At seven precisely Mrs. Campbell re-entered the dining-room. Isabel was already there, and Jepson was bringing in the broth. Neither Robert nor Christina was present, and she wondered a little, but asked no questions. In a few moments Theodora took her place, and without remark permitted Jepson to serve her. But she was evidently in trouble, and she did not touch the food before her. At length Mrs. Campbell asked:
"Where is Robert? Is he not ready for dinner?"
"He is asleep. I suppose he is not ready for dinner."
"What time did he return home?"
"Very early. He said he was sleepy. He is always sleepy. I fear he is ill, a healthy man cannot always be needing sleep."
"The Campbells, all of them, are famous for their ability to sleep. They can sleep at all hours, and in any place—a four-inch-wide plank would suffice them for a sofa. They can order a sleep whenever they desire, and it comes. It is very remarkable."
"Very," answered Theodora, in a tone of unavoidable contempt.
"I have heard people say it was a great gift, and it is quite a family gift."
"I hope my little David will not inherit it," said Theodora.
"There is nothing of the Campbell family about the boy," replied Mrs. Campbell.
Theodora did not say she was glad, but she looked the words, and her expression of satisfaction was annoying to both Isabel and her mother. The former said with petulant decision:
"I can sleep at any time I wish. I think this family trait is a great and peculiar blessing."
"Circumstances may sometimes make it so, Isabel," answered Theodora, "but I would rather wake and suffer, than sink into animal unconsciousness half my life. Robert has slept, or pretended to sleep, twelve hours out of the last twenty-four, and he does not even dream."
"Dream!" cried Mrs. Campbell in disgust, "dream, I hope not! Only fools dream. My children go to bed for the purpose of sleeping. Dream indeed! The Campbells have good sense, and they don't lose it when they sleep."
"Oh, but I think dreaming is one of the most sensible things we do. The soul is comforted by dreaming, instructed and warned by dreaming. I should feel spiritually dead, if the blessed, prophesying dreams failed to visit me."
"I wonder where Christina is taking dinner," said Mrs. Campbell. She refused to continue a conversation so senseless and disagreeable, and her way of doing so, was not only to ignore Theodora's topic, but also to introduce a subject which she considered important and interesting. And of course Christina's dinner was a matter that put dreaming out of court and question.
Isabel thought she was dining with the Brodies, and Mrs. Campbell said, "In that case she ought to have sent a message to her family."
"She is so occupied, mother, she forgets. We must make some allowances at this time."
"Of course, Isabel. I expect to do so."
Then the door was suddenly thrown open and Robert entered. His face was dark, he was biting his thumbnail, and his eyes were full of a dull fire. He had not a word for any one but Jepson, whom he ordered to remove the broth. "The house smells of it," he said with an air of disgust. He ate what dinner he took without speaking, an act Gothic, almost brutal, when it can be avoided, but none of the three women cared to break the silence, lest they might turn silence into visible, audible anger.
Theodora made a pretence of eating, but it was only a pretence and she left the room as soon as the cloth was drawn. Robert did not in any way notice her departure, but he began a grumbling kind of conversation with his mother, as soon as the three Campbells were alone. He said he was worn out with the expense and rioting anent Christina's marriage. It had been fine dinners, and suppers, and fooleries of all kinds for weeks, and more weeks, and money wasting away like water running into sand. He saw no good coming of it. He was glad the end was in sight, etc., etc.—grumble, grumble, grumble, his voice never lifted above a deep, sulky monotone, his face dark with frowns and discontent.
He was so ill-tempered Mrs. Campbell thought it best to leave him alone with his cigar. It seemed better to worry out her anxieties with Isabel, who, however, was not in a mood to talk them away. "I am so depressed, mother," she complained. "I hardly know what I am saying. I feel as if I had a great sorrow. The room is dark, the air heavy, the whole house feels full of trouble. It is crowded, too. With a little effort I feel that I could see the crowd. Do you understand?"
"My God! Isabel, control yourself. We want no Second Sight here. The Argyle Campbells are great seers, and you must close your ears to their whisperings, and whatever sights are under your eye-balls, deny them vision. You must, you must! For, as your grandfather, Ivan Campbell, used to say, 'the Second Sight, children, isna a blessing, it is aye dool and sorrow, or ill chance it shows you.'"
"Mother, I must tell you the truth. I am unhappy about Christina."
"So am I."
"She ought to have sent us a message. She would, had it been possible. Oh, mother, what or who prevented her?"
"Perhaps she did. Have you asked Scot?"
"No, but if any message had been sent by him he would have told Jepson at once, and Jepson heard our conversation about her absence at the dinner table, yet he made no remark."
"What do you fear?"
"My fear has no form. That is what frightens me. If I knew——"
"You are nervous, Isabel, very nervous. She left home well, and in good spirits."
"I never saw her in better health, or finer spirits."
"Do you not remember, that she once stayed at Colonel Allison's till near midnight, without sending us any message? We were in a fright about her at that time."
"But you commanded her never to do the like again."
"Christina has not obeyed my commands very particularly of late. They do not seem important to her."
"She has had so much to do, and she knew Sir Thomas would not be in Glasgow to-night. If I knew she was well and safe, I should be glad she was not here, for this is an unhappy house with Robert in the devil's own temper, and Dora looking like the grave."
"Dora makes Robert ill-tempered. It is all her fault, and we have to suffer for it."
"She evidently suffers also."
"She deserves to suffer."
"Suppose we send for Scot. He must be in the stable yet."
"As you like."
In a quarter of an hour Scot stood within the dining-room door respectfully indignant at the summons and the delay it would cause him. He was rather glad the ladies were anxious and quite in the mood to tell anything he thought might be disagreeable.
"Where did you take Miss Christina first of all this morning, Scot?" asked Mrs. Campbell.
"To the florist's shop on Buchanan Street. She bought a posy of daffy-down-dillys and came out with them in her hand."
"Where next?"
"To Madame Barnard's. She didna stop five minutes there, but Madame cam' to the doorstep wi' her, and bid Miss Christina good-bye and wished her a' the good luck in the round world itsel'."
"Then?"
"She told me then to go back to the stable, but to be sure and come for her at four o'clock. I asked where I was to come, and she laughed pleasantly and said, 'Come to Bailie Brodie's,' and gave me the Crescent, and the number o' the house forbye."
"Did you go to Bailie Brodie's at four o'clock?"
"I did that same thing, ma'am."
"Well?"
"A servant lass told me Miss Campbell hadna been there that day, nor that week. So I drove home again, and at half after five I went to the train for Mr. Campbell, but I missed him. He had come by an early train, while I was at Brodies'."
"Did you notice any one speak to Miss Campbell?"
"No one."
"Did she take the right way to Brodies'?"
"She took the best way—up Sauchiehall Street."
"That will do, Scot."
Scot shut the door, and the two women looked with troubled eyes into each other's faces. Mrs. Campbell then turned to the clock and said, "It is on the stroke of nine, Isabel. We will wait until ten; then I shall speak to your brother."
