Kitabı oku: «A Reconstructed Marriage», sayfa 5

"Why did you let any one – I say any one – into my rooms, mother? I think their occupancy without my permission a scandalous piece of business."

"Keep your temper, Robert Campbell, for your wife. She will need it, I warrant."

"Answer my question, if you please!"

"Well, then, if it is scandalous to entertain your kindred, it would have been much more scandalous to have turned them out of the house."

"Kindred! It is a far cry to call kindred with that Crawford and Laird crowd. I will not have them here! Take notice of that."

"They will come here when they come to Glasgow."

"Then I shall turn them out."

"Then I shall go out with them."

"My rooms – "

"Preserve us! No harm has been done to your rooms."

"They have been defiled in every way – old curl papers, dirty hairpins, stains on the carpets and covers. I burn with shame when I think of my wife seeing their vulgar remains."

"Your wife? Your wife, indeed! She is – "

"I don't want your opinion of my wife."

"You born idiot! What do you want?"

"I want you to write to the women who opened my wife's trunks, and ruined her clothing, and stole her jewelry, or I – "

"Don't you dare to throw 'or' at me. I can say 'or' as big as you. What before earth and heaven are you saying!"

"That my rooms have been entered, my wife's trunks broken open – "

"You have said that once already! I had the Dalkeiths in my spare rooms. Was I to turn the Crawfords and the Lairds on to the sidewalk because your rooms had been refurnished for Dora Newton?"

"Campbell is my wife's name."

"I thank God your kindred had the first use of your rooms! You ought to be glad of the circumstance. And pray, what harm is there in opening a bride's trunks?"

"Only burglary."

"Don't be a tenfold fool. A bride's costumes are always examined by her women kin and friends. My trunks were all opened by the Campbells before your father brought me home. Every Scotch bride expects it, and if you have married a poor, silly English girl, who knows nothing of the ways and manners of your native country, I am not to blame."

"Let me tell you – "

"Let me finish, sir. I wish to say there was nothing in Dora Newton's trunks worth looking at – home-made gowns, and the like."

"Yet two of them have been worn and ruined."

"Jean Crawford and Bell Greenhill wore them a few times. They wanted to go to the theatre or somewhere, and had not brought evening gowns with them. I told them to wear some of Dora's things. Why not? She is in the family now, more's the pity."

"They had no right to touch them."

"I'm sure I wish they had not worn them. Jean and Bell are stylish-looking girls in their own gowns. Dora's made them look dowdy and common. I was fairly sorry for them."

"Which of them wore Theodora's ring? That ring must come back —must, I say. Understand me, mother, it must come back."

"If it is lost – "

"It will be a case for the police – sure as death!"

The oath frightened her. "You have lost your senses, Robert," she cried; "you are fairly bewitched. And oh, what a miserable woman I am! Both my lads!" and she covered her face with her handkerchief, and began to sigh and sob bitterly.

Then Isabel went to her mother's side, and as she did so said with scornful anger:

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Robert Campbell. You have nearly broken your mother's heart by your disgraceful marriage. Can you not make Dora behave decently, and not turn the old home and our poor simple lives upside down, with all she requires?"

"Isabel, do you think it was right to put people in the rooms I had spent so much time and money in furnishing?"

"Quite right, seeing the people were our own kindred. It was not right to spend all the time and money you spent on those rooms for a stranger. You ought to be glad some of your own family got a little pleasure in them first of all."

"They did not know how to use them. Both the Crawfords and Lairds are vulgar, common, and uneducated women. They know nothing of the decencies of life."

"That may be true, but they are mother's kin, and blood is thicker than water. The Crawfords and Lairds are blood-kin; Dora is only water."

"Theodora is my wife. I see that mother will no longer listen to me. Try and convince her that I am in earnest. My rooms are my rooms, and no one comes into them unless they are invited by Theodora or myself. My wife's clothing and ornaments of all kinds belong to my wife, and not to the whole family. Write to Jean Crawford, and Bell Greenhill, and tell them to return all they have taken, or I shall make them do so."

"I suppose, Robert, they have only borrowed whatever they have. They often borrow my rings and brooches and even my dresses."

"Isabel, when people borrow even a ring, without the knowledge and consent of the owner, the law calls it stealing; and the person who has so borrowed it, the law calls a thief. I hope you understand me."

