At that moment the servant entered in response to his master’s peremptory summons. Ralph watched him keenly, and had no manner of doubt that this man was the shepherd’s son, for the likeness to Angus Linklater was marked. An expressive little bit of pantomime followed; he could not hear the actual words spoken by Sir Roderick, but the insufferable tone and manner of the master and the expression of long-enduring but sorely tried patience on the face of the man, were quite sufficient to reveal much of their characters. Soon after this the visitors rose to go, and Sir Roderick having taken leave of them in a pleasant and courteous fashion, turned round on his wife the moment the door was closed, and apparently forgetting that they were not alone, hurled at her a torrent of abuse and scathing sarcasm, which made Ralph long to kick him down-stairs. It seemed to be about some salmon flies which had been left behind in London, Dugald having failed to find them in their right place, and imagining that they had been sent by his master with the first instalment of luggage brought to Edinburgh by the rest of the family some weeks ago.
In Lady Fenchurch’s manner of receiving her husband’s anger there was the calmness of long use, but her colour rose a little because of the injustice of the attack, and from a sort of shame that Ralph Denmead should witness the scene.
“I am sorry the mistake was made, but you forget we are not alone,” she said, seizing on a moment when for want of breath he ceased to swear.
He glanced towards the window with annoyance, and with a malice which his hearers perfectly understood, suddenly changed his line.
“Well, if it is not your fault then it must be Dugald’s fault. The d———d scoundrel shall leave the very day. I can get another man. I’m sick of the sight of him. He shall see that I’m not to be imposed upon by an idle fellow who doesn’t know his duties. He shall go, and with the worst character I ever gave to a servant. He came to me with a bad one, and I’ll add a telling bit to it.”
“I only wonder he has endured the situation so long.” said Christine, stung by the unfairness of this retaliation. “But you punish yourself more than you punish him; think what trouble you had before he came. The best servants must now and then make mistakes.”
“The best mistresses are supposed to look to the ways of their household,” he said maliciously, “and to have some regard for their husbands’ comfort. D——— you, say no more. I tell you the man shall go, and if he chooses to bring an action against me for giving him a worse character than he brought with him, I’ll show up his whole past life.”
With that he sauntered out of the room and Ralph, with some presence of mind, picked up the Kodak and began to talk to Charlie about the best position for taking a photograph of the Scott memorial just opposite. In a few minutes Christine slowly crossed the room and sat down in a low chair beside Charlie’s couch. Her white taper fingers played with the child’s light hair, but she was quite silent, sitting there listlessly, with the exhausted look which people wear when they have been battling with a strong wind.
“And she might have been Macneillie’s wife!” thought Ralph. “How can she endure this wretched existence!”
He was made so miserable by the sight of that worst tragedy of life—a mistaken marriage—and by the thought of the grievous pain and sorrow it had entailed, that he was quite unable to perceive how immensely both Christine and Macneillie had been developed by the consequences of that very mistake.