The hour went miserably, almost silently away, and then Mrs. Campbell went to her son. He treated her fears with contemptuous indifference. "It is like you women," he said, "you always make a mountain out of a molehill. If any one of the women in this house knows how to take care of herself, it is Christina Campbell! Go to your beds, and tell Jepson to sit up for her."
"Robert, do you understand that she said she was going to the Brodies', and then did not go?"
"Who said she was not there?"
"One of the Brodie servant lasses."
"Tush!She went there, no doubt, but did not stay long enough to acquaint that particular servant with her visit. I have no doubt Marion Brodie and Christina went off somewhere together, and they are likely together at this hour."
"I never thought of that, Robert. Indeed it is very likely they went to Netta Galbraith, who is to be second bridesmaid."
"Of course, and they are having a mock marriage in order to practise their parts. I hope we shall have no more marriages in the family, they are ruinously expensive, and make nothing but misery and anxiety."
Mrs. Campbell sighed, and lifted her eyes heaven-ward, but she did not remain with her son. She was really afraid to leave Isabel, for she looked almost distracted, and on the point of vision. "And I will not have it," she whispered to herself, "no, I will not. There shall be no prophecy of calamity in this house, whether from the dead or the living—not if mortal woman can help it."
She opened the dining-room door to this thought, and Isabel stayed her rapid walk and asked anxiously, "Well, mother?"
"Your brother says there is no occasion to worry. He made out a very clear case of the circumstance," and she explained his supposition concerning Christina's and Marion Brodie's visit together to Netta Galbraith.
Isabel shook her head. "That is not it," she answered positively.
"He advised us to go to bed."
"I will not until Christina returns, or Robert does something to clear up her failure to come."
"How do you feel?"
"Unquiet and unhappy. Mother, something extraordinary has happened."
"I hope you are not seeing things."
"No. The 'visiting' is past—but it will come again."
"It must not! It must not! Deny it every time! Oh, Isabel—if anything should happen to put off the marriage, whatever should we do?"
"Bear it."
"The talk of it! The wonder of it! The mortification of it!"
"Mother, why are you fearing such a misfortune? Robert says all is right. You have always believed Robert's word."
"Yes, yes! Robert knows, Robert feels, when he is in the right mood, but to-night he is in a bad mood—cross and evil as Satan."
Dismally they talked together for another hour, and then Robert joined them. He had caught fear from some source, and he asked for a list of such places as Christina was likely to visit. Then he called a cab and went first to Glover's Theatre. He was just in time to see the exit of the Box crowd, but Christina was not among them. Suddenly the consequences of a delayed marriage struck him like a buffet in his face. The loss of money—the loss of prestige—the talk—the newspapers! Oh, the thing was impossible, and he tried to put the apprehension of it away with a stamp of his foot. He was equally unsuccessful wherever he called. No one had seen Christina that day, and he finally went home puzzled, and even anxious, but sure that her unaccountable absence was the result of some misunderstanding that would be cleared up when morning came. He insisted on the family retiring, but told Jepson to leave the gas burning, and be ready to open the door if called upon to do so. Then he also went upstairs, but sleep was far from him. Theodora appeared to be asleep, but though her eyes were closed, her heart was waking. One kind word would have brought him all the comfort love could give. He was touched, however, by the sweetness and peace that brooded over her, and by the calm and restful atmosphere pervading her room. He stood a moment at the side of the apparently sleeping woman, but was reluctant—perhaps ashamed—to awaken her. David slept in her dressing-room and he went to the child's cot and looked at the beautiful boy. When he was asleep, the likeness to his father was very evident, and Robert noticed it.
"I was once as innocent and as fair as he is. I must have looked just like him," and sitting down by a table he held his head in his hands, and thought of them, and of Christina's delay, listening always for the carriage, the step, the ring at the door, that never came.
The next morning the whole family were late and unrested. Jepson was sorting the mail as Isabel came downstairs, and she asked anxiously, "What time is it, Jepson?"
"Nine o'clock, miss. Here is a letter for you, miss."
She saw at once it was from Christina, and she took it eagerly, and ran back to her own room with it. Trembling from head to feet, she broke the seal and read:
My dear Sister:I was married to-day at half-past eleven to Jamie Rathey. I met him twelve days ago, and we went into the picture gallery, and sat there all day talking, and I found out that I loved Jamie, and did not love Sir Thomas. I promised to marry him, and we rented a nice floor and furnished it very prettily, and hired two servants, and so after the marriage ceremony, went to our own home for lunch. Do not blame me, Isabel. I have never been happy in all my life, and I want to be happy, and I shall be happy with Jamie. I have sent all the gifts Sir Thomas gave me back, and written him a letter. He will forgive me, and I know you will. Mother will forbid you to mention me, and she will never forgive. I know Robert will feel hurt, but he has no cause. I begged him to secure the fish that was on the hook for him, and he would not. I thought all well over, and I did not see why I should any longer sacrifice myself for the Campbells. For twenty-eight years I was miserable—child and woman. Nobody loved me but Jamie. I had nothing other girls and women had. But I am happy at last! Happy at last! Oh, Isabel, be glad for me. I will write to you every month, but you need not try to find me out. You could not. You might as well look for a needle in a hay-stack. Dear Isabel, do not forget me. Your loving sister,Christina Rathey.
My dear Sister:
I was married to-day at half-past eleven to Jamie Rathey. I met him twelve days ago, and we went into the picture gallery, and sat there all day talking, and I found out that I loved Jamie, and did not love Sir Thomas. I promised to marry him, and we rented a nice floor and furnished it very prettily, and hired two servants, and so after the marriage ceremony, went to our own home for lunch. Do not blame me, Isabel. I have never been happy in all my life, and I want to be happy, and I shall be happy with Jamie. I have sent all the gifts Sir Thomas gave me back, and written him a letter. He will forgive me, and I know you will. Mother will forbid you to mention me, and she will never forgive. I know Robert will feel hurt, but he has no cause. I begged him to secure the fish that was on the hook for him, and he would not. I thought all well over, and I did not see why I should any longer sacrifice myself for the Campbells. For twenty-eight years I was miserable—child and woman. Nobody loved me but Jamie. I had nothing other girls and women had. But I am happy at last! Happy at last! Oh, Isabel, be glad for me. I will write to you every month, but you need not try to find me out. You could not. You might as well look for a needle in a hay-stack. Dear Isabel, do not forget me. Your loving sister,
Christina Rathey.
And Isabel cried and wrung her hands and said softly, but from her very heart, "I am glad, I am glad! You did right, Christina! Yes, you did! You did! And Isabel will stand by you till the last. She will! She will!"
With tears still on her white cheeks, she went down to the dining-room. Robert and his mother were at the table, and evidently not on agreeable terms. "Jepson thought you had a letter from Christina," said Mrs. Campbell, "and I am astonished you did not bring it to us, at once."
"I thought it would be better, to see first what news it contained."
