A Reconstructed Marriage. Amelia E. Barr
have soured even good dispositions, but the nature of both these girls was as awry by inheritance, as their destiny in regard to parental influence and environment had been tragically unfortunate. Only the loftiest or the sweetest of spirits could have dominated the evil influences by which they were surrounded, and turned them into healthy and happy ones. And neither Isabel nor Christina knew the uplifting of a lofty ideal, nor yet the gentle power of the soft word and the loving smile.
Sitting close together and moved by the same feelings, their physical resemblance was remarkable. As before said, Nature had intended them to be beautiful. Their features were regular, their hair abundant, their eyes dark and well formed, their figures tall and slender, but they lacked those small accessories to beauty without which it appears crude and undeveloped. Their faces were dull and uninteresting for want of that interior light of the soul and intellect without which "the human face divine" is not divine—is indeed only flesh and blood. Their abundant hair was badly cared for, and not becomingly arranged; their figures, in spite of tight lacing, badly managed and ungracefully clothed; their eyes, though dark and long-lashed, carried no illumination and were only expressive of evil or bitter emotions; they knew not either the languors or the sweet lights of love or pity. Isabel and Christina had slipped about sick rooms too much; and they had been too little in the busy world to estimate themselves by comparison with others, and so find out their deficiencies.
This morning their likeness to each other was accentuated by the fact that they were dressed exactly alike in dark brown merino, with a narrow band of white linen round their throats. Each had fastened the linen band with a gold brooch of the same pattern, and both wore a small Swiss watch pinned on her plain, tight waist.
Isabel reclined in her chair, and as she knew all there was to know at present, a faint smile of satisfaction was on her face. Christina sat upright, with an almost childish expression of expectation.
"What do you know, Isabel?" she asked impatiently. "How, or why, are things going to be different in Traquair House?"
"Because there is to be a marriage in the family."
"A marriage! Is it mother? Old lawyer Galt has been very attentive lately."
"No, it is not mother."
"Then it is Robert?"
Isabel nodded assent.
Christina's eyes filled with a dull, angry glow, and there were tears in her voice, as she cried:
"If that is so, Isabel, I will leave Traquair House. I will not live with Jane Dalkeith. She is worse than mother. She would count every mouthful we ate, and make remarks as nasty as herself."
"Exactly. That would be Jane's way; but I am led to believe Robert will never marry Jane Dalkeith."
"Who then is he going to marry? I never heard of Robert paying attention to any girl."
"I have found out the person he is paying attention to."
"Who is it, Isabel? Tell me. I will never mention the circumstance."
"Her name is Theodora."
"What a queer name—Miss Theodora. Do you know, it sounds like a Christian name; it surely can not be a surname."
"You are right. I do not know her surname."
"How did you find it out—I mean Robert's love affair?"
Isabel described the discovery of the velvet-bound Bible while Christina listened with greedy interest. "You know, Christina," she added, "that a young man on his engagement always gives the girl a Bible."
"Yes, I know; even servant girls get a Bible when they are engaged. Our Maggie and Kitty did; they showed them to me. Do the men swear their love and promises on them?"
"I should not wonder. If so, a great many are soon forsworn!"
"Is that all you know, Isabel?"
"Four times this week she has written to Robert. I saw the letters in the mail."
"Love letters, I suppose?"
"No doubt of it."
"How immodest! Do you know where she lives?"
"At a town called Kendal."
"I never heard of the place. Is it near Motherwell? Robert often goes to Motherwell."
"It is in England."
"Oh, Isabel, you frighten me! An Englishwoman! Whatever will mother say? How could Robert think of such a dreadful thing! What shall we do?"
"I see no occasion for us either to say or to do. There will be some grand set-tos between mother and Robert. We may get some amusement out of them."
"Mother will insist on Robert giving up the Englishwoman. She will make him do it."
"I do not think she will be able. Mind what I say."
"Robert has been under mother all his life."
"That is so, but he will make a stand about this Theodora, and mother will have to give in. He is now master of the works, and you will see that he will be master of the house also. He will take possession of himself, and everything else. I fancy we shall all find more changes than we can imagine."
"I don't care if we do! Anything for a change. I am almost weary of my life. Nothing ever happens in it."
"Plenty will happen soon. Robert has a way of his own, and that will be seen and heard tell of."
"He will not dare to counter mother very much. She will talk strict and positive, and hold her head as high as a hen drinking water. You know how she talks and acts."
"I know also how Robert will take her talking. I have seen Robert's way twice lately."
"What is his way?"
"A dour, cold silence, worse than any words—a silence that minds you of a black frost."
Having finished her story Isabel looked at her watch, and said: "I'll be going now, Christina, and you can think over what is coming. We be to consider ourselves in any change. I am almost sure Robert will be home to-day at one o'clock, for if I am not mistaken, it will be the Caledonian Railway Station at three o'clock. That train will land him in Kendal about eight o'clock, just in time to drink a cup of tea with Theodora, and have a stroll after it. There is a full moon to-night."
"How did you find out about Kendal?"
"Bradshaw; I suppose he knows."
"Of course, but it will be late Saturday night when Robert arrives, and surely he will not think of making love so near the Sabbath Day. I would not believe that of him, however much he likes Theodora."
"A handsome young Master of Iron Works can make love any day he pleases; even Scotchwomen would listen gladly to what he had to say. I think I would myself."
"I would, but it might be wrong, Isabel."
"I don't believe it would; anyway I would risk it."
"So would I; but neither of us will be led into the temptation."
"I fear not. Now I will be stepping downstairs. I have no more to say at present and I should not like to miss Robert."
"We are friends again, Isabel?"
"We are aye friends, Christina. Whiles, there is a shadow between us, but it is only a shadow—nothing to it but what a word puts right. There is the lunch bell."
"I had no idea it was so late."
"Let us go down together. I hate the servants to be whispering and snickering anent our little terrivees."
They had scarcely seated themselves at the table when Robert entered the room. He was a typical Scot of his order—tall, blonde, and very erect. His eyes were his most noticeable feature; they were modern eyes with that steely point of electric light in them never seen in the older time. The lids, drawn horizontally over them, spoke for