"Do you think I believe that romancing about Lord Thurson? I am not such a born idiot. You cannot persuade me, that two men in the world wanted to marry Dora Newton. _Hout, tout!_ Men are f.e.c.kless enough, but not that crazy."

Such conversations as this occurred usually in the library after dinner where Mrs. Campbell now made a point of visiting her son. For this end, she had conquered her dislike both of the room and his tobacco, and there she carried all the small gossip and worries of the household. And Robert soon began to enjoy this visit, and the tale-bearing suspicions and arguments that enlivened it. It pleased him to feel that he knew all that was going on in the house, and he also liked to know whether Theodora had been out or not, whether she had dressed for calling or walking, and, if she had not left the house, how she had been occupied, what callers she had had, and how many letters she had received. He was not even averse to knowing the post-office stamps of these letters.

And when men indulge this petty weakness, they soon learn to enjoy its humbling cruelties and its mean triumphs, hardly considering that under such a disintegrating process all domestic happiness crumbles inwardly away. Thus Robert grew indifferent to the woman he so pitilessly a.n.a.lyzed, and fell gradually into the G.o.dless, thankless quiescence of getting used to happiness. It was then easy to regard what had once been a miraculous blessing as a thing monotonous and commonplace.

With Theodora, he had now little companionship. He had ceased to consult her about anything, they neither wept nor rejoiced together, they did not even quarrel, and no legal bill of divorce could have more effectually separated them than did this moral divorce, in which there was neither disputing nor forgiveness. But though Theodora consented to this evil condition outwardly, as a form of sacrifice for David's sake, inwardly she knew it to be overcome. She bore it cheerfully, despised its power, and ignored as much as possible its presence.

Had she been left to herself she must have broken down under the unceasing tension, but constantly visited by the _not herself_, she lifted up her head, and when urged too fiercely, walked her lonely room with G.o.d, and dared to tell Him all the sorrow in her heart. Her disappointment had been dreadful, but G.o.d's pity had touched the great mistake, and she was now waiting as patiently and cheerfully as possible for the finality sure to come.

So far she had hid her wrongs and her disillusions in her heart; not even to her parents had she complained. The heart-breaking cruelties from which she suffered were not recognized by the law, and they were screened from the world by the closed doors of domestic life. So she had bowed both her heart and her head, and was dumb to every one but her Maker. He alone knew her in those days of utter desolation, when her wronged and wounded soul retired from all earthly affections to that Eternal Love always waiting our hour of need.

At this time it was the once snubbed and depressed Christina who dominated Traquair House. From her first interview with Theodora, she had resolved to become like her. With patient zeal she had studied and acquired whatever Theodora had recommended. And quickly divining the bent of her intellectual faculties, Theodora had educated that bent to perfection. The correct technique of the piano was already known to Christina, but Theodora directed it into its proper channel of expression, and showed her how to put a soul into her playing and singing. She found for her the most delicate and humorous portions of literature, and taught her how to recite them. She made her free of all the secrets of beautiful dressing, and urged her to do justice to her person; until very gradually the commonplace Christina had flowered into an attractive woman.

In the third year of Theodora's married life Christina had begun to dress herself with a rich and almost fastidious elegance, and, as frequently happens, she put on with her fine clothing a certain amount of genius and authority. No one snubbed her now, for she had made a distinct place for herself in the special set the Traquair Campbells affected--the rich religious set--and her definite and agreeable accomplishments caused her to be eagerly sought for every entertainment in that set. She had begun to have admirers, flowers were sent to her and gentlemen called upon her, and she received invitations from them to concerts, lectures, and such national and therefore correct plays, as _Rob Roy_ and _Macbeth_. This social admiration developed her self-appreciation and self-reliance to a wonderful extent. She was no longer afraid of any member of her family, and they were secretly very proud of her.

Mrs. Campbell talked of her daughter's social triumphs constantly. "Your sister is the belle of every occasion, Robert," she said to her son.

"She has as many as five and six callers every day; she has been named in the papers as 'the lovely and accomplished Miss Christina Campbell'; she has numerous lovers to tak' her choice o', and tell me, my lad, whaur's your Theodora now!" She tossed her head triumphantly to the scornful laugh with which she asked the question.

"Mother, you know that Dora has made Christina all she is. Be honest, and confess that."

"'Deed I will not. The beauty and the talents were a' in the la.s.sie.

Dora may have said a word now and then, and showed her a thing or two, here and there, but the gifts were Christina's, and the la.s.sie's ain patient wark has brought them to their perfection. That's a crowned truth and I'll suffer no contradiction to it. We shall have to order her wedding feast vera soon. I have not a doubt o' that."

"I hope she will have the sense not to overlook the baronet in her train of admirers."

"You're meaning Sir Thomas Wynton?"

"Yes. He is quite in the mind to buy a handsome share in the works, and his name and money would be a great thing for us. I intend to bring him here to dinner to-morrow. Tell Christina I am looking to her to bring him into the family, and into the works."

"I'll be no such fool, Robert Campbell. I shall say nothing anent Sir Thomas, save the particular fact of his coming here to dinner. Little you know o' women, if you think any la.s.sie can be counselled to marry the man she ought to marry."

"Take your own way with her, mother, but mind this--the securing of Sir Thomas Wynton will be a special providence for the Campbells. He has one hundred thousand pounds to invest, and I cannot bear to think of him carrying all that capital anywhere but to the Campbell furnaces."

"I'll manage it. Never fear, Robert, Christina shall be my lady Christina and you shall have the Wynton siller to trade with. It will be a righteous undertaking for me, for it is fairly sinful in Sir Thomas, hiding his hundred thousand talents--as it were--in a napkin. A bank is no better than a napkin; money is just folded away in it; and money is made round that it may roll. The Campbell works will set the hundred thousand pieces rolling and gathering more, and more, and still more.