"Well? Can you not speak?"
Then Isabel put the letter into her mother's hand.
And in a few minutes there was a cry like that of a woman wounded and crushed to death. With frantic passion Mrs. Campbell threw the letter at her son, and then with bitter execrations assailed the child she accused of killing her.
"Mother, mother! Do be quiet!" pleaded Isabel.
"She has killed me! I shall die of shame! I shall die! She has broken my heart!"
Robert read the letter through, his face growing darker and darker as he read. When he had finished, he threw it on the fire, and Isabel rushed to the grate and rescued it, though it was smoked, and browned, and mostly illegible. But she clasped its tinder and ashes in her hands, cried over them, and finally left the room with the precious relics clasped to her heart.
"Have you gone crazy too?" called her mother.
"Let her alone!" said Robert.
"And pray what is the matter with you?"
"I am ashamed of the way you are behaving."
"It is your sister of whom you must be ashamed. Her disgraceful marriage will kill me."
"It is the result of your own doing, and withholding."
"I am to bear the blame, of course. Poor mother!"
"You never gave her any happiness, and when she got the opportunity she gave it to herself. That was natural."
"She had all the happiness I had."
"You had your husband, your family, your house, your servants, and your social duties. You were quite happy, but none of these things made happiness for your daughters. They wanted the pleasures of youth—gay company, gay clothing, travel and lovers, and none of these things you gave them. I was often very sorry for them."
"Then why did you not help them yourself?"
"Do you remember the year I begged you to take your daughters to Edinburgh and London, and offered to pay all expenses, and you would not do it?"
"I did not wish to go to Edinburgh and London."
"No, you wanted to go to Campbelton, and so you made your daughters go with you, though they hated the place. There Christina met this low fellow whom she married. She had no other lover. To the Campbelton rabble you sacrificed my sisters from their babyhood."
"Robert Campbell! How dare you call my kindred 'rabble'?"
"The name is good enough. Do you think I have forgotten how they treated my wife's clothing, and our rooms?"
"What are you bringing up that old story for?"
"It comes in naturally to-day, and I have not forgotten it. For your cruelty at that time, you are rightly served. Christina has avenged Theodora."
He flung the last words at her over his shoulder as he left the room. She had no opportunity to answer them, indeed she was not able to do so. It seemed to her as if she had been stricken dumb from head to feet; as if her world was being swept away from her, and she could not protest against it. Isabel had left her in anger and opposition. Robert in reproach. As for Christina, she had smitten her on every side, and gone away without contrition and without reproof. And Robert's few words had been keener than a sword, for they were edged with Truth, and Truth drove them to her very soul.
But she had no thought of surrendering any foothold of her position. She only wanted time to consider herself, for this solid defection of son and daughters had come like a cataclysm out of a clear sky, unforeseen, entire, and apparently complete in its misery. Her first resolve was to go to Theodora, and have the circumstance "out" with her. But her limbs were as heavy as her heart, and when with difficulty she reached the door of the room, she heard her son talking to his wife. And it had been brought home to her that morning that Robert could not be depended on, therefore she must risk no more uncertain encounters. Theodora alone, she did not fear; but Theodora and Robert in alliance meant certain defeat.
So she stumbled back to the sofa and sat down. Nature ordered her to lie down, but she flatly refused. "This is a critical time," she said to herself, "and Margaret Campbell, there is to be no lying down. You be to keep on the defensive." But she rang for Jepson, and told him to tell Miss Campbell her mother wanted her. In a few minutes Isabel answered the summons, and as soon as she entered the room she cried out, "Oh, mother, mother, mother! what is the matter? You are ill."
"Ay, Isabel, I am ill, and it would be a miracle if I were not ill." The words came slowly and with effort, and Isabel was terrified by her mother's face, for it was gray as ashes, and had on it an expression of terror, as if she had looked on Death as he passed her by.
"Lie down, mother. You ought to lie down."
"Get me a glass—a big glass—of red Burgundy."
Isabel obeyed, and when she had drunk it, she said in something of her natural voice and manner, "Burgundy is the strong wine. It is full of iron, and we require plenty of iron in our blood. In the common crowd, it goes to their hands, and helps them to work hard, but in the Campbell clans, it goes to the hearts of both men and women."
"And makes them hard-hearted."
"Hard to their own, and worse to their foes—and to strangers. Oh, Isabel, Isabel, this is the blackest day I have ever seen! What shall we do?"
"Bear it. Others have borne the like. We can."
"I can never look my friends in the face again."
"Never mind either friends or foes. In nine days they will have said their say. Let them."
"Yesterday at this hour, I was the proudest and happiest woman in Glasgow. To-day I am——"
"The bravest woman in Glasgow. Defy your trouble, as you always do. Christina's conduct is most unusual, and few will understand it—they can't. But, oh mother, stand by your daughter! Tell every one, that when she found out she loved Mr. Rathey better than Sir Thomas Wynton, she did what was honorable and womanly, and that you admire her truth and sincerity, though of course, somewhat disappointed. Such words as these will silence the ill-natured, and satisfy the friendly. You will say them, mother?"
"Something like them, no doubt."
"And we must find Christina, and you will forgive her, and protect her?"
"I will do no such things."
"It would stop people's tongues."
"Their tongues may clash till doomsday, ere I will stop them that gate. Never name the wicked woman to me again. I do not know her any more, and I do not want to know, whether she is living or dead, in plenty or poverty, sick or well, happy or miserable. She is out o' this world, as far as I am concerned.Sure!"
"What did Robert say?"
"Threw the whole blame on mysel'—evil be to him!"
"Mother!"
"Yes, evil be to the son who condemns his mother, whether she be right or wrong."
"He will not get Sir Thomas to invest money in the works now, I fear. That will trouble him."
"Weel! The Campbell furnaces have kept blazing so far, without Wynton siller to help them, and their fires willna go out for the want o' it."
"I wonder how Sir Thomas will take his disappointment."
"It is untelling how any man will take anything. You couldna speculate as to how Robert Campbell would take a plate o' parritch; he might like them, and he might send them to the Back o' Beyond. All men are made that way, and we poor women can only put up wi' their tempers and tantrums. God help us!"
At this moment Jepson entered with a basket filled with moss and purple pansies. A card was attached bearing the following message:
"Sir Thomas Wynton sends sincere sympathy, and kind regards to Mrs. and Miss Campbell. He will not intrude on their grief at present, but will call in a few days."
"Sir Thomas Wynton sends sincere sympathy, and kind regards to Mrs. and Miss Campbell. He will not intrude on their grief at present, but will call in a few days."
Isabel laid her face against the flowers, Mrs. Campbell read the card with pleasure, and a slight flush of color came back to her cheeks.
"This bit of card will give me the upper hand of a' the clashing jades, who come here wondering and sighing, and doubting and fearing. I shall shake it in their faces, and bid them tak' notice that Sir Thomas Wynton is still in the family as it were. And I shall make one other observe anent the marriage failure, that Sir Thomas will take as personal, any and all unpleasant remarks concerning the Campbells."
