Kitabı oku: «A Reconstructed Marriage», sayfa 6

She had thought that religion, or some point of nationality, would be the most likely rocks of offence, but as yet all her trials had come from some trivial circumstance of daily life. She had been embarrassed by such small differences, that she hardly knew in the hasty decisions they compelled, what to defend and what to abandon.

It was also a wearisome experience to be constantly exchanging suspicious courtesies with her husband's family, and by no effort of love or patience could she get beyond these. Their want of response made her sad, and checked her affectionate and spontaneous advances, but she knew that in the trials of domestic life all plans must come at last to the give and take, bear and forbear theory. So after some reflection, she said softly to herself: "These women are the samples of humanity given me with my husband, and I must make the best of them. I can choose my friends, but I must take my relations as I find them. They are not what I wish, not what I expected, but I fear nothing comes up to our expectations. The real thing always lacks the color of the thing hoped for."

Such despondent musings, however, were not natural to her hopeful temper. "There must be a bright side to the situation," she continued, "and I must try and find it." So she roused herself from the recumbent position she had taken. "Stand up on thy feet, and look for the bright side, Theodora." As she did so, her eyes fell upon the small book in her hand, and she read these words:

"Take a good heart, O Jerusalem, for he that gave thee that name will comfort thee." With a joyful smile she read it again, and this time aloud:

"Take a good heart, O Theodora, for he that gave thee that name will comfort thee!"¹ The glorious promise inspired her at once with strength and joy; she felt her soul singing within her, and her first impulse was to open the piano and pour out her thanksgiving.

"O come let us sing unto the Lord, let us heartily rejoice in the strength of our salvation."

At this point McNab rushed into the room crying: "For goodness sake, my lady, stop! You'll be having the police in, and the de'il to pay all round, disturbing the Sunday saints and the like o' it. Excuse me, ma'am, but you don't know what you're up to."

"I am singing a psalm, McNab. Is there anything wrong in that?"

"You've put your finger on the wrong, ma'am. Singing a psalm isna a thing fit to be done in your ain parlor on the Sunday. It is a' right in the Kirk, but it is a' wrang in the parlor."

"How is that?"

"You be to ask wiser folk than I am what's the differ. If you were singing the psalm o' the blessed Virgin itsel' and folk heard you, there would be no end o' the matter. You can sing without the piano, ma'am, it's the piano that's the blackguard on a Sunday."

"Thank you, McNab, for warning me. I have not learned the ways of the country yet."

"You'll never learn them, ma'am. They must be borned in ye, sucked in wi' your mither's milk, and thrashed into ye wi' your school lessons. Just gie them their ways, and stick to your ain. You can do that, McNab does. They are easy satisfied if it suits their convenience. Every soul in this house is at church but mysel', for I hae made collops the regular Sunday dinner, and no one but McNab can cook collops to suit Mrs. Traquair Campbell."

"I am sure she would not keep you from church to make collops."

"I am a Catholic, and she keeps me at home to make collops, to prevent me going to my ain church. God save us! she thinks she is keeping me from serving the devil."

"So you are a Catholic?"

"Glory be to God, I am a Catholic! Did you ever taste collops, ma'am?"

"I never heard of them."

"Weel, they arena bad, and when McNab makes them, they are vera good. I shall put a few mushrooms in them to-day for your sake."

"Thank you!"

"And you can sing twice as much the morn. I'm sure it is a thanksgiving to listen to you."

Then the door closed, and Theodora closed the piano, put away her music, and went upstairs to dress for dinner. The thanksgiving was still in her heart, and she sang it with her soul joyfully, as she put on one of her most cheerful and beautiful costumes. It seemed natural and proper to do so, and without reasoning on the subject, she felt it to be in fit sympathy with her mood.

Even when the churchgoers came home drabbled and dripping, and as cross and gloomy as if they had been to hear a Gospel that was bad news, instead of good news, she did not feel its incongruity with her environment, until her mother-in-law said:

"You are very much over-dressed for the day, Dora."

"It is God's day, and I dressed in honor of the day."

"Then you should have gone to church to honor Him."

Before his wife could reply, Robert made a diversion: "What did you think of the sermon, mother?" he asked.

"It was a very strong sermon."