He was leaving the room when his mother sobbed out: "Oh, Robert, Robert!"

For a moment he hesitated; then he went to her side and asked: "What is it you wish, mother?"

"I did not mean – to hurt you – I was brought up so different. I thought it would be all right – with you – that you, at least – would understand. I expected you knew – all about the marriage customs – you are Scotch. Oh, dear, dear! My poor heart – will break!"

He touched her hand kindly and answered: "Well, do not cry, mother, I will say no more about it. Good-night."

"Good (sob) night (sob), Robert!"

But as soon as the door closed, the furious woman flung down her handkerchief in a rage, saying in low, passionate tones: "You see, girls! When you can't reason with a man, can't touch his brain, you may try crying about him, for perhaps he has something he calls a heart."

Returning to his own apartments Robert found that the lights had been lowered and that Theodora was apparently asleep. He stood looking at her a few minutes, but decided not to awaken her. She would, he thought, want to know all that had been said and he was tired of the subject. His mother's tears had washed all color and vitality out of it. She believed herself to be right and from her point of view he admitted she was. He told himself that Theodora did not comprehend the wonderful complexity of the Scotch character – he must try and teach her. And as for her destroyed, or lost adornments, they could be replaced. Of course money would be, as it were, lost in such replacement, but it would be a good lesson, and lessons of all kinds take money. Thus, by a new road, he had come back to the usual Campbell appreciation of the Campbells, for though he was keenly alive to the individual defects of that large family he was at the same time conscious of their superiority to the rest of the world.

In the morning he began to give Theodora the lesson he had himself absorbed. He told her that it was some of their own relatives who had occupied the rooms, and then explained the wonderful strength of the family tie in Scotch families. "I think," he added, "that under the circumstances, mother did the only possible thing."

"And the opening of my trunks, Robert dear, and the use of my clothing, is that also a result of the Scotch family tie?"

"Yes-s," he answered with easy composure, "they looked on you as one of us and supposed you would gladly loan what they needed. Isabel says they often borrow her brooches and rings and gowns. Moreover, mother informed me, that it is the common custom to open a bride's trunks, and examine her belongings."

"A very rude and barbarous custom, I think, Robert, and it makes no excuse for an infringement of manifest courtesy and kindness. And I am sure that every one can forgive an injury, easier than an infringement of their rights."

"You must try and look at the matter reasonably, dear Dora."

"You mean unreasonably, Robert, but if you do not care, why should I?" Robert made no reply, but went on examining his fingernails, apparently without noticing the look of pained surprise in his wife's eyes, nor yet the far deeper sign of distress – that dumb lip-biting which indicates an intensity of outraged feeling.

This was Theodora's first lesson in the complexities of the Scotch character, and it was a dear one. It cost her many illusions, many hopes, and some secret tears. And the gain was doubtful. Nature knows how to profit from every shower of rain, every glint of sunshine, every drop of dew; but which of us ever learn from any past experience, how to prepare a future that will give us what we desire?

During the night she had plumbed the depths of depression, but in a short deep morning sleep, she had found the strength to possess her soul, not in patience, but in a sweet, firm resistance. She would accept cheerfully the lot she had chosen, for to bear dumbly and passively the many petty wrongs which ill-temper and dislike must bring her would only tempt those who hated her to a continuance and enlargement of their sin. Every one, even her husband, would despise her, and she suddenly remembered how God, when He would reason with Job, bid him rise from his dunghill, stand upon his feet, and answer Him like a man. So, she would submit to no injustice, nor suffer without contradiction any lying accusation, yet her weapons of defence should be kind and clean, and her victory won by love and truth and honor – for in this way she herself would rise by

 
– "the things put under her feet,
By what she mastered of good and gain,
By the pride deposed, by the passion slain,
And the vanquished ills she would hourly meet."
 

The prospect of such a victory made her heart swell with a noble joy, for thus she would be creating her spiritual self, and so being God-like be also loved of God.

Her first effort was to compel herself to go to the breakfast table. She wished to have Ducie bring her a cup of coffee and a couple of rolls to her room, but that would only be shirking the inevitable. So she went to the family table smiling, and almost radiant in a pretty pink gown, and beautiful white muslin neckwear. Her manner was cheerful and conciliatory, but it utterly failed, because the old lady believed it to be the result of orders from her son. She was sure Robert had seen the reasonableness of her conduct, and told Theodora to accept the circumstances as unavoidable, and perhaps even excusable.