"When Sir Thomas pays his visit——"
"You be to see that Dora is present. The creature has a wonderful way o' saying consoling words. I hae noticed that all men find her pleasant and satisfactory. She has the trick o' speaking just what they want to hear—the jade!"
"Do speak decently of Dora, mother. She is Robert's wife."
"More's the pity. God help the poor man! Little pleasure he has wi' her."
"It is not her fault."
"I see how it is—she will lead you wrong next."
"No one can lead me wrong. I wonder if Sir Thomas went to see Robert to-day."
"I think Robert would go and see him. We may wonder all day, but we will know, when Robert comes home; that is, if his temper will let him talk.Dod!but he is a true Campbell—flesh, blood, and bone."
"When Robert was in love with Dora, love made him a kind, good-tempered man."
"Kind men are not profitable in a house; they give where they ought to grip; and it is a sma' share o' this world you will get wi' good temper. You be to threep, and threaten for what you want, and the fires in the furnaces would soon burn low, if there was a kind, good-tempered man watching o'er them."
"Now you are talking like yourself, mother. You will soon put your trouble under your feet."
"Weel, I am not going to sit down on the ash-heap wi' it, as the parfect man o' Uz did—if there ever was such a man—which I am doubting; all the mair, because nobody I ever heard of could tell me in what country on the face o' the globe a place called Uz might be found. If there isna a place called Uz, it is mair than likely there never was a man called Job."
"The Bible says there was."
"Ay, in a parable. The Bible is aye ready to drop into a parable."
"Mother, if you would try and sleep now."
"I will not. I would get sick if I did. I am on watch at present, for I am not up to mark, and I will not gie sickness the fine opportunity o' sleep. If Robert comes hame reasonable, I'll have my talk out wi' him. I am not going to suffer his contradictions, not if I know it."
Fortunately Robert came home early, and was in a civil and communicative mood. He said "he had been to see Sir Thomas, and had been treated in the most considerate manner."
"What did he say about Christina?" asked Isabel timidly.
"He would hear no wrong of her. He said she had written him a beautiful letter, a most honorable letter, a letter he would prize to his dying hour. He thought she had done right, both for herself and him. He told me she had returned all his gifts, and he had directed the jeweler to hold them for her further orders. He thinks she will be sure to call there, in order to find out if they have been given to him, and he has left a note with the jewels, begging her to keep them as a sign of their friendship, and a reminder of the pleasant hours they have spent together. A most unusual and gentlemanly way of looking at things, I must say."
"Will he take a share in the works now?" asked Mrs. Campbell.
"I do not know. He is going abroad as soon as he has rearranged his affairs. He said he would call on you in a few days."
"He sent us some lovely flowers," said Isabel.
"He is a most wasteful man."
"He sent mother and me pansies in a lovely basket lined with moss; they were to say for him he would 'remember' us. And he sent Dora the same basket, filled with white hyacinths. Oh, how sweet they were!"
"And what did they say?"
"I looked for their meaning, and found it was 'unobtrusive loveliness.' You see Dora rarely came into the parlor, when he called."
"That may be so, but he had no business to notice her absence. 'Unobtrusive' indeed, and 'loveliness.' Some men don't know when they go too far."
"He meant all in kindness," said Mrs. Campbell, "and I hope he will call."
Sir Thomas kept his promise. Three days after Christina had so mercilessly jilted him, he called on her mother and sister. But by this time he had taken a still more exalted view of his false love's conduct. He told Mrs. Campbell, that it was not sympathy, but congratulations, that were due her. Was she not the proud mother of a noble daughter, whom neither rank nor wealth could lure from the paths of truth and honor? Of a daughter who held love as beyond price, and who would not wrong either his or her own heart. He waxed eloquent on this subject, and was tearful over the lost treasure of her noble daughter's affection. And Mrs. Campbell smiled grimly, and wondered "if he really thought she was silly enough to believe he believed in any such balderdash."
Isabel certainly believed in him with all her heart, and was never weary of his chivalrous, exalted platitudes; and like all men in love trouble, Sir Thomas was never weary of talking of his wounded heart, and lost bride. So Isabel quickly became his favorite confidant. She listened patiently and with evident interest; she helped him to praise Christina, and when he got to wiping his eyes, Isabel was ready to weep with him.
In a couple of weeks he began to talk of his intended travel, and on this subject Isabel was sincerely inquisitive and enthusiastic. The strongest desire of her heart was to travel in strange countries, and she asked so many questions about the trip Sir Thomas proposed taking, that he brought his maps and guidebooks, and showed her his route down the Mediterranean to Greece, up the Adriatic to Montenegro and Herzegovina, over the Dalmatian mountains, through Austria and Hungary to Buda-Pesth, northward to Prague, Berlin, and Hamburg, into the Baltic, and so by Zealand and the Skager Rack across the North Sea to England again. Oh, what a heaven it opened up to the reserved, solitary woman!
It was impossible for Isabel to hide her delight, and so when this trip had been thoroughly talked over, he came one wet afternoon with the books and maps explanatory of his last journey, which had been altogether on the American continent. He showed her where he had hunted big game in the forests of the Hudson Bay Company, and he described to her the old cities of French Canada. Many afternoons were spent in talking about New York, Chicago, St. Louis, San Francisco, and the wonders of California, Alaska, and Texas. Finally, he carried her to Brazil and Cuba, to the West Indies and to the beautiful Bermudas.
In these parlor wanderings, she lived a life far, far apart from the wet, dull streets of Glasgow, and the monotonous ennui and strife of Traquair House; besides which advantage, both Sir Thomas and herself lost in such pleasant loiterings the first sore pangs of their bereaved hearts. For obvious reasons, both Robert and Mrs. Campbell tolerated these—to them—tiresome recollections. Robert considered the baronet yet as a possible business contingent; and Mrs. Campbell silenced all doubtful sympathizers with remarks about his friendship, and his constant visits. One Sabbath she managed affairs so cleverly, that he even went to Dr. Robertson's church, sat in their pew, and returned home to dine with them. The next day he started on his two years' travel, promising to write Isabel descriptions of all the wonderfuls he saw.
On the night of the same day, Robert called together the women of his household and in the bluntest words told them the strictest economy was hence-forward to be observed. He said the wastrie of the past three or four months was unbelievable, and it had to be made up by a steady curtailment of all household expenses. Then turning to his mother he asked, "in what direction she thought it best to begin?"
She answered promptly: "You are right, Robert. The expenses of the house have been very extravagant, and retrenchment is both wise and necessary. I think in the first place we ought to reduce the number of servants. One man can be spared from the stable, and the second man in the house is not a necessity. McNab must do with one kitchen girl, instead of two; and your son no longer needs a nurse. A boy of his age ought to wait on himself."
"David has not needed a nurse for a long time."
"Whodid you say?"
"David."
"I ordered you not to call the boy by that name, in my presence."
"It is his baptismal name. He has no other name."
