A Reconstructed Marriage Part 42

As if to urge her to this finality, her home became still more uncomfortable after Ducie's departure. Day after day pa.s.sed, but no girl was hired in Ducie's place, and Mrs. Campbell's chambermaid never reached Theodora's rooms, until it was time for her to dress for dinner.

Indeed, it appeared as if the girl had been ordered to wait until her presence would be the most annoying. And in a few days, the question of breakfast became a serious one. One morning Mrs. Campbell met McNab on the stairway with the tray containing Theodora's and David's breakfast in her hands. She looked angrily at the woman, and said in slow, positive words:

"Take that tray back to the kitchen!"

"It is Mrs. Campbell's and Master David's breakfast."

"Mrs. Robert can come to the breakfast table, as well as I can."

"And whar will Master David eat his mouthful? You hae said peremptor, he shallna eat at your board."

"He can eat with you--he can eat anywhere--or nowhere, for aught I care."

"Na, na! He will be Campbell o' the Campbell Iron Works yet, and he is beyond eating wi' serving-men and la.s.ses. I will just tak' the tray up this morning, for my arms are aching wi' the weight o' it."

"You will just take the tray to the kitchen."

"That is the last order you will gie Flora McNab, ma'am."

"Your threat is an old one, McNab; I'm not fearing it."

"Nor me expecting you to be feared. When you dinna fear G.o.d Almighty, why would you be fearing the like o' me? Out o' the way then, and let me by you wi' the tray."

Very uncomfortable was the family breakfast that morning. Something was the matter with Jepson. Every dish was cold, and is there any food nastier than cold porridge and cold boiled fish? Robert grumbled over his plates, and Mrs. Campbell was equally cross, and still more explanatory of her temper. About the middle of the meal, McNab entered the room in her church bonnet, and her double Paisley shawl, pinned with its large Cairngorm brooch. Robert looked at her in amazement, and with a laugh that was not a pleasant one, asked:

"Where are you going, McNab, so early in the morning?"

"Back to the Hielands, sir. Pay me my wage, and I'll be awa' in time for the Perth train."

"You are not going to leave us?"

"That is just what I am going to do."

"Nonsense!"

"I'm not going to stop in this house, and see your wife and bonnie bairn starved for food. The poor bit laddie is crying the now, for his bread and milk, and your mother--wi' the hard heart o' her--willna let me gie either the bairn, or his mother a mouthfu'; so I am going back to the Hielands whar folks hae hearts--and Jepson is going likewise, and the twa la.s.ses are going. Pay me my honest wages, Maister Campbell, for I'm in a hurry to get out o' hearing o' the starving baby, crying for his bowl o' milk."

"That will do, McNab. The Perth train does not leave until eleven o'clock. Go into the library, I want to speak to you, and take Jepson and the two girls there. I will come in a few minutes." He was obeyed without a word, for he spoke with that tone and manner which compelled even the leather-dressed, leather-masked men who fed his furnaces to cower before him.

When McNab and Jepson had left the room he turned to his mother and asked: "Am I to pay them, and send them away?"

"That would be unspeakable foolishness. I can not possibly do without McNab and Jepson. The two other hizzies can go if they want to."

"Then why do you meddle with McNab?"

"It is not her business to wait on your wife and child."

"Then whose business is it?"

"No one's, at present."

"Then see you find some one to-day whose business it will be to wait on them. If you do not, I will take my wife and child myself to the Victoria Hotel."

"I am fairly worn out with the quarrelling and trouble your wife and child make in the house. There is no pleasuring either of them. I have sent two girls to her, and she wouldn't give house-room to one, nor the other--decent girls, as I could find."

"One of them was drunk when she called, and the other had never cleaned a parlor, or made a bed in her life. It was kitchen work she wanted; and she spoke Gaelic better than English. See that a proper girl is hired to-day. It is an outrageous thing, to set me to sorting your servant girls' wrongs. I shall tell McNab to serve my wife and child, until a proper maid is found for them."

But such disputes as this, common as they were on every household subject, did not trouble Theodora, as they did when she had to face a permanence of them. She knew now they would soon be over. They were pa.s.sing away with every hour. Besides this consideration, a great event in life takes all importance out of small events, and she was so occupied with the total change approaching her, that the trifle of Mrs.

Campbell's temper, or injustice did not seem to be much worth minding.

Her cheerfulness and good temper was an amazing thing to Mrs. Campbell, who not understanding its reason, set it down to "Dora's aggravating ways."

"She thinks it annoys me," she said to Isabel, "she thinks it annoys me to appear so indifferent to my just anger, but she has to thole it anyway, and I'll wager, she likes it no better for all her smiling and singing to herself."

But Mrs. Campbell's just anger had now lost all its importance to Theodora, for every one was practically ready for the change, though the end of April was the date fixed unless some good or evil event sanctioned an earlier movement.

