in the world would not have given him such a civilizing social education as the pretty girls of San Francisco did in a month.

But all things come to an end, and one day Robert received two letters which compelled a pause in this pleasant life. They were from his mother and his head manager. His mother wrote: "You be to come home, Robert Campbell; everything is going to the mischief wanting you! I am hearing that the men are on strike at the works, and that the fires have been banked, and the gates locked. Jamie Rathey is drinking too much wine and neglecting his business, and Christina is whimpering and scolding, for she knows well he will not behave himself until he gets the word from you. As for myself, I am barely holding up against the great strain, for there's none to help me, Christina having trouble enough in her own shoes, and My Lady Wynton having almost forgotten the way to her own home, since she was promoted to a residence in Wynton Castle. So, Robert, my lad, come back as quick as you can, for your mother is sorely needing you."

He showed this letter to his brother, and David only smiled. "Let me see your manager's letter, Robert," he asked, and when he had read it, he smiled still more significantly.

"I do not think your letters need give you any anxiety, Robert," he said. "The letter from Andrew Starkie, your manager, is dated two days later than mother's, and he does not even name a strike among your workers. He seems troubled only because the orders are so large he is afraid that the cash left at his command will not be sufficient to carry them out. We can send more money to-day. I see no necessity for you to hurry. I want you to take a sail up to Vancouver, and another sail down to the Isthmus. You have given me no time yet. And what about your position with Theodora?"

"I must find that out immediately. The day after I came, I gave her a ring she valued highly – a ring that her pupils presented to her. It had been stolen, and I recovered it, and she was delighted when I put it on her finger. But when I offered her the wedding ring she returned it to me, she shook her head, closed her eyes, and would not look at it."

"Try her again. She has changed since then. I am sure she loves you now."

"I am just going to her," and he turned away with such a mournful look that his brother called him back.

"Look here, Robert," he said, "faint heart never won fair lady, or anything else for that matter. Your face is enough to frighten any woman. Women do not fancy despairers."

"David, you don't know what a hopeless task it is to court your wife. She knows all your weak points, and just how most cruelly to snub you."

"That is not Theodora's way! Speak to her kindly, but bravely. Be straight in all you say, for I declare to you she feels a lie."

"Great heavens! I should think I know that, David. I was often forced to break my promises to her, or in the stress of business I forgot them; and at last, she never noticed any promise I made. It used to make me angry."

"What made you angry?"

"O, the change in her face, when I said I would do anything. She never contradicted me in words, but I knew she was mentally throwing my promise over her shoulder. It was not pleasant."

"Very unpleasant – to her."

"I meant to myself."

"Well, Robert, when you are going to ask a woman to do you a miraculous favor, do not think of yourself, think of her. Forget yourself, this morning."

"O, I think constantly of Theodora."

David looked queerly at his brother, and seemed on the point of asking him a question, but he likely thought it useless. Robert went off trying to look hopeful and brave, but inwardly in a muddle of anxious uncertainty, because of his mother's letter. He found Theodora in a shady corner of the piazza; she was reclining in a Morris chair, and thinking of him. Her loving smile, her happy leisure, her morning freshness and beauty, her outstretched hand, made an entrancing picture. He placed a chair at her side, and sat down, and Theodora after a glance into his face asked:

"O, knight of the rueful countenance, what troubles you this beautiful morning?"

"I have had letters from home," he answered; "not pleasant letters."

"From your mother, then?"

"One of them is from mother."

"She could not write a pleasant letter, and if she could, she would not."

"Will you read it?"

"I would not cast my eyes upon anything her eyes have looked on."

"She says enough to make it necessary for me to go home."

"Home?"

"It is the only home I have. You – "

"Do not include me, in any remark about your home."

"Once you made my home your home."

"Never! There was no such thing as home, in Traquair House."

"But, my darling Dora – my darling wife – "

"I am not your wife. When I sent you the wedding ring back – that you said was yours, not mine – I divorced myself from all a wife's duties, pains, and penalties."

"You are my wife, and nothing but my death can make you free."

"Oh, but you are mistaken! You made a solemn contract with me, and you broke every condition of that contract."

"Suppose I did, that – "

"Your faithlessness made the contract null and void – "

"The law of England – "

"I care nothing about the law of England. I am now an American citizen."