"Call him Nebuchadnezzar, or Satan, or any name you like in your own room, but in my presence——"
"His name is always David. I was going to remind you that Ducie has been a general servant in the house for many months. She has assisted your chambermaid, helped McNab in the kitchen, and Jepson about the table. I think she has been the most effective maid in the house."
"She may have been chambermaid, cook, and butler rolled into one, but she is not wanted here, and the sooner she finds her way back to Kendal the better every one will like it."
Then Theodora quietly gathered the silks with which she was working, and without noise or hurry left the room. She heard her mother-in-law's scornful laugh, and her husband's angry voice as she closed the door, but she allowed neither to detain her in an atmosphere so highly charged with hatred and opposition.
In about an hour Robert strode into her parlor, and with a lowering face and peevish voice asked: "Why did you go away?"
"There was no further reason for my presence, and more than one reason why it was better for me to go away."
"It is evident you feel no interest in the curtailment of my expenses."
"I am sure that curtailment is not necessary. You gave your shareholders a dividend of ten-per-cent a short time ago, and you are always complaining that the business is too large for you to carry alone. And I do not see that there is the smallest curtailment in your personal expenses."
"Pray what have you to do with my personal expenses?"
"I speak of them because I personally have no expenses from which to draw conclusions."
"I suppose you have as many personal expenses as any other woman. My mother thinks you have more."
"Your mother grudges me the little food I eat. How much money have you given me during the six years I have been your wife?"
"I have paid all your bills."
"What kind of bills?"
"All kinds."
"No. You have paid for a physician when I was sick—nothing else. I have bought little new clothing, and what I have bought I paid for."
"You did not require new clothing."
"When it was to renew and alter, I paid all expenses with my own money."
"You! You have no money!All the money you have is mine. I have allowed you to use it for your personal expenses. Many husbands would not have done so."
"It was my money, Robert. I made it before I even knew your name."
"It was all my money the moment you were my wife."
"It is all gone now. I had to borrow a sovereign from Ducie."
"Good gracious! What an absurdity! What did you want with a sovereign? You have credit in half-a-dozen shops."
"I wanted money, not credit. I cannot buy stamps, stationery, music, medicine, and many other things with credit. And the church wants cash always. I cannot pay church dues with credit. When I borrowed a sovereign from Ducie I wanted a prescription of Dr. Fleming's made up."
"You have credit at Starkie's."
"Starkie does not make up prescriptions. I had to send to Fraser's and I have no credit at Fraser's."
Then he threw a sovereign on the table and said: "Pay Ducie at once. I do not want her chattering all over Glasgow and Kendal."
"So you have decided to send Ducie away?"
"Yes."
"She is all that is left me of my old happy life. Oh, Robert, Robert! have some pity on me."
"My mother and sister are giving up three servants. Surely you can relinquish one."
"It is Scot in the stable, who gives up his helper. It is Jepson in the house, it is McNab in the kitchen. None of these three servants affect your mother's and sister's comfort in the least. Ducie is everything to David and myself. She keeps our rooms clean and comfortable, brings my breakfast, waits on me when I am sick, walks out with David when I am not able to do so, and in many other ways makes things more bearable. I beg you, Robert, not to send her away."
"Then the other three servants must also remain."
"You are not poor, you only feel poor because you spent so much on Christina."
"Who was a wicked failure, and mother says you were the prompter of her sinful conduct."
"Me! I had no more to do with her final choice than your mother had. I did not even know the name of the man she married."
"But you talked sentiment, poetry, honor, and such stuff to her."
"Never. She would not have understood me if I had."
"What do you mean?"
"What I say, Christina turned sentiment, poetry, honor, and such stuff, into laughter. She saw only one side of any person or thing—the comic side. If she could mimic you, she partly understood you; if she could not mimic you, then you were uninteresting and unknowable. But Christina was as kind to me as she could be to any one. She is gone, and I have no friend left here."
"Am I not your friend?"
"You are my husband. I have had many friends, none of them were the least like you."
"A poor man between his mother and his wife is in a desperate fix."
"He is, because he has no business to be in such a position. It is an unnatural one—a forbidden one. Until a man is willing to give up his mother, he has no right to take a wife. Under all conditions it must be one or the other; the two existing happily together are so rare, that they are merely exceptions that prove the rule."
"It would have been very hard on my mother, had I given her up for a wife."
"Yet your mother took her husband away from his mother, and so backward goes it, to the Eden days of every race. And you also made the same mistake that Rebekah told Isaac she was weary of her life for—you married a stranger, and because of this, she is continually asking, as Rebekah did, What good is my life to me with this daughter of Heth under my roof? And also she has made our lives of no good to us!"
"Is it not my duty to love and honor my mother? Is it not right?"
"It is your duty, and your right also, to love and honor the wife whom you have persuaded to leave her father and mother, her home and friends."
"Then the right of the mother, and the right of the wife, are both positive?"
"So positive that both cannot be served in the same place, and at the same time; for the one right will be broken to pieces against the other right, since there is no community of feeling between the family claim of the mother and the moral and natural claim of the wife."
"Then what is a man to do?"
"'A man shall leave father and mother, and cleave unto his wife.' That is the imperative, and ultimate decision of the God and Father of us all. And if it were not the nearly universal rule, what miserable, loveless children would be born, and how the jealous, quarrelling families of the earth would have become hateful in God's sight. We have only to consider our own case. Until your mother came between us, we loved each other truly, and were very happy."
"A man with a big business, Dora, has something else to think of than love."
"In his hours of business, yes; but in his hours of relaxation, his love ought to rest and refresh him." There was a movement in the next room, and Theodora went there with light, swift steps. Robert was walking moodily up and down, and through the open door he saw her kneeling by a large chair, and David's arms were round her neck, and she was telling him he must now go to bed. "Were you tired, that you fell asleep here?" she asked, and he answered: "I was waiting for you, mother, to hear my prayer, and kiss me good-night; and the sleep came to me."
Then she sat down, and David knelt at her knees, and said the Lord's prayer, adding to it a petition for blessing on his father, his grandmother Campbell, his aunts Isabel and Christina, his grandfather and grandmother Newton, and his dear mother, with a final petition that God would love David and make him a good boy. It was a scene so sweet and natural that Robert stood still in respect to the simple rite, vaguely wondering in what forgotten life he had spoken words like them.
Then Theodora called Ducie, and gave the child into her care, but as he was leaving the room he saw his father, and running to him, he said: "Father, kiss David too." Robert's heart stirred to the eager request, and he lifted the little lad in his arms, and actually did kiss him. In that moment the pretty face with its glances so free, so bright, so seeking, without guile or misgiving, impressed itself on Robert's memory forever. Even after the child had gone away, he felt as if he still held him, and the consciousness of the soft, rosy cheek against his own was so vivid that he put his hand up and stroked his cheek until the sensation left him.