"Who was the preacher?" asked Isabel.

"Dr. Fraser of Stirling," said Robert.

"Well, brother, I do not believe Dr. Robertson would have approved the sermon. It is not like his preaching."

"It was an excellent sermon," reiterated Mrs. Campbell. "I hope all the uncovenanted present felt its weighty solemnity." She muttered, twice over, its awful text: "The wicked shall be turned into hell, and all the nations that forget God."

"There is a better word for them than that," said Theodora, her face alight with spiritual promise. "'The Lord is long-suffering to us-ward, not willing that any should perish, but that all should come to repentance.' That is what Saint Peter says, and Timothy, 'God our Saviour will have all men to be saved,' a great all that, and the Testament is full of such glad hope."

"Those passages do not apply to the lost, Dora."

"But as your great Scotch preacher, Thomas Erskine, said, we are lost here as much as there, and Christ came to seek and to save the lost."

Mrs. Campbell looked with sorrowful anger at her son, and Robert said: "My dear Dora, you argue like a woman. Women should listen, and never argue."

"Women are told to search the Scriptures, Robert. I search and understand them, but I do not often understand the men who profess to explain them."

"Your father – "

"Oh, my father! He has come unto Bethlehem. Those who can believe God has any pleasure in punishing sinners, are still at Sinai."

"God must punish sinners," said Isabel.

"God can reform and forgive them, just as easily; and it would be far more in accord with His nature, for 'God is Love.'"

"If we are to have a theological discussion by young women, I shall retire," said Robert, and with these words he rose from the table.

"Sit down, Robert. You have had no pudding."

"The collops were very fine to-day, mother, and I am satisfied."

As he left the room Theodora rose and went with him, but he did not appear to notice her. When they were in their parlor he said: "You ought to have sat still and finished your argument with my sister."

"Have I done something wrong, Robert?"

"I think if you cannot assent to mother's statements, it would be more becoming not to contradict them."

"If it had been a matter of no importance, I would have kept silence, but I must always testify in any company, the absolute perfection of Jesus Christ's sacrifice."

"Nobody challenged it."

"But if it does not save all it is imperfect. And surely John the Beloved knew his Master's heart, and he says 'Jesus Christ is the propitiation for our sins, and not for ours only, but also for the sins of the whole world.' How can any one dare to narrow that zone of mercy?"

"You argue like a woman, Dora."

"I am not arguing. I am only quoting what the greatest of men have said."

Then Robert lifted the Sunday Magazine and answered all her further efforts at conversation in polite monosyllables, and finding the position she had been relegated to both embarrassing and humiliating, she finally went to her room upstairs, and shut herself in with God. Her eyes were full of unshed tears, as she turned the key, for she felt that something in her life had lost its foothold. Was it her faith? Oh, no! She trusted God implicitly. She could not think any ill of Him, she had loved Him from her cradle. Was it her love? Oh, how reluctant she was, to even ask this question. But there was a great change in Robert, or was it that she now saw the real Robert Campbell, while the man who had wooed and won her had been but a man playing a lover's rôle?

For even during the few days they had been at home, it was evident that both he and his family were resolved on her surrendering her faith, and her individuality. She was to be made over by the Campbells in their own image and likeness. Robert had loved and married Theodora Newton; was she to change her character with her name? She had made no such promise, and, without the slightest egotism, she could see that such a denial of herself would compel from her mental and spiritual nature a downward, backward movement, so deep and wide she dared not contemplate it.

Her duty to her husband was plain as the Bible, and she promised herself to fulfil it to the last tittle, but while doing this, she must find the courage to be true to herself, as well as to others. And as nothing can be done in the heart by halves, it would be no fitful or uncertain struggle. The whole soul, the whole heart, the whole mind, the whole life, would be demanded. She was troubled at the prospect before her. Would she find strength and wisdom for it? Or would it prove to be another of the lost fights of Virtue?

"No, no!" she cried. "I shall not fight alone. God and Theodora are a multitude."

She had certainly that doleful afternoon gone back in piteous memory to her teaching and writing, and her own peaceful, loving home, and thought that if trouble was necessary for her higher development it could have been better borne in either environment. But she acknowledged also that

 
"Where our Captain bids us go,
'Tis not ours to murmur 'No.'
He that gives us sword and shield,
Chooses too the battlefield."
 

