So Christmas came and went, the saddest Christmas I ever spent in all my life; but Christmas was not Christmas in Scotland, at that date. It had too strong a likeness to Episcopacy, yes, even to Popery, for the Calvinistic Scot; and savored of monkish festivals, and idolatrous symbols. I never saw a nativity pie in Glasgow, but those I made; and I really think they caused Robert a twinge of conscience to have them on the table. He certainly never tasted them. But the New Year was a modest kind of saturnalia, kept very much as the Calvinistic Dutch settlers of New York kept it in the days of the Dutch governors. It was a quiet day with us, and I could not help contrasting it with the previous New Year’s when we had our minister, and the Blackies and Brodies, and a few others to dinner, and all drank the New Year in, standing with full glasses. At the moment we did so, my conscience smote me. I was cold and trembled as the clock slowly struck twelve, for I had always been used to solemnly keep the Watch Night, and, if not on my knees in the chapel, I was certain to be praying in my own room. “The ill year comes in swimming,” says an old proverb, and I have proved its truth.
On the third day of the New Year, Robert’s mother called in the afternoon. Robert had gone to Stirling, and I was alone and much astonished to see her; but I said, as cheerfully as possible, “Good afternoon, Mother, and a Happy New Year to you.” Then, noticing that she was much agitated, I grew frightened about Robert, and said anxiously, “You look troubled, Mother; is anything wrong with Robert?”
“Is there anything right with the man now? I got this letter from him on New Year’s Day – a nice-like greeting it was to send me.”
I looked at her inquiringly, but did not speak, and she asked, “Do you know what is in it?”
“No; Robert did not tell me he had written to you at all.”
“Of course, he didn’t! Mother may be heartbroken with shame and sorrow, but you! You must not have your precious feelings hurt.”
“Robert,” I answered, “would not willingly hurt a hair of your head, Mother. I know that. If he has told you of more trouble, I wish to share it with you.”
“You shall,” she replied. “He writes me that he fears the creditors – sorrow take them! – are trying to attach the furniture of this house, and he asks me, if they do, to buy it for him, at their valuation. That is a modest request to make, on the first of the year!”
“Mother, no one can touch this furniture. It is mine. It was given to me before my marriage, made legally over to me in my antenuptial contract. The furniture, silver, napery, books, and every item in the house is especially and carefully named, as the property of Amelia Huddleston.”
“Where is the contract?”
“With John Forbes, the writer. Go and see it.”
“I am thinking that the English law makes all that was yours, on your marriage day, become Robert’s, and all that is Robert’s belongs to his creditors, until the creatures are satisfied. But I came on a kind errand, if you will take it so. I came to tell you that, though you have been the ruin of my son, I will not see you put on the street. I will buy the furniture and rent it to you.”
“I would not rent it from any one. It is mine. If I am robbed of it, I will not countenance the robbery, by renting it.”
“What will you do with yourself?”
“I shall come to no harm.”
“You can maybe find a boarding-house?”
“I shall not need one.”
“And there is your own home.”
“I shall not go there.”
“I think Robert might have told you of this sore strait.”
Then, in a sudden passion of anger, I cried out, “I think so, too. He treats me as if I was a doll or a dog. He tells me nothing. I have the cruelest part of every sorrow to bear – the part not sure. It is a shame! It is a great wrong! My heart is sick with anxiety that does no good. At the last, he has to tell. I cannot bear it!”
“All the women have it to bear.”
“Then shame to the men who lay on them such a useless burden.”
“We have a saying that women’s counsel is ill luck.”
“It is the want of it that is ill luck. I never saw that Huddersfield man but once, yet I told Robert to beware of him.”
“People say that you have been a gey, extravagant wife, Amelia.”
“People lie!” I answered hotly. “I have saved two hundred and eight pounds in eighteen months, out of the money given me for housekeeping expenses.”
“Then Robert has been extravagant, and given you too much money.”
“He gave me exactly what he gave you, for the same purpose. He told me so.”
“And you have saved two hundred and eight pounds! Well, well! Where is it?”
“In my bank.”
She looked at me not unkindly, and I said, “Mother! Mother! If you and Jessy would have only directed me, I would gladly have obeyed your desires. If you would have only stood by me, no one would have seen any faults in my way of dressing, and doing things. Amelia Barr is no different from Amelia Huddleston, and under that name every one loved and praised me.”
“Well, well, married women are little thought of – except by the one man – and not always much thought of by him.”
“Try to like me, Mother. I could so easily love you, and I will do all as you wish it,” and, as I spoke, I went to her side and lifted her hand.
“Please God,” she answered, “there is plenty of time to put wrong right. Will you give me a cup of tea now?”
“Forgive me, I forgot.”
“That is just it,” she answered. “You forget. You should have offered it to me, when I first came in.”
Then I did all I could to redeem the forgetting, and she said, “Take a cup yourself; it will do you good, and tomorrow send for John Forbes.”
“I do not trust John Forbes.”
“Neither do I,” she answered quickly, “it is little he knows of the English law about any matter. What will you do then?”
“Go to a Councillor, who never yet deceived me.”
“I understand, but I’m not sure if that is right, Amelia. Going to God about chairs and tables, and the like of such things is not at all respectful.”
“We are told to pray about our bread and clothing, because ‘God knows we have need of such things.’”
“Your own way, be it. Tell Robert I am willing to help – if needs be.”
“There will be no need, Mother.”
“You’re a queer woman.” She rose as she spoke, and said it would soon be dark, and she must hurry, for lots of drunken men and women would be on the streets seeing it was the New Year. Then I fastened her cloak and furs, and said,
“Kiss me, Mother.”
A look of the uttermost discomfiture and confusion came into her face. She hesitated, and fingered her bonnet strings, but finally bent her head slightly, and allowed me to kiss her. Then suddenly I recollected that the family kiss was a thing practically unknown in Scotch