"But, Dora, my dear, dear love, you will surely go back to Glasgow with me?"

"Not for all creation! I would rather die."

"Am I to go back alone? That is too cruel."

"Why do you wish to go back?"

"Have you considered my business, Dora?"

"No, I have thought only of you."

"But you must think of my business. How can you expect me to give it up? Why, the 'Campbell Iron Works' are almost historic. They were founded by my great-grandfather. They are making more money under my management than ever they did before."

"If you put your historic iron works before me, you are not worthy of me."

"My mother's, and my sister's livelihoods are in the works. They look to me to protect them."

"If you put your mother, and your sisters before me, you are not worthy of me."

"They love me, Dora."

"Your mother has many investments. She is rich. Your sisters are well married. Neither of them would put you before their husbands, why should you put them before your wife and son? If they had loved you, they would not have broken up your home, and driven your wife and child away from you. You were a provider of cash, a giver of social prestige to them – no more."

"Then you expect me to give up my family, my business, my country – everything."

"I will have everything, or nothing."

She rose as she said these words, and stood looking into his face with eyes full of love and trouble.

"Then God help me, Theodora," he faltered, "for this hour I die to every hope of happiness in this life!" He lifted her hand, and his tears dropped on it as he kissed it. "Farewell! Farewell!"

He was standing before her the image of despairing Love, and she lifted her eyes, and they met the passionate grief in his. She could not bear it. "Oh, Robert!" she sobbed, "Oh, Robert, I do love you. I have loved none but you. I never shall love any other." She laid her head against his shoulder, and he silently kissed her many times, and then went slowly away.

He went straight to his brother with his sorrow, and David listened in grave silence, until the story of the interview was over. Then he said softly:

"Poor Theodora!"

Robert was astonished, even hurt by the exclamation. "Why do you pity Theodora?" he asked. "It is I you ought to pity."

"You ought to have had pity on yourself, Robert. Of course, you are miserable, and you will be far more miserable. How could you bear to give your wife such a cowardly disappointment; how could you do it?"

"I do not understand you, David – cowardly – "

"Yes, that is the word for it. You have been persuading her for a month, that you loved her before, and above, all earthly things. As you noticed, she did not at first believe this, but I am sure the last two weeks she has taken all your protestations into her heart."

"I told her nothing but the truth."

"And as soon as you think she loves you – "

"She does love me – she says so."

"You take advantage of her love, and ask her to go back to a life that almost killed her, before she fled from it. Poor Theodora! And I call your act a selfish, cowardly one."

"What did you expect me to do?"

"To give up everything for her."

"To give up the works – the Campbell Iron Works! To give them up! Sell them perhaps at a loss! Did you expect I would do this?"

"I did. I supposed you wished her to be again your wife."

"You know I wished it."

"I do not believe you. I think as your holiday was over, you wished to back out of your promise, and you knew the easiest way to do so was to require her to go back to Glasgow."

"Back out! What do you mean, David?"

"Your mother orders you home, and rather than offend her, or meet her sarcasms, you ask Theodora to do what you well know she will never do. Having taught her to love you again, you make her an offer that it is impossible for her to accept; then you leave her to suffer once more the pang of wrong and despairing love. Cowardly is too mild a word; your conduct is that of a scoundrel."

"My God, David, are you turning against me?"

"Robert, Robert! I am ashamed of you. Suppose Theodora went back to Glasgow with you, what would be her position, and what would people – especially women – say about it? She would be a wife who ran away from her husband, but whom her husband discovered, and brought back to her duties. Upon this text, what cutting, cruel speeches mother and all the women in your set would make. The position would be a triumph for you – some men would envy and admire you, all would praise you for standing up so persistently for the authority of the male. But poor Theodora, who would stand by her?"

"I would."

"And your defence of your wife would be counted as a thing chivalrous and magnanimous in you, but it would be disgraceful in her to require it. She, the poor innocent one, would get all the blame and the shame, you, the guilty one – "

"Stop, David! I never thought of her return in this light."

"I can imagine mother and the rest of the women chortling and glorying over the runaway wife brought back."

"I tell you, I would stand by her through thick and thin."

"But you could not prevent the women hounding her, and upon my honor, Robert, she would deserve it."

"No, David. She would not deserve it."

"I say she would."