So if God had chosen this gloomy house, full of jealousy, envy, hatred, and apparently dying love, for her battlefield, it was not her place to murmur "No," nor even her desire, since He that

 
"chose the battlefield,
Would give her also sword and shield."
 

CHAPTER V
BAD AT BEST

If there had been a little diversity in the Campbell family it would have been a more bearable household. But they had the same prejudices and the same likes and dislikes, differing only in the intensity with which they held them. Mrs. Campbell and her son Robert were the most positive, Isabel was but little behind them, and Christina was easily bent as the others desired. Under present circumstances she could only be true to her family; under any other circumstances, it was doubtful if she could be false. This monotony of feeling pressed like a weight on Theodora, who felt that she could have borne opposition and unkindness better if there had been more variety in their exhibition; for then Life might have had some interesting fluctuations.

But Mrs. Campbell did precisely the same things every day, and to go to the works at the same moment every morning was the sum-total of Robert's life. The girls had certain dresses for the morning, and certain other dresses for the afternoon, and their employments were quite as uniform. There were even certain menus for every day's dinner in the week, and these were repeated with little or no change year in and year out. For Mrs. Campbell hated the unexpected; she tried to order her life so that there should be no surprises in it. On the contrary Theodora delighted in the unforeseen. She would have wished that even in heaven she might have happy surprises – the sudden meeting with an old friend, or good news from the dear earth still loved and remembered.

However, she had that hopefulness and virginity of spirit that makes the best of what cannot be changed, and as the weeks went on she learned to ignore the ill-will she could not conquer and to bear in silence the wrongs not to be put right by any explanations. And she soon made many acquaintances, and a few sincere friends. Among the latter were Dr. Robertson and his wife, and Mrs. Oliphant, the American. The former had called on Theodora about ten days after her home-coming and had been heartily attracted by her intelligence and beauty. The doctor was passionately fond of good music, and when he noticed the open piano and the name Mendelssohn on the music above it, he asked in an eager voice: "You will play for me?"

"Yes," Theodora answered, "very gladly! My piano is my great friend and companion. It feels with me in every mood. What shall I play?"

"The song before you. Mendelssohn can get very near to a musical soul."

She rose at once, and after a short prelude played in a manner so masterful as to cause the minister to look at his wife in wonder as her magnificent voice lifted that pathetic prayer, which has spoken for the sorrowful and suffering in all ages:

"O that I had wings like a dove, then would I flee away and be at rest."

Every note and every word was full of passionate spiritual desire and tender aspiration, and the music was as if her guardian angel joined her in it. The doctor was entranced, and Mrs. Robertson rose and was standing by the singer's side when she ceased.

"O, my dear, my dear!" she said, "you have gone straight to my heart."

A long and delightful conversation followed; then Ducie set an exquisite little service, and gave the company tea and cake and sweetmeats, and the visit did not terminate for nearly another hour.

Mrs. Campbell was in a transport of anger. "I was never even asked after," she complained to her son, "and Dora kept them all of two hours – such ignorance of social customs – and I could hear them talking and singing like a crowd of daffing young people."

"You ought to have joined them, mother."

"I ought to have been asked to do so, but I was quite neglected."

A few minutes later Robert said to his wife: "Why did you not send for mother when the minister called?"

"Mother was not asked for, and whenever I do send for her she makes a point of refusing, often very rudely, and I did not wish Dr. Robertson to be refused in our parlor."

"Who was mother rude to? It is not her way."

"To Mrs. Oliphant for one, and there were others."

"She does not approve of Mrs. Oliphant."

"I did not know whether she approved of Dr. and Mrs. Robertson. I like them very much. The doctor was very happy, and Mrs. Robertson told me 'I had gone straight to her heart.'"

"Such extravagance of speech! But she is Irish, and the Irish must exaggerate. They are a most untruthful race."

"They are an affectionate race, and what is the good of loving people, if you do not tell them so? They might as well be without such love."

"Do not be foolish, Dora."

"Is that foolishness?"

"Yes."

"Then once you were very foolish. I have not forgotten the time, when you continually told me how dearly you loved me. I was very happy then."

