"If they were kind and just orders, I would do all I could to meet them; when they are unjust and tyrannical, I will not obey them. I will be a partner in none of her sins and cruelties; I know a better way, if she does not. And I must have a maid, Robert."
"I will tell mother to hire one for you. But we shall have no more English girls, so do not expect what you will not get."
"Would any English girl want to come to Glasgow, for the sake of Glasgow? That is a difficult thing to imagine."
"And I do not approve of you giving valuable jewelry away."
"It was my very own. I had it long before I saw you."
"It was scandalous of Ducie to accept it. She ought not to be allowed to carry it away. You were not responsible when you gave it."
"And if it is scandalous for Ducie, my friend, to take a gift of my jewelry from my hands, what about the Campbelton women, who broke open my trunk, and took out of its case my class ring of diamonds and sapphires, worth eighty pounds; a ring my class paid for, and gave me. You promised me it should be returned. It never has been. Do you pretend that ring was yours? And is everything I possess yours? And do you permit your kindred to help themselves to whatever of mine they choose to appropriate?"
"You possess nothing—the hair on your head is mine. I can sell it if I choose. Your wedding ring is mine."
"I believe nothing of the kind. It is incredible."
"It is the law of England."
"You ought to have told me those things before I was married. I was beguiled into slavery. Why are girls in school not taught such things, if, indeed, they are true?"
"It is the law of England. Any lawyer will tell you so."
"Then it is contrary to the law of the Holy and Just One, and I will never acknowledge its right. I say, and shall always say, my class ring was stolen; and that the person who took it was, and is, a thief. The law may give you my clothing and ornaments, and your mother, assuming your things to be hers, may give them away; and you may call it lawful, but justice and equity would soon dispose of that legal fiction. I shall always deny it. To falter in doing so, would be sin."
In uttering these words she became a Theodora he had never before seen. Her beauty was triumphant over both her anger and her sorrow. Her splendid eyes stabbed him with their scornful glances; her air and attitude was regal as that of Justice herself, and her words went home like javelins. Mentally and spiritually, he cowered before her.
So he took out his watch and said: "Dinner is served."
"I want no dinner."
He answered, "Very well," but there was the look in his eyes of a man who knows he is defrauding his own soul. And though at that moment he understood his mother's hatred of her, and believed that he himself hated her, yet even then, at the root of his hate, there lay a secret, ardent thirst for her love.
It is not by grand or romantic events, that life is usually shaped; the most trivial things are the ministers of Destiny, but no matter how insignificant they may appear, they bring with them a sense of fatality not to be put away. When the great dramatist would make Othello murder Desdemona, he did not choose as a cause the loss of some priceless necklace, or a diamond ornament, he knew intuitively that such a simple thing as a pocket handkerchief would be more natural.
So in Theodora's case, the everyday occurrence of a quarrel with a servant girl was the culmination of years full of far more cogent reasons, for her final decision to abandon a life which she was unable to manage. But when Robert went to his dinner, and left her alone to struggle with a defeat and a loss she felt so keenly she came to this positive conclusion. In that hour her life was brought to the fine point of a single word. "Yes" or "No," which was it to be? Would she accept for herself and her child the wretched life she had unknowingly chosen? Or, would she abandon it, and seek some happier environment? And after half-an-hour's intense thought and feeling, she stood erect, and, clasping her hands, uttered an emphatic "Yes!" Even at that hour, her messenger was on his way to consult her parents, and she had little doubt as to their decision. She believed they would bid her "Go in God's name"; and fortified by that order, she would follow the advice David Campbell gave her. He knew the United States well, and it was a wonderful thing, he should have come home in this time of her trouble. Surely he had been sent for her help and direction.
She expected no word from her parents for about four days, but a ray of hope had penetrated the gloom of her surroundings; and wrong and unkindness took on a transient character. They were now merely passing annoyances, she would have gone beyond their power in a few weeks at the most. She resolved to make no more efforts to obtain justice, no more efforts to win a man whom neither love nor entreaties could prevent acting after his kind. She would now permit him to lay up grievances, with which to wound himself when he could no longer wound her. A sense of peace, coming from her acceptance of destiny, gave to her a singular calmness of manner and countenance, and a renewed alertness of mind, and mental lucidity.