_Losh!_ it makes me tremble to think of them going out o' the Campbell road. That would be an unthinkable calamity."

"If you can manage it, mother, it----"

"'If'--there's no 'if' in the matter." She smiled and nodded, and seemed so sure of success, that Robert found it difficult to refrain himself from making certain calculations, dependent upon a larger capital.

The next day at noon Mrs. Campbell remarked in a tone of inconvenience, or household discomfort: "I believe, girls, your brother is going to bring Sir Thomas Wynton home with him to-night. I am fairly wearied of the man's name."

"He is a very fine gentleman, mother," said Christina.

"He is auld, and auld-farrant."

"He is not over forty-five, and he is far from being old-fashioned. He is up to the nick of the times in everything."

"Your brother never thinks of any manly quality but money. He says Sir Thomas is rich. I wouldn't wonder if he has only the name o' riches.

But, rich or poor, he is coming to dinner, and I be to see McNab anent the eatables. A very moderate dinner will do, I should say."

"Make the finest dinner you can, mother, and it will be only a pot-luck affair to Sir Thomas," answered Christina. "He is rich, and he is powerful in politics, and he has one of the finest castles in Midlothian. He is well worth a good dinner, mother, and Robert will like to see he has one."

"What do you say, Isabel?"

"I say Robert is worth pleasing, mother. The other man is a problem, perhaps it may be worth while to please him, perhaps not. The negatives generally win, I've noticed that."

"Well, well! The dinner is all we can cater for--there's accidentals anent every affair, and they are beyont us, as a rule. Are either of you going out this afternoon?"

"There is nothing to take me out," said Isabel.

"I was out late last night," said Christina. "I shall rest this afternoon. Sir Thomas is rather a weariness. We shall all be thankful when he makes his court bow and says, 'Good-night, ladies! I have had a perfectly delightsome evening.'" She boldly mimicked the baronet's broad Scotch speech and courtly debonair manner, without any fear of the cold silence, or cutting reproofs her mimicry used to provoke.

No more was said, and the girls did not take Sir Thomas Wynton into their conversation. He appeared to be a person of no importance to them.

As they were parting Isabel asked: "What will you wear to-night, Christina?" and Christina answered: "I have not thought of my dress yet--what will you wear?"

"My gray silk, trimmed with black lace."

"Put on white laces; they are more becoming."

"The dress is ready for the Social Club at the church, Friday. Why should I alter it for a couple of hours to-night? I wish you would wear your rose satin. You look so bonnie in it."

"I'll not don it for Sir Thomas Wynton! I wish to wear it at Mrs.

Bannerman's dinner Thursday, and Wynton is sure to be there. I don't want him to think I wore my best dress for him only. It would set him up too high."

But if she did not wish to wear her rose satin for Sir Thomas, she appeared in a far more effective costume--a black Maltese lace gown, trimmed with bright rose-colored bows of satin ribbon. Her really fine arms were bare from the elbows, her square-cut neck showed a beautifully white, firm throat, and the glow of the ribbons was over her neck and arms, and touched the dress here and there charmingly. A bright red rose showed among the manifold braids of her black hair, and she had in her hand a rose-colored fan, with which she coquetted very prettily.

Robert was charmed with her appearance, and told her so. "I want you to charm Sir Thomas Wynton for me," he added. "It is desirable that I should have him for a business partner. Do you understand?"

She laughed, and putting her fan before her face asked in a whisper: "What will you give me, Robert, if I win him for you?"

"Five hundred pounds," he said promptly.

"Done!" she replied, and then, hearing the door open, she turned to see Sir Thomas Wynton entering. She went to meet him with a laughing welcome and with both hands extended. She sat at his side during dinner and kept him laughing, and when she left the dining-room ordered him with a pretty authority to be in the drawing-room for tea, in forty-five minutes. And he took out his watch, noted the time, and promised all she asked.

In forty-five minutes exactly, he appeared in the drawing-room. Jepson was serving tea, and Christina's cup stood on the piano, for as Robert and Sir Thomas entered the room she was playing with lively, racy spirit, the prelude to the inimitably humorous song of "_The Laird o'

c.o.c.kpen_." Sir Thomas went at once to her side, and when he spoke to her, she answered him with the musical, mocking words:

"_The laird of c.o.c.kpen he's proud, and he's great, His mind is taen up wi' the things o' the State_," etc.

Sir Thomas listened with peals of laughter, and Robert and Mrs. Campbell joined in the merriment. Even Isabel was unable to preserve the usual stillness of her face, though she was far more interested in the singer than the song. Where had all these charming coquetries, this mirth and melody been hidden in the old Christina? This was not the Christina she had known all her life. "It is Theodora's doing," she thought, "and not one of us have given her one word of thanks. It is too bad! And I am sure she stayed in her own room to-night, to give Christina a fair field, and no rival. She is a good woman. I wish mother could like her."

The whole evening was a triumph for Christina. She sang "_Sir John Cope_" with irresistible raillery, and roused every Scotch feeling in her audience with "_Bannocks o' Barley Meal_," and "_The Kail Brose of Auld Scotland_." She told her most amusing stories, and finally induced Sir Thomas Wynton and her brother, mother, and sister to join her in the parting song of "_Auld Lang Syne_." Then, with evident reluctance, Sir Thomas went away, "thoroughly bewitched in a' his five senses," as he confessed later. Christina knew it, for ere she bid her brother good-night, she found an opportunity to whisper:

"You will owe me five hundred pounds very soon."

"I will pay it," he answered, and she looked backward at him with a laugh. Then he turned to his mother and said: "Who would have believed that Christina had all this fun and mischief in her?"