So in spite of her smiles and efforts at conversation, the meal was silent and unhappy and towards the end really distressing. It had begun with oatmeal porridge served on large dinner plates, and she had accepted her share without remark, though unable to eat it. But later, when a dish of boiled salt herring appeared, its peculiar odor made her so sick that it was with painful difficulty she sat through the meal. Robert noticed her white face and general air of distress, and slightly hurried his own meal in consequence.

"Are you ill, Dora?" he asked, when she fell nauseated and limp among the sofa cushions.

"It was the smell of the salt fish, Robert. I could not conquer it."

"But you must try. We have boiled salt herring every morning. I do not remember a breakfast without them."

"Then, dear Robert, I must have a cup of coffee in my dressing-room."

"You might learn to bear the smell."

"The ordeal would be too wasteful of life."

"I don't see – "

"No one can afford a disagreeable breakfast, Robert. It spoils the whole day. And I might waste weeks and months trying to like the odor of boiled salt herring, and never succeed – it is sickening to me."

"It does not make me sick. I have had a boiled salt herring to breakfast ever since I was seven years old."

"You have learned to bear them."

"I like them."

"Did you like them at first?"

"No, but I was made to eat them until at last I learned to relish them. Mother believed them to be good for me. Now, I do not think my breakfast perfect without a boiled salt herring."

"We can force nature to take, and even enjoy poisons like whiskey and opium, but I think such an education sinful and unclean."

"Dora, you are too fastidious."

"No, because a wronged body means something to a sensitive soul."

"If you look at such a small thing in a light so important, you had better take your breakfast alone. Good-morning!"

CHAPTER IV
FOES IN THE HOUSEHOLD

She was ill for some hours, and all day much troubled at the circumstance. In her proposed fight against the hatred of her husband's family she had lost the first move, for she could well imagine the triumphant mockery of her mother-in-law over her weakness and squeamishness. In the afternoon she asked for the carriage, as she wished to do some shopping, and was told Mrs. Campbell was intending to use it. Then she sent for a cab and while she was dressing, Christina came into her room wearing her street costume.

"Isabel is going out with mother," she said. "Can I go with you, Theodora?"

The proposal was not welcome, but without hesitation Theodora answered: "I shall be obliged if you will. I have some shopping to do, and you can tell me the best places to go to."

"I certainly can; I know all the best shops. I always do the shopping. I like to shop; Isabel hates it. She says the shopmen are not civil to her. Isabel is so particular about her dignity."

"That is rather a good quality, is it not?"

"I don't know – with that kind of people – shopmen and the like – it is rather a daft thing to do."

"Daft?"

"Silly, I mean. They have to wait on you, why should you care how they do it? I don't."

"I am ready. Shall we go now?"

"I am ready. What will you buy first?"

"Linen – sheets, pillow-cases, table-cloths, napkins, etc. We shall want a linen draper."

"Then tell cabby to drive us to Smith and McDonald's. It is perfectly lovely to be with you, and without mother and Isabel to snub me. I feel as if I were having a holiday."

"Perhaps I might snub you."

"I am sure you will not. I believe I am going to have a happy afternoon."

And she really had a few hours that perfectly delighted her. Theodora asked her advice, and frequently took it. Theodora bought her gloves and lace, and after the shopping was finished, they went into McLeod's confectionery and had ices and cakes, lemonade and caramels. For once in her life, Christina had felt herself to be well-informed and important. She had told several funny stories also, and Theodora had laughed and enjoyed them; indeed, she felt as if Theodora considered her quite clever.

"I have had such a jolly afternoon," she said as they parted. "Thank you for taking me with you! I cannot tell you how happy I have been."

But to Isabel's queries, she answered with an air of ennui: "You know well, Isabel, what shopping means. We went here and there, and bought linen of all kinds, and wine and cakes, and then we went to the large furniture store, and selected a bookcase; for it seems that Robert, with all his carefulness, forgot one."

"Did you like her?"

"She is good-natured enough. Everywhere we went the shopmen fell over each other to wait on her. My! but it is a grand thing to be beautiful."

"Do you really think her beautiful?"

"Every one else does. It matters little what the Traquair Campbells think. She is rather saucy, but she is so pleasant about it you can't take offence."

"Was she saucy to you?"