In the morning Ducie, wearing her hat and cloak, served her late mistress and little David with their breakfast; then the three parted forever. David cried bitterly; the women had no tears left. In half-an-hour McNab came to remove the tray.
"I would leave your room as it is, ma'am," she said. "It will be seen to. Tak' my advice, and dinna lift a finger to it. Yoursel' and Master David will be getting your breakfast ten minutes earlier, for I am going to look after that bit business mysel'. You needna fret a moment anent the matter. It's settled."
"I do not intend to fret about anything, McNab."
"That's right. It is a lang lane that has no turning. You are coming to the turning, I think."
"I think so."
"But I wouldn't let on I saw it."
"Neither by look, nor word."
"That's right, too. If wanted, call McNab, but be sparing o' calls—there is both watcher and listener. I'm telling you."
"I know."
Theodora smiled understandingly, and McNab left the room, but left behind her a strong sense of guardianship and love. Yet just then McNab was rather in the dark, for her foster-son had not had time to tell her of his journey to Yorkshire. But uncertainty did not dash McNab, she had one of those blessed dispositions that are always sure no news is good news; and who always expect the "something" that may have happened, to be something wonderfully auspicious.
"Perhaps my lad had a word with her yesterday," she thought, "and perhaps he is making a move—for he wouldn't move without her word. I dare say that is just what has happened." She satisfied herself with this belief, and to the hopeful and cheerful, good angels send their heart's desire.
So Theodora sat still and let the house go on. Not until she was dressing for dinner did a maid come to attend to her rooms, but she made no remark. A short time afterwards, the girl returned with a letter and the information, that it had been opened by Mrs. Campbell through mistake. It was from Theodora's publisher, and purported to contain a check for seventy pounds and fifteen shillings for royalties due her. But the check was not in the letter. Her heart beat wildly, her cheeks burned, she rose as if to go and inquire for it; but on second thoughts she sat down and waited until Robert came into the room. Then she showed him the letter. He barely glanced at it, then threw it on the table.
"Will you ask your mother for my money, Robert? I want to buy David and myself some necessary clothing."
"I have the check."
"Give it to me, Robert. I need it so much."
"I put it in my pocket-book, because it is mine. I give it to you, because I choose to give it to you. Most husbands would not do so."
"You need not at every opportunity tell me that I have no rights, and no money, even if I myself have earned the money. One telling of such awful injustice is enough. I wish to know if my letters are also yours?"
"If I choose to claim them, they are mine."
"Are they also free to your mother?"
"If I choose to make them so."
"Then I will do without letters."
"You can please yourself."
She did not answer, and he went into the dining-room. In a short time she steadied herself sufficiently to follow him, but no one but Isabel took the slightest notice of her. Mrs. Campbell was in high spirits, and talked with her son in a jocular way about some event of which Theodora was ignorant. Jepson watched her plate and saw that she was attended to, and Isabel showed her disapproval of her mother's and brother's behavior by a sullen silence. For she was slow-minded, and could think of no way to express her sympathy with Theodora, except sulking at those who were annoying her. But she rose from the table when Theodora rose, and when Theodora said "Good-night, Isabel," she answered: "I should like to come into your parlor for a few minutes—if agreeable."
"You are very welcome, Isabel."
"Thank you. I only wanted to say, that I had nothing to do with the opening of your letter. I would no more open your letter, than I would pick your pocket."
"I am sure of that, Isabel. I wish you were my friend. I am very lonely since Christina went away. Have you heard from her?"
"Not one word. I am very lonely too. Good-night."
And Theodora thought until sleep came of the girl's sad face, and pitied her more than she pitied herself. For hope was building a new life in her heart, and she looked forward to a future, that in its freedom, beauty, and usefulness would atone for the present, and the past years of her married life; but, oh the sameness, and ennui, and moral and mental death of a life without aim or purpose, without love or expectations, or sensible work to do.
Early on the fourth day Mrs. Oliphant called, and brought Theodora a letter. She professedly came to ask Theodora to drive with her, and when her invitation was declined, did not remain many minutes. But Mrs. Campbell watched her coming and going, and made plenty of sarcastic remarks about both the lady and her dress, her carriage and her horses and servants. Isabel was scarcely conscious of them. Since the loss of her sister she had become still more severe, intense, and reticent; besides which, though no one suspected the movement, Isabel was considering a break in social custom, undreamed of by the severely proper maidens of her set.