This event came unexpectedly, and in a different direction from any antic.i.p.ated. Robert left home one morning about the twenty-second of April very uncomfortably. His mother had been complaining bitterly of David's restlessness at night. She said he must be removed to the upper floor. She was astonished that a boy of his age should want to sleep near his mother. He must sleep beside Dora's maid for the future. She could not have her sleep broken, at her time of life it meant serious illness--and so on.

After breakfast Robert spoke to his wife on the subject, and he was amazed at the spirit she displayed. She said "David was sick last night.

I was fighting croup from midnight until dawn, and you know, Robert, how alarmingly subject to this terrible disease he is. How could he be left to a tired girl's care? She would not have heard that first hoa.r.s.e cry last night, and we might have found him dead this morning--strangled all alone in the darkness. No! he shall not leave me, or if you say he must go to the servants' floor, then I will go too."

With this subject still in abeyance Robert left her. Then Mrs. Campbell sent servants to remove the boy's cot to the maid's room, and Theodora positively refused to allow its removal, sending the men away, and then locking her doors. She was quivering with fear and feeling, when Robert unexpectedly returned home. He said the mail had brought him bad news.

He had been informed that Sykes and Company of Sheffield--who were heavily indebted to him--had failed, and he must go to Sheffield at once. He told Theodora to pack his valise for a two weeks' stay, while he went into the city for a certain accountant, whom he proposed to take with him, in order to examine the books of the delinquent firm.

"Pack my valise for a two weeks' stay." The poor wife trembled through all her being. It was the order for her own departure. The packing of his valise would be the last act of the sorrowful drama of her marriage.

It was the last time she would ever do him the service. _The last time!_ Every garment had a tragic look. She touched them tenderly. Her unchecked tears dropped upon them. If it was not for David's sake, she doubted whether she could carry out her intentions--but her child, her child! They wanted even now to separate them in their home, in a few weeks they might take him entirely away from her. His old enemy Croup would find him alone in the dark and some dreadful night strangle him.

He would be punished for faults he did not even understand, flogged, deprived of food and companionship, tormented by cruel boys older than himself--oh, she could not bear to continue her reflections, for the boy's sake she must leave his father. And then a kind of anger at the father followed in the steps of her grief. If she could have trusted his father to defend him in all cases, it need not have been; but she could see, even in the dispute concerning his sleeping-place, his father was inclined to stand by the cruel wish of the grandmother.

Oh, but the packing of that valise was a hard task! And when it was strapped and locked, it seemed almost to reproach her. She was sitting gazing at it, when Robert entered the room and caught the look of love and despair which filled her eyes, and saddened her face and her att.i.tude. In spite of himself it flattered him. He was astonished at her devotion, but it comforted him. His mother had been angry when she heard of Sykes and Company's failure. She had reminded him of her advice to have nothing to do with them--had told him "Sykes looked shifty and rascally, and her words had come true, and perhaps he would believe her next time she gave him good advice." But Theodora had been full of sympathy, and had given him only kind and encouraging words.

His manner was so unusually gentle, that she ventured to say: "I am afraid to be left here without you, Robert. They will take David from me, or I shall have a fight to keep him. It hurts me so, dear, what am I to do? Will you tell mother to let David's sleeping-place alone until you come back?"

He was silent for a moment, then he answered: "Take David and go and see your own father and mother. You could stay ten or twelve days. When I am ready to come home, I will telegraph you to meet me at Crewe Station, then we can make the journey back together."

"Oh, Robert, Robert! Oh, you dear Robert! What a joy that will be to David and myself! How shall I thank you?"

"Never mind the thanks. Now I must go. I have not a minute to spare."

"Davie is in the next room."

He went to the child's cot, and stood a moment looking at him. He was not yet recovered from the night's awful struggle, but he opened his eyes and stretched upward his arms, and Robert could not resist the silent appeal. Thank G.o.d, O thank G.o.d, he stooped and kissed him, and felt the little arms around his neck in a way that amazed him! Then he looked at Theodora and lifted his valise. The carriage was at the door, his mother was hurrying him, he said: "Good-bye, Dora. I will telegraph you about Crewe."

"Thank you, Robert. Please say so before mother, or she may try to prevent my going." Her eyes were fixed on him. There was a piteous entreaty in them--would he not kiss and embrace her also? Oh, if he knew it was the last time! If he only knew it! The thought was full of pa.s.sionate longing. He could not but feel it. He was just going to take her hand, when Mrs. Campbell opened the door and said fretfully:

"You will miss your train, Robert--delaying and delaying for nothing at all."

"I was telling Dora to go home on Friday, and see her parents for twelve days or more. I will meet her at Crewe, and we shall come home together."

"Very well. I'll be gey and thankful to have the house to ourselves for a few days--or forever."