"Yes."

"What did she say?"

"She said she would be much obliged if I would tap at the door before entering her room."

"The idea!"

"Oh, she is nice enough! I wish mother was not so set against her. I know she plays and sings, and I adore good music."

"You will be adoring her next."

"No, I will not, but I intend to use her when I can."

"What for?"

"To give me a little pleasure – to show me how to dress – to lend me books and music, and take me with her when she goes calling and shopping."

"I would not receive such favors from a person mother disliked so much."

"Mother never finds any one she likes, except the Campbelton people – frowsy, vulgar things, all of them; and I do think it was a shame to use Dora's dresses and furs and jewelry the way they did."

"Mother said it was right, and Robert seemed to think so also – that is, after mother had explained the subject to him."

"Whatever mother thinks, Robert finally thinks the same. He is more afraid of mother than we are. I despise a man who can't stick to his own opinion."

"But if his opinion is wrong?"

"All the same, he ought to stick to it; I should. I think Dora is a lovely woman, and good, and clever. Mother ought to be proud of her new daughter."

"Mother had a high ideal for Robert's wife."

"One that nobody but a Traquair Campbell – or a Jane Dalkeith could fill."

"Jane might have pleased her."

"No one pleases mother! If you gave her the whites of your eyes, she would not be pleased."

"You must not forget, Christina, that she is our mother, and that the Scriptures command us to honor her."

"Sometimes, and in some cases, Isabel, that command is a gey hard one – I might say an impossible one."

"Perhaps, but the Holy Word makes no exceptions – good or bad, wise or foolish, they are to be honored. Dr. Robertson said so, in his last sermon to the Sunday School."

"Dr. Robertson isna infallible, and 'wi' his ten romping, rampaging sons and daughters, he be to lay down a strict law.' That was Jenny McDonald's commentary on his sermon. I heard her say so, and I thought to myself 'Jenny McDonald, you are a vera discerning woman.' I have respected her ever since, and I shall see she gets a pair of blankets at the Christmas fair."

"Well, Christina, I shall not quarrel with you about Dora. I can live without Dora, but you are essential."

The evening proved to be as pleasant, as the morning had been disagreeable. Robert had doubtless suffered some qualms of conscience regarding his wife's treatment, and resolved to make it up to her by his own attention. For he believed so firmly in himself, and in Theodora's love for him, that he really thought a few kind words would atone for every wrong and unkindness she had suffered.

He found Theodora in the mood he expected. She was beautifully gowned, and radiant with welcoming smiles. He forgot to name her morning indisposition, but asked what she had been doing all day, and was much pleased when she answered:

"Christina and I have been shopping this afternoon. She was of great assistance to me, and we had a delightful time." Then she told him what she had bought, and made some very merry comments on the strange shops and polite shopmen.

Two things in her recital were particularly satisfactory – one of his own family had shared her pleasure, and he had not been asked for money to contribute to it. For his wedding expenses had begun to give him a sense of poverty, and his naturally economical nature was shocked at their total. But if Theodora liked to buy more linen and furniture, and treat his sister and herself he had no objections. He supposed she had plenty of money, he thought of what Mr. Newton called her "royalties," and felt he might – at least for a few weeks – throw his responsibilities upon them.

On the whole, sitting by Theodora's side and listening to her pleasant conversation, he felt life to be decidedly worth living. Her moderated dress was also in consonance with his desires. For she had felt her costume on the previous night to be out of tone with her surroundings, and had therefore made a much simpler toilet. She had even wondered if the rich silk and lace, and pearls, were to blame for the unkindness of her reception; if so, she resolved not to err in that respect again. So she wore a light gray liberty silk gown of walking length, with a pretty white muslin waist, and an Eton jacket. A short sash of the same silk tied at the left side was the only trimming, and her wedding ring with its diamond guard her only jewelry. Its simplicity elicited her husband's ardent admiration, and she hoped it would be satisfactory to all. But who can please jealousy, envy, and hatred? An angel from heaven would fail, then how should a mortal woman succeed?

"Last night," said her mother-in-law scornfully, "my lady came sweeping into the room like a very butterfly of a woman. She thought she would astonish us. Did she imagine the Traquair Campbells could be snubbed by a silk dress and a string of pearls? And to-night she comes smiling in as modest as a Quakeress. I am led to believe, Robert has been giving her a few words. I know right well she deserved them."