He was really in a great strait of feeling, and, if he could not do right of himself, was in a strait, out of which there was no other decent way. He looked longingly at Theodora, who had resumed her work, and her pale, passionless face touched him by its complete contrast to the face he had just left—the hard, gossipy, pitiless, scornful face of his mother. He could not forget his son's prayer. He knew it well, he himself was never one to prompt, nor to correct, so it was certain that Theodora had taught the boy to pray for those who constantly spoke evil of her. He resolved to tell his mother of this incident, and again he tried to read the feeling on his wife's face. It was not depression, it was not sorrow, it was far from anger, there was nothing of indifference in it, and nothing restless or uncertain. He did not understand it. How could such a man as Robert understand a life of pure piety and intelligence, working its way upward through love and pain.
He sat down by her and touched her hand, but said only one word: "Theodora!" She lifted her sad, lovely eyes to his. "Theodora!" he said again, and she laid her hand in his, and whispered "Robert!" Then his kiss brought back the color to her cheeks and the light to her eyes, and when he vowed that he loved her and David more dearly than any other mortals, she believed him; and found sweet words to excuse all his faults, and to tell him he was "loved with all her heart."
Was she a foolish woman to forgive so easily, and so much? It was because she loved so much that she could forgive so much, and of such loving, foolish hearts is the Kingdom of Heaven. For no love is so swift and welcome as returning love. Even the angels desire to witness the reunion of hearts that have been kept apart by fault, or fate, and as for Theodora, she had the courage to be happy in this promise of better days, knowing that she came not to this house by accident, but that it was the very place God had chosen for her. Besides which, the heart has its arguments as well as the head, and at this hour she was judging Robert by her love, and not by her understanding.
For a few days Theodora clung tenaciously to her hope, but it had only told her a flattering tale. Robert had gradually fallen below the plane—moral and intellectual—on which his wife lived; and it was only by a painful endeavor, that he returned to the Robert of six years previously. His wife's conversation, though bright and clever, was not as pleasant to him as his mother's biting gossip about the house and the callers; and he could assume a slippered, careless toilet in her presence, that made him uncomfortable when at the side of the always prettily gowned Theodora. For when such a circumstance happened, he involuntarily felt compelled to apologize, and he did not think apologies belonged to his position as master of the house. He had lost his taste for music, unless there was some stranger present whom he desired to make envious or astonished; in fact he had descended to that commonplace stage of love, which values a wife or a mistress only according to the value set upon her by outsiders—by their envy and jealousy of himself, as the clever winner of such an extraordinary artist, or beauty. Consequently, in a time of economy, forbidding the entertainment of strangers, Theodora's hours of supremacy were likely to be few and far between.
But this fact did not trouble Robert. He came home from the works tired of the business world, and the household chatter of his mother was a relief that cost him no surrender of any kind. Yet had Theodora attempted the same rôle, he would have seen and felt at once its malice and injustice, and despised her for destroying his ideals and illusions. Thus, even her excellencies were against her. Again, Mrs. Campbell disguised much of the real character of her abuse, in the picturesqueness of the Scotch patois; nothing she said in this form sounded as wicked and cruel as it would have done in plain English. But this disguise would have been a ridiculous effort in Theodora, and could only have subjected her to scorn and laughter; while it was native to her enemy, and a vivid and graphic vehicle both for her malice and her mockery.
Thus, when Robert was rising to go to his own parlor, she would say: "Smoke another cigar, Robert, or light your pipe, boy. I dinna dislike a pipe, I may say freely, I rather fancy it. It doesna remind me o' the stable, and I have no nerves to be shocked by its vulgarity. God be thankit, I was born before nerves were in fashion! And He knows that one nervous woman in a house is mair than enou'. I am sorry for ye, my lad!"
"It is not Dora's nerves, mother; it is her refined taste. She thinks a pipe low, common, plebeian, you know, and for the same reason she hates me to wear a cap—she thinks it makes me look like a workingman. Dora is quite aristocratic, you know," and he mimicked the English accent and idioms, and saw nothing repellent in an old woman giggling at him.
"It is nerves, my lad," she answered, "pure nerves, and nerves are a' imagination. Whenever did I, or your sisters, or any o' our flesh and blood have an attack o' the nerves? Whenever did a decent pipe o' tobacco, or the smell o' a good salt herring mak' any o' us sick at the stomach? Was there ever a Campbell made vulgar, or low, by a cap on his head? 'Deed they are pretty men always, but prettiest of a' when they are wearing the Glengary wi' a sprig o' myrtle in the front o' it.Dod!it makes me scunner at some folks' aristocracy. I trow, I am as weel born as any Methodist preacher's daughter, and I have kin behind me and around me to show it; but you can smoke a pipe, or cap your head, or slipper your feet, and my fine feelings willna suffer for a moment."
"You are mother—you understand."
"To be sure I do. Poor lad, ye hae lots to fret ye, and nane need a pipe o' tobacco, or an easydéshabillemair than you do; if you are understanding what I mean bydéshabille—I'm not vera sure mysel', but I'm thinking it means easy fitting clothes on ye; that is my meaning o' the word anyhow, and I don't care a bawbee, whether it is the French meaning or not."
"You are all right, mother. You generally are all right."
"I am always all right, Robert; and that you find out in the long run, don't ye, my lad?"
Her conversation was constantly of this vulgar, commonplace type, but it carried home veiled doubts and innuendos, as no other form could have done; and it was homelike and familiar to Robert. With it as the vehicle for her flattery and her iron will, she managed her son as no sensitive, truthful, honorable woman could have done, unless she flung delicacy, truth, and honor aside, and went down into moral slums to find her ways and weapons.
On the fourth evening after the promising reconciliation, Robert said: "I want a whiff of strong tobacco, Dora. I have been fretted all day, so I will go into the library to smoke to-night."
"I will go with you, Robert. I do not believe the tobacco will make me sick. You know when it did so, there were reasons why——"
"You must do nothing of the kind, Dora. I cannot have you made ill, and the fear of it doing so would take away all the comfort I might derive from it."
"But, Robert——"
"No, no! I shall come to the parlor, and smoke a cigar, if you insist."
"I shall not insist. You will not stay long away from me, dear?"
"When my smoke is finished, I will come."
Then he went to the library, and in a few minutes his mother followed him there. As housekeeper, she had formulated less extravagant menus for the table, and some other small economies, and their discussion was her excellent excuse—if she needed an excuse, which she rarely did. Among these economies, the dismissal of Ducie came to question again, and Robert said he "thought Ducie would have to remain. Dora had set her heart on keeping her," he continued, "and I think it will also be more comfortable for me, mother."
"Nonsense! It will not affect you in any way."
"There is Dora's breakfast, who is to carry it upstairs to her?"
"It is quite time that nonsense was stopped! Let the high-stomached English 'my lady' come to the family breakfast table. It is good enou' for the like o' her. But I'll tell you how it is. McNab has the habit o' humoring her wi' dainties—mushrooms on toast, a few chicken livers, and the like; and our decent oatmeal, and bread and feesh, arena as delicate as food should be, for this daughter o' a poor Methodist preacher."