He turned and looked at her, and her beauty conquered him. He took her to his heart, and said: "I do love you, Dora. Yes, I do love you!" And then she grew radiant, and joy transfigured her face, and they went in to dinner together like lovers.

A little later when Dr. Robertson and his wife were sitting alone they began to talk of Theodora. "She has a great heart," said Mrs. Robertson, "and more's the pity."

"Yes, Kate, more's the pity, if she loves Robert Campbell; for it's small love she will get in return. Like ivy on a stone wall, she will obtain only a rigid and niggardly support, and even for that must go searching all round with humble embraces."

"You may take back your last two words, Angus. Yonder woman will stand level with her husband, or not stand with him at all. She would scorn your humble embraces."

"I fear she is in trouble already. There were tears in her voice as she sang."

"It would have melted the heart of a stone. Trouble? Certainly. How can she live with those three amazing women, and be out of trouble?"

"Well, Kate, the key of life which opens all its doors, and answers all its questions, is not 'how' or 'why' or even 'I wish' or 'I will.' It is I must. She must live with them. She must, she must, she must; and she'll do it."

"She will not do it long. Mind what I say. She will strive till she is weary, and then she must leave him – or else drift on a sorrowful sea like a dismasted ship."

"She believes in God – a believer in God never does that."

"Then she will have to leave him. Who could stand the ill-natured nagging of those women, and his sullen, masterful ways? No one."

"She must! The tooth often bites the tongue, but they keep together."

"Poor woman! It is a hard road for her to walk on."

"It is the ground that we do not walk on, that supports us. Faith treads on the void, and finds the rock beneath. She has found that rock, or I am greatly mistaken."

"I feel sure she has found it. Angus, if you could get her to sing that prayer, 'O For the Wings of a Dove' in church, say, while the Elders went round with the collection boxes, it would do a deal of good. It would touch every heart – they wouldn't mind their pennies, they might even give a crown where they have given a shilling."

"That is a capital idea, but I should have to ask Campbell for his consent."

"He does not own her voice."

"He thinks he does, and he must have his say-so. But if she could touch every heart as she touched ours what a gracious gift of song it would be!"

"I believe she could. Ask Robert Campbell."

"I will."

Under all circumstances Robert would have received the minister with extreme courtesy, for a Scotchman can no more afford to quarrel with the dominie of his Kirk than a Catholic in Rome can afford to quarrel with the Pope in Rome. Also, he had a great respect for Dr. Robertson, and when he was told of the sermon he intended to preach on the following Sabbath he was very proud of the confidence, and still prouder to be of service in promoting its effectiveness.

"Of course," he said, "Mrs. Campbell would sing. Why not? Was he not always happy to oblige the doctor and benefit the church?" And it never struck him that he was assuming an absolute right in Theodora's voice, and in her use of it; because he actually felt what he assumed. Nor did he see that in giving her voice to benefit the church he was thinking solely of the church as a religious society, and the souls composing it were never for a moment in his calculation. Both of these facts were clear to the minister, and he hoped that when Campbell saw and felt the effects of his concession he would be disposed to give some thanks to Theodora, and so get a glimpse of what he owed to a wife so good, so clever, and so lovely.

It was remarkable that he never named the subject to his mother, and to Theodora he only spoke of the minister's visit, and asked if he had called on her.

"Yes," she answered, "I made all arrangements with him." She did not dare to express her pleasure, for in that case she knew by experience he would probably cancel his concession. She permitted him to think she was willing to oblige the doctor, because he wished it, and then he felt it necessary to say that it was for "the good of the church, and that he had only consented to her singing for that reason."

Two days afterwards Mrs. Robertson called on Theodora and they went out together, nor did Theodora return until after ten o'clock. At that hour Mrs. Campbell sent for her son to discuss Dora's absence with him. She found him satisfied, instead of angry, as she supposed he would be.

"It is quite right, mother," he said. "Dora is dining with the Robertsons. I was invited, but I preferred to remain at home."

"You did the proper thing. Neither I nor your sisters were invited. I consider our neglect a great insult."

"No insult was intended, mother. They are infatuated with Dora, and I dare say have invited some of the congregation to meet her. Why, there she is now!" he exclaimed, "and I wonder who is with her?"