"Mother," said Isabel, "I dare say she wanted us to believe that she had been used to full dress dinners."

"A likely thing in a Methodist preacher's house, or a girl's school either."

"College, you mean, mother," corrected Christina. "Or perhaps she thought if she was dressed very fine, we would like her better. Dress does make a deal of difference. None of us like our cousins Kerr, because they dress so shabby."

"Speak for your own feelings, Christina. Your sister Isabel and I always treat the Kerr girls with respect."

"Respect is a gey cold welcome. I would not take it twice."

"I think you are forgetting yourself, Christina," said Isabel.

"She has been in bad company all afternoon, Isabel. What can you expect? I heard her tee-heeing and laughing with Dora, almost until dinner time."

And even as the old woman spoke, Robert entered and asked his sisters to come and spend the evening with Dora and himself. "Dora is going to sing," he said, "and it will be a great treat for you to hear her."

"Thank you, brother," said Isabel. "I prefer to stay with mother."

"Perhaps mother will also come."

"No, Robert, I do not care for worldly music, and if I did, Christina sings and plays very well."

"Robert, I shall be delighted to come," said Christina. "You know I love music."

"You will remain with your sister and myself, Christina."

"Please, mother, let me go! Robert, please!" and she looked so entreatingly at her brother, that he sat down by his mother, and taking her hand said: "You must humor me in this matter, dear mother. I want some of you with me, and I am sure Christina can learn a great deal from Dora. It will cost her nothing, and she ought to take advantage of Dora's skill."

The last argument prevailed. If Christina could get any advantage for nothing, and especially from Theodora, Mrs. Campbell approved the project.

"You may go with your brother, Christina, for an hour, and make the most of your opportunities. One thing is sure, the woman ought to do something for the family, for goodness knows, we have been put to extraordinary expense and trouble for her pleasure."

A few minutes after the departure of Robert and his sister, Mrs. Campbell said: "Open the parlor door, Isabel, and let us hear the 'treat' if we can."

But the songs Theodora sang were quite unknown to the two listeners and Mrs. Campbell indulged herself in much scornful criticism. "Who ever heard the like? Do you call that music? It is just skirling. I would rather hear Christina sing 'The Bush Aboon Traquair,' or 'The Lass o' Patie's Mill,' or a good rattling Jacobite song like 'Highland Laddie,' or 'Over the Water to Charlie.' There is music in the like o' them, but there isn't a note o' it in Dora's caterwauling."

"Listen, mother! She is singing merrily enough now. I wonder what it is? Robert and Christina are both laughing."

"Something wicked and theatrical, no doubt. Shut the door, Isabel, and give me my Practice of Piety. Then you may leave me, and go to your room, unless you wish to join your sister."

"Mother, do not be unjust."

"In an hour remind Christina. You are a good daughter, Isabel. You are my greatest comfort."

"Good-night, mother; you are always first with me."

When Christina's hour was nearly at its close, Isabel went to her brother's parlor door. Theodora was singing the sweetest little melody and her voice was so charmful that Isabel could not tap at the door – as Christina had been instructed to do – until it ceased. And for many a day the words haunted her, though she always told herself there was neither sense nor reason in them.

 
"If there were dreams to sell
What would you buy?
Some cost a passing bell,
Some a light sigh,
That shakes from Life's fresh crown
Only a rose leaf down.
If there were dreams to sell,
Merry and sad to tell,
And the crier rang the bell,
What would you buy?"
 

After this question had rung itself into her heart and memory, she tapped at the door and Robert rose and opened it. And when Isabel spoke they brought her in, willing or unwilling, and made so much of her visit that she could not deny their kindness. Besides, as Robert told her, they wanted a game of whist so much, and she made it possible. "You shall be my partner," he added, "and we are sure to win." He was holding her hand as he spoke, and ere he ceased, he had led her to the table and got her a seat. Christina threw down a pack of cards, and Isabel found it impossible to resist the temptation, for she loved a game of whist and played a clever hand. Then the hours slipped happily away, and it was near midnight when the sisters stepped softly to their rooms.

"I have had such a good time," whispered Christina.

"It was a good game," answered Isabel.

"Don't you think she is nice?"

"Dora?"

"Yes."

"She puts on plenty of nice airs."

"I hope Robert will ask us to-morrow night."