"Come, mother, her father at least is a servant of God, one of His messengers, and there is no nobility like to that in this world. You know well, that Scotland has always paid more honor to God's servants, than to the servants of earthly princes."
"Scotsmen arena infallible in their religious views. I ken one thing sure, and that is ministers' daughters hae been the deil's daughters to me, and to my sons—vera Eves o' temptation wi' the apple o' sin and misery in their hands for my two bonnie lads."
"I wonder, mother, where my brother is."
"He is dead. I comfort mysel' wi' that thought. Death was the best thing that could happen him. The poor lad, not long out o' his teens, and tied to a wife, and to the wife's mother likewise. Never was a finer lad flung to the mischief than your brother Da—nay, my tongue willna speak his name. Now then, remember your brother, and don't let your wife ruin you, Robert."
"There is no mother-in-law in my case—it is my wife that has the mother-in-law," and he laughed in a grim, self-satisfied way.
The mother-in-law in question was not offended, far from it; she laughed too, and then answered: "Ay, the poor lass has the mother-in-law, but you hae the mother, and be thankfu' for the gift and the grace o' her. Your mother willna see you wronged, nor put upon. She'll back you up in a' that is for your authority and welfare. She will that!"
"Well, well! We were talking of Ducie."
"Ducie is the backer-up against you, and she be to go to her ain folks to-morrow. That is what I intend."
"I do not believe you will succeed in getting rid of her."
"If you will leave the matter entirely to me, I will rid the house o' her."
With this question unsettled between them, it was easy to make trouble, and Robert was cowardly enough to leave it to the women, though he knew well that a few decisive words from himself would put an end to the dispute. Mrs. Campbell was glad he did not say them. She enjoyed the thought of the probable fray, and only waited until Robert had gone to business the next day to begin it.
"Jepson," she then said, "you will tell Ducie to come to my parlor at once."
Ducie was expecting this call, and she was in the mood to stand upon her rights, which released her from all obligations to obey Mrs. Traquair Campbell's orders. So she loitered in her room putting curls over her brow, in the way they were peculiarly offensive to Mrs. Campbell, adding to this saucy misdemeanor earrings, and two pink bows, a ring on her engagement finger, an embroidered apron, and slippers with rosettes holding a small imitation diamond buckle. Before these preparations were quite complete there was another very peremptory message for her, and she laughingly told Jepson to inform his mistress, that she "hadn't made up her mind yet, whether she would call on her, or not."
Jepson toned down this message to a respectful apology for delay, and Mrs. Campbell was on the point of sending another order, when Ducie entered her room.
"I sent for you to comeat once. Why didn't you?"
"I was busy."
"What were you doing?"
"Dressing myself."
"You have dressed yourself like a fool."
"Please, ma'am, that is something you have nought to do with. My mistress told me how to dress. I am going out with her and Master David to dinner."
"Where are you going to dinner?"
"I was not bid to say where."
"You were bidnotto tell me."
"My mistress did not name you."
"You cannot go out. You will help McNab in the kitchen until two o'clock."
"I am not forced to do anything you tell me, ma'am, and I don't know as I ever will again."
"You are a lazy, impudent baggage."
"Now then, that will do, ma'am. You are the last that ought to speak of my laziness, for I've been working for you three months, and never got a sixpence, or a penny piece, for all I did. Thanks, I never expected; for it's only black words you keep by you; and as for black looks, if you could sell them by the yard, you might start an undertaking business."
"Do you know who you are talking to?"
"Yes, but I don't know as ever I talked with a worse woman."
"I will make you suffer for your impertinence."
"That's likely, for you hurt people out of pure wickedness."
"Your month is up to-day at five o'clock. You will help McNab until two. Then you will pack your trunk, and come to me for your wage. There is a train for Kendal at four o'clock. You will take it. You will leave this house at half-past three."
"It caps all to listen to you. But the outside of this house is therightside for anybody who expects decent treatment. I am going with my mistress at half-past eleven, and I shall come back here with her, when she returns. And thanks be, ma'am, I am not going to Kendal. I am going to be married, and teach one Glasgow man how to treat a wife."
"You will come to me at three o'clock for your month's wage."
"You did not hire me, ma'am, and I don't take my pay from you. My mistress is now waiting for me," and with these words she turned to leave the room.
"Ducie! Ducie! Come here instantly!"
But Ducie had closed the door, and did not hear, at least she did not answer. Then Mrs. Campbell followed her, and in something of a passion assailed Theodora.
"That impudent wench of yours has been behaving most rudely to me, Dora. I want her until two o'clock, can you not make her obey me?"
"I am going out to dinner, and need her very much. She has to take charge of David."
"Leave the boy at home."
"I cannot."
"Where are you going?"
"To Mrs. Oliphant's. They are dining early to-day, and I shall be home before dark."
"That will be too late. I must have her now."
"I cannot make her work for you, if she does not wish." Then turning to Ducie she asked, "if she would not obey Mrs. Campbell's desire?"
"No, ma'am," was the straight answer. "I would not lift a finger for Mrs. Campbell."
"You hear what she says."
"She has talked in the most shameful way to me. I think Jepson must have left the whiskey bottle around."
"Oh, no! Ducie hates whiskey. She would not touch it."
"Pay her what you owe her, and send her off."
"I have no money to pay anything."
"I will lend you the money."
"I do not wish to discharge her. She satisfies me thoroughly. I see no reason to send her away."
"You have the best of all reasons—my order to do so."
"I will ask Robert to-night."
"You will ask Robert, will you? So shall I."
Then Theodora called David, and the little lad came running to her. He was wearing a kilt of the Campbell tartan, a small philabeg, a black velvet jacket trimmed with gilt buttons, and a Glengary ornamented with an eagle's feather. His frank, beautiful face, his strong vitality, and his pretty manners were instantly notable, for when he saw his grandmother was present, he lifted his cap and said: "Good-morning, grandmother." She did not answer, though she regarded him a moment with a pride she could not conceal, and as she left the room she told herself: "The boy is a Scot, in spite of his English dam. He is a Scot, even if he is not a Campbell, and please God we will mak' him a Campbell yet."
That day Theodora met at Mrs. Oliphant's a gentleman whom she had seen there not unfrequently during the winter, an American called Kennedy, and a very sincere friendship had grown up between them. After an early dinner he asked permission to take David to a circus then in Glasgow, and the boy's entreaties being added, Theodora could not resist them. They went off in a hurry of delight, and finding herself alone with Mrs. Oliphant, the long, carefully hidden sorrows of her heart burst forth in a flood that bore away all pride, all restraint, and all the jealously kept barriers of a long reticence and concealment.
How it happened she never knew, but with passionate weeping she told her friend all the miseries of her daily life, and the greater dread that blackened and haunted her future—the terror lest David should be taken from her, and sent to some severe, disciplinary boarding-school. Weeping in each other's arms, the confession and consolation went on, until Margaret Oliphant dared to say the words Theodora feared to utter.