"I advise you to find out."

He followed the advice, and went to the open door. Theodora was in the embrace of Mrs. Oliphant. "You darling," she was saying, "I can hardly wait for Sunday. O, how are you, Mr. Campbell? You ought to have been with us. We have had the loveliest evening with your adorable wife – but we have brought her safe home."

Then Mr. Oliphant laughed: "You ought to keep at her side, Campbell. Every man o' us would like to run awa' with her."

He said the words jokingly, but Robert was very angry, and Theodora felt that his permission for the Sunday singing wavered in the balance. But the danger passed in his criticisms of the offender, whom he stigmatized as "the most uxorious and foolish of husbands."

Except to Theodora, he did not name the subject of her singing on the coming Sabbath, and as neither Mrs. Campbell nor her daughters spoke of it, Theodora followed the example set her and kept silence. When Sunday arrived, she went quietly out of the house while the rest were dressing, and at the last moment Robert joined his family, saying: "I will go to church with you this morning, mother." He gave no reason for his conduct, nor did Mrs. Campbell ask for one. She concluded that Theodora was sick, or that more likely she had had a dispute with her husband about the service, and in consequence had refused to attend it.

As it happened Mrs. Campbell had only heard Theodora sing from a distance, or behind closed doors, and Isabel was very near in the same ignorance of her voice and its ability. Christina was more likely to recognize the singer, for she had frequently heard her, but she did not, or at least only in a vague and uncertain manner. She wished Theodora had been present, that she might learn her deficiencies, and she wondered that two people should have voices so similar; but she reflected, that her own voice was so like Isabel's that her mother frequently mistook them. But Robert knew, and his heart melted to the passionate stress and longing of her cry: "O that I had wings like a dove," and thrilled to the joy and triumph of the rest hoped for.

The whole church was moved as if it had been one spirit and one heart. The place seemed to be on fire with feeling, and as the marvellous voice died away in peace and rest a strange but mighty influence swept over the usually cold and stolid congregation. Some wept silently, some bowed their heads, and a few stood and looked upward, while the soft, rolling notes of the organ died away in the benediction. Very quietly and speechlessly the congregation dispersed. All went home with the song in their hearts, but not until they sat down in their homes did they begin to talk together of the psalm and the singer. Even Mrs. Campbell was touched and pleased, and she took a great delight in praising the singer, as they sat at lunch.

"That was singing," she said, "and the finest singing I ever heard. Many people pretend to sing who know nothing about it and have no voice to sing with – but, thank God, for once in my life, I have heard singing."

"It sounded very like Dora's voice," said Christina.

"You are mistaken," replied Isabel, "besides, the voice we heard this morning is a finely trained voice – I mean, as voices are trained for oratorio and public singing. It was a soprano, and soprano voices are very much alike."

No one cared to dispute Isabel's explanation and the conversation drifted to the sermon from the same psalm. "It was a good sermon," said Mrs. Campbell, "but people will forget it in the song."

"The song was the sermon to-day," said Isabel.

"The sermon was water, the song was wine," said Robert.

"I wish you would get the music, Dora. I am sure you could learn to sing it very well," said Christina; and Theodora smiled and answered, "I will try and get the music, if you wish, Christina."

"No, no!" cried Mrs. Campbell. "I would not have the memory of this morning's song spoiled for a great deal."

"Nor I, mother," added Isabel. "Would you, Robert?"

The better man had possession of Robert at that hour and he replied with a strong fervor:

"No, not for anything. It is one memory I shall hope to keep green as long as I live." He looked at Theodora, and if any there had had eyes to see, they might have read the secret in their beaming faces.

In their own parlor Robert was more enthusiastic than Theodora had seen him for a long time. "You have often gone to my heart, Dora," he said, "but this morning you touched my soul." And they were very happy together. This was the man Theodora loved. This was the man to whom she had given her heart and hand. Oh, how was she to keep this Robert Campbell always to the fore?