"I shall not go again. I could not help to-night's visit. There is no need to say anything to mother. It would only worry her."

"In the morning she will tell us the precise moment that we came upstairs. No doubt she was watching and listening, and if we had the feet of a mouse she would hear us."

But if Mrs. Campbell heard she made no remark on the situation. She knew well that if Isabel was brought face to face with her frailty, she would defend it, and defend all concerned in it, and also make a point of repeating the fault in order to prove the propriety of her position. That would be giving Theodora too great an advantage. On the contrary, she was in her pleasantest mood, and as Theodora had her coffee in her own parlor there was no incident to mar the even temper of the breakfast table.

When Robert left it, he was followed so quickly by Christina that she had an opportunity of speaking to him as he was putting on his overcoat and gloves, and thus to thank him for his invitation of the previous evening. "I never had such a happy time in all my life, Robert," she said, "and Theodora does play and sing wonderfully. It is a joy to listen to her."

"Is it not?" he queried with a beaming face. "You were a good girl to call on her, and go out with her; and I will remember you at the New Year handsomely if you make things pleasant for Theodora."

"I would do so to please you, Robert. I do not want to be paid for that," replied Christina. Robert smiled and went away in such a happy temper, that Jepson said as he took his place at the head of the kitchen breakfast table: "The master is off in high spirits this morning. The bride is winning her way, I suppose. She seems rather an attractive woman."

"You suppose! And pray what will your supposing be worth, Mr. Jepson?" Mrs. McNab asked this question scornfully from the foot of the table. "Attractive, indeed! She's charming, she's captivating, she's enchanting, she's bewitching; and if she was only Highland Scotch, she would soon be teaching thae sour old women the meaning o' them powerful words. She would that! But she's o'er good, and o'er good-tempered for the like o' them."

"You are talking of the mistress, McNab."

"I am weel acquaint wi' that fact, and I'll just remind you that my name is Mistress McNab, when you find sense enough to give me my right. And if it isna lawfu' to talk o' Mistress Traquair Campbell, there's no law forbidding me to talk o' them Lairds and Crawfords. If they ever come here again, the smoke will get through their porridge, and they'll wonder what the de'il is the matter wi' Mistress McNab's cookery."

"The guests of the house, McNab, ought to have a kind of consideration."

"Consider them yoursel', then."

"The Crawfords and Lairds both are the most respect – "

"Ill-bred, and forwardsome o' mortals. I could say much worse – "

"Better not."

"Bouncing, swaggering, nasty, beggarly creatures! They turn up their lang noses, and the palms o' their greedy hands at the like o' you and me, but there isna a lady or a gentleman at this table, that wouldna scorn the dirty things they did here."

"They gave none o' us a sixpence when they went awa," said Thomas, the second man.

"Sixpence! They couldna imagine a bawbee or a kind word to anybody but themsel's. They wouldna gie the smoke aff their porridge – but I'll tell you the differ o' them. The young mistress, God bless her, sends her maid to me last night, and the girl – a civil spoken creature – says: 'Mrs. McNab, my mistress would like her coffee and rolls in her own parlor, and there will be due you half-a-crown a week for your trouble, and thank you.' That's the way a lady puts things. And mind you, if there's the like o' a fresh kidney, or a few mushrooms coming Mrs. McNab's way, they will go to my lovely lady in her own parlor – and Jepson, you can just tell the auld woman I made that remark."

"What is said at this table goes no further, Mrs. McNab, and that you know."

"Then the auld woman has the far-hearing, that's a' – " and being by this time at the end of her temper and her English speech, she plunged into Gaelic. It was her sure and unconquered resort, for no one could answer unpronounceable and untranslatable words. All her companions knew was, that she rose from the table with an air of victory.

The next week was very wet. Day after day it was rain only interrupted by more rain, and Robert seemed to take a kind of pride in its abundance. "Few countries are so well watered as Scotland," he said complacently:

 
"The West wind always brings wet weather,
The East wind wet and cold together,
The South wind surely brings us rain,
The North wind blows it back again."
 

This storm included Sunday, and every one went to church except Theodora. She had a headache, and having been told by Christina that the Kirk would size her up the first Sabbath she appeared, she resolved to put off the ordeal. The pleasure of being quite alone for a few hours was a temptation, for she needed solitude more than service, bewildered as she was by the strange household ideas and customs which had suddenly encompassed her life.