"You must take your child, and go where Robert Campbell will never find you, until David is a man, and able to defend himself."
"Thank you, Margaret. I have been longing to tell you that I see no other conclusion. But where shall I go? India, Australia, Canada, are all governed by English laws, and so then, anywhere in these countries, David could be taken from me, and my husband could force me to return to his home. So much I have learned, from similar cases to mine, reported in the newspapers."
"You must go to the United States. There, you may work and enjoy the money you earn; no husband can take it from you. There, you cannot be forced to live with a husband who treats you cruelly, and I am sure no court would allow a child of tender age to be taken from a mother so properly fitted to bring him up. You must have a talk with Mr. Kennedy. He can help you. He will be glad to help you."
"I thought he had business here."
"He has business he thinks of great importance. His wife is dead, and he brought her two daughters to a school she remembered in Edinburgh, but not being sure his children would be happy there, he is staying to watch over them."
"Are they happy?"
"No. He is going to take them home again, when the school closes in June—perhaps before."
"Then, Margaret?"
"Then you could go with him?"
They went over and over this plan, constantly evolving new fears and new advantages, and were yet in the fever of the discussion, when Mr. Kennedy and David returned. It was both David's and Ducie's first visit to a circus, and after a few minutes' rapturous description, they were permitted to go to another room and talk over the enchanting scenes.
Then Mrs. Oliphant said: "Come now, David Campbell, and tell your sister Theodora how heartily you are at her service." And the supposed Mr. Kennedy took Theodora's hands, and said: "My dear sister. I have known all your sad life for the last half-year. I am here to help you."
But Theodora looked amazed and even troubled, and he sat down at her side and continued: "I am really David Campbell, your husband's elder brother. I am also the foster-son of Mrs. McNab, and I have heard all from her, and have been waiting here, knowing that the end to a life so unhappy must come, and wondering that you have borne it so long."
Then Theodora remembered that she had heard from Ducie, that McNab had a son come home from foreign parts, and that he took her out frequently, and gave her many presents. And she looked into her brother-in-law's face for some trace of his relationship, but could find none. David Campbell was more Celt than Gael, he was tall and slender, had a gentle voice and a manner that could only come from a good heart. His whole appearance was aquiline and American, and he was dressed in the loose, easy style of a citizen of the great Western Republic. After a most critical survey, Theodora was ready to confess, that his visits to McNab were perfectly safe from detection.
"I have sat with the servants in the kitchen, have eaten with them, and heard all they could tell me of your life, Theodora; and now I am at your service with all my heart."
"Then tell me what to do."
"First, let me go and see your father and mother. Your father will give us good advice, and we will not move till we get it—unless some desperate cause intervenes."
"Thank you. That is what I wish."
"Give me their address."
"I am sorry——"
"Say nothing, I entreat you! I have no other duty in Glasgow, but to look after you, and my splendid little namesake. And I assure you, if I saw any other way of bringing my dear brother to his senses, I would try it first. But not until Robert has lost you, will he find out what you really are to him."
"Have you seen your brother?"
"Many a time. I have even spoken to him, but he has no recollection of me. He cannot, for he seldom saw me. I should not have known him if I had met him anywhere but in the Campbell iron works. He is a hard master to his men."
"But there is another Robert, I assure you, a Robert I only know—or used to know. He was a noble, generous man, a man I loved with all my soul."
"I believe you, and that lost Robert only wants proper surroundings to give him a chance. See! We are going to educate that other Robert. I love my brother, Theodora, and we will work together to make him happy in spite of himself, and the other evil powers that now hold him in thrall."
"O, thank you! Thank you, David! I never had a brother, but have often longed for one. You are a true Godsend to me."
"With God's help I will be! Your father's home is in Bradford?"
"Yes, he lives in Hanover Square, Bradford. Any one will tell you where the Rev. John Newton lives."
"I will leave by to-night's train. I will tell them all—for McNab has told me all—and your father will send his advice back by me."
With this comfort in her heart Theodora did not feel afraid, though she had stayed until the night had fallen. Mr. Oliphant took her home in his carriage, and Robert was compelled to thank him for his courtesy; but he followed his wife into their parlor with a dark countenance, and asked her angrily, "why she put herself under obligations to people like the Oliphants?"
"Are there any objections to the Oliphants?" she asked.
"My mother has never trusted them, never. And you know this."
"Your mother trusts no one."
"Where is Ducie?"
"She is attending to David's supper."
"Call her!"
"Will not a little later do?"
"No, I want her now."
"Ring the bell, then."
He looked astonished at the order, but he obeyed it. Theodora had sat down. Her face was sad and stern, and her eyes flashed so angrily he did not care to encounter them.
In a few minutes Ducie appeared. She came in smiling and curtsied to her master when he said:
"Ducie?"
"Yes, sir."
"You were told to leave this house forever, at half-past three this afternoon. Why have you not done so?"
"The party who told me was not my mistress."
"Am I your master?"
"I suppose so."
"Then listen to me. Here is your quarter's wage. As you are a young girl, I will not send you to the street now that it is dark. You may stay until eight o'clock to-morrow morning. Then you will go."
"I shall go to-night, sir. I will not take a favor from you, though I have done this house many favors."
"Robert, Robert!" cried Theodora, "consider what you are doing. Ducie, do not go away yet—for David's sake—let me keep Ducie, Robert."
"David will go to school in the autumn. He wants no nurse."
"Then let her stop until autumn. Robert, dear Robert, I entreat you that I may keep Ducie."
"After her impertinence to my mother, it is impossible. You ought to feel that."
"Oh dear, oh dear!" Theodora covered her face with her hands, and burst into passionate weeping.
Immediately Ducie was at her side comforting her. "Don't, ma'am. Please don't cry. Ducie knows it is not your fault."
Then Theodora unfastened the brooch at her throat and drew a ring from her finger.
"Take them, dear," she said. "We ought to pay you for three months' extra work, but I have no money. You know that, Ducie. Take these instead. Keep them for my sake, dear. Oh Ducie, Ducie! you are my only friend here, and they are sending you away. My God, my dear God, have pity on me!"
She spoke rapidly in a transport of sorrowful feeling; she forced the trinkets into Ducie's hand, and walking with her to the door, kissed her there; then sobbing like a little child, she fell upon the sofa in hopeless distress.
"What folly!" cried Robert. "Who would believe all this fuss was about a common servant girl—a disobedient, insolent servant girl. Why did she not obey my mother's order?"
Then Theodora rose to her feet. She put tears away, and answered proudly: "Because I was her mistress, and I told her to come with me."
"You told her to disobey my mother?"
"Yes. Your mother dismissed her without my permission. Suppose I had called your mother's chambermaid, and ordered her to leave the house—the cases are precisely the same."
"Not at all; mother is mistress and housekeeper. When she ordered Ducie to leave, that was quite sufficient."
"Do you expect me to obey your mother's orders?"
"I obey her orders."