To do any great thing with the heart of another, you must vivisect your own, and this truth Theodora had to practise continually. Her life was one of such painful self-denial as left all its little pleasant places bare and barren; but she knew that in this way only could peace be bought, and she paid the price, excepting always, when it struck at her self-respect or violated her conscience. For she had constant opportunities of seeing that the spirit of submission carried too far was responsible for most of the misery and wrongs of the household; since despotism is never the sin of one, but comes from the servility of those around the despot. And as Robert was not always indifferent, but had frequent visitings from his better self, she made the most of these happy times, and took the envy and hatred of the rest as she took wet weather, or wind, or snow, or any other exhibition of the Higher Powers. For if training and education had made Theodora self-respectful, it had also made her avoid everything like self-indulgence.

 
"To her there never came the thought,
That this her life was meant to be
A pleasure house, where peace unbought
Should minister to pride and glee.
 
 
"Sublimely she endured each ill
As a plain fact, whose right or wrong
She questioned not; confiding still
That it would last – not over long.
 
 
"Willing from first to last to take
The mysteries of her life as given,
Leaving her time-worn soul to slake
Its thirst, in an undoubted heaven."
 

So the weeks passed on in a kind of armed truce with short intervals of satisfying happiness, whenever Robert chose to make her happy. She still took her breakfast alone, and now and then Robert, allured by the pretty appetizing table on the cheerful hearth, drank his coffee and ate a rasher of bacon beside her. Then how gay and delighted she was, and as on such occasions he gave up his porridge and salt herring, McNab, in order to pleasure the mistress whom she loved, always found him some dainty to atone for his deprivation. And the meal was so good and cheerful, that it was a wonderful thing he did not join his wife constantly.

It was now getting near to Christmas, but none of the family had yet ventured to tell Mrs. Campbell the truth concerning the singing in the church although she frequently spoke of it. In fact, ever since that Sabbath she had made a point of sending a note to Theodora whenever she heard the piano. "I know practising from music," she said in every note, "and I do not like practising." Only Christina being present at the practising interfered with the message, and many times it had been sent when it was the caller who was doing the practising. The order was always obeyed, lest it should be more offensively repeated, and to no one but Mrs. Oliphant did Theodora confide her reason for closing the instrument so promptly. The message elicited from Mrs. Oliphant scornful laughter, and the three women listening for the manner of its reception were not surprised.

"They are laughing at my order," said Mrs. Campbell, "what dreadful manners Americans do have!"

"Dora's manners are equally bad. She had no business to show her the note," said Isabel.

"Dora is English; what can you expect?"

"Dora ought to send for me when she has company," said Christina, "then she would be allowed to practise, would she not, mother?"

"Christina, I am always willing to sacrifice myself for my children, and you profess to learn something from her playing."

"I do, and I love to hear her play and sing. Dora has been kind to me, she isn't half bad."

"Well, Christina, in all proper things I consult my children's pleasure, rather than my own comfort."

Isabel said nothing, and yet Theodora had made many whist parties for her pleasure, persuading Robert to invite to them such unmarried men as would be suitable partners for his sisters in life, as well as at the whist table. These parties had always terminated with supper and music, Christina being the principal, and generally the only performer. She had taken both of the sisters out with her, dressed them for entertainments, shown them how to dress themselves, and taught them those little tricks of the toilet, which are to women at once so innocent and so indispensable. Many times these services had been rendered cheerfully when she was sick or depressed, but neither of the girls had any conception of a kindness, except as it related to themselves – how it benefited their looks or their feelings, and what results would accrue to them from it. Never once had they expressed a sense of obligation for any favor done them. They took every kindness as their right, for they heard their mother constantly assert: "Dora could never do enough for them."

"She has forced herself into our family without our desire or permission," she would say, "and if she could only understand it she is a great wrong and annoyance to us. If she does teach Christina music and singing and French, and entertain you both now and then, it is her bounden duty to do that, and more. She is a born schoolmistress anyway, and no doubt feels quite at home teaching you any little thing she can."

This was not a happy life for Theodora, but she had chosen it, and our choices are our destiny. It was now her duty to make the best of it, and if Robert was only a little loving and just, her fine spirits and hopeful temper made her gay as a bird in spring. Her enthusiasms were incomprehensible to the three women, they were even repulsive; for neither the selfish, ill-tempered mother, nor the selfish, servile daughters, could understand that joy, which, coming from the inner life, is illimitably glad and hopeful, "something afar from the sphere of our sorrow."