It related to Sir Thomas Wynton. She had had a letter from him describing his journey to Paris, and his present life in that city, and he had asked Isabel to write him "all the news she could gather about Wynton village, and their friends in Glasgow, and to add also anything social, political, or religious she thought would interest him." And this request had opened up a pleasant prospect of collecting and arranging all the news she could glean from people, or from newspapers, and then writing the result to Sir Thomas. It was a wild, a daring thing for Isabel Campbell to attempt, but she had resolved to ask no one's advice about the right or the wrong of it. She would decide the matter for herself, and she was trying to do so while her mother was mocking at Mrs. Oliphant's dress and general appearance.
Meantime Theodora watched her friend away, and then went into her parlor, locking the door after closing it. David was busy with his slate and pencil in the music room, and she locked the door of that room also. Then she sat down with her letter in her hand, and after a moment's uplifting of her heart, she opened it and read the following words:
"My Dear Theodora:—Your mother and I have thoroughly considered all your good brother-in-law has told us. I will not dwell on our surprise and sorrow. I will but say, that you ought to put an end at once to a life which is dwarfing you on every side, and must be fast ruining your husband's better nature. For the cruelty and injustice done at first reluctantly has evidently become to him a necessary alternative to the dreariness of his business life. As some men find amusement in badgering and baiting animals, he apparently satisfies the same brutal instinct by baiting a wife whom our cruel laws has placed in his absolute power. I counsel you to leave him before conditions are worse, and some tragedy results. Take David Campbell's advice as to the locality where you may dwell in peace and safety. I approve what he has proposed to us so entirely, that whenever you are ready to move, your mother and I will go with you, though it should be to the ends of the earth. Think a moment, and you will understand that you must go with us, and not with your brother-in-law. I shall write to the Chairman of Conference to-day and resign my pastorate, and you know a Methodist preacher and his wife can move almost at a day's notice. Our clothing is all we personally own. My future is prepared for. There is nothing to fear. The Great Companion will go with us. Wherever your new home is made, our home will be made, and we will pray together for the man you still love. He will return to you "clothed and in his right mind." Do not doubt. Go away and rest your aching heart. Has the sun of your love set? Some blessing lies in the night; do not fear the darkness. Rest, and the sun of love will rise again. I append a few reasons why you should at this crisis leave your husband. If you are fully satisfied in your own mind, you can neglect them."1st. Habit reconciles us to much suffering, but a miserable marriage is a trial no one has any business to have. It is without excuse, and therefore without comfort. Submission to evils God ordains is the height of energy and nobility; submission to the mistakes we ourselves make is the climax of weakness and cowardice. If two cannot live together in peace, they had better separate than cause each other to sin every day."2d. If you know you are on a wrong road, leave it; a wrong road cannot lead you right."3d. If you are sick, and the surgeon's knife is necessary, do not waste time with drugs and sedatives. Accept the knife as restorative."4th. If you make a mistake of any kind, it is your manifest duty to rectify it, or to spring out of its shadow; and an unhappy marriage is the most pathetic of all mistakes. If, however, you have made an unhappy marriage, why should you give permanency to wrong, and finality to suffering? There are no elements of reformation in the irrevocable, it is a hell without hope and without energy."5th. You must not judge your position near the twentieth century by the laws of Moses. The Church has gone back to them for authority to burn witches, and buy and sell slaves, and collect tithes, etc. We are come unto Bethlehem, and are not under the laws of Sinai. The laws of England are cruel enough to wives; there is no need to go back to Leviticus."6th. Christ truly said, 'What God has joined together, let no man put asunder.' WhatGodjoins together, no man can put asunder. Poverty, sorrow, care, shame, helplessness only draw the bond tighter. They go to the grave together, and with a noble constancy look across the grave to an immortal companionship."I dare say, my dear daughter, you have thought of all these things; think now of what good you can do each other by separation:"1st. Robert is under wrong influences, while you are present to provoke them. Day by day he is learning to be more and more cruel. But when he has lost you, he will remember your sweetness and goodness, and long for you,'For we never know the worth of a thing,Until we have thrown it away.'"2d. That evil old woman is growing constantly in all malice, cruelty, and sin. Be no longer an occasion for her wickedness."3d. You yourself are wasting your life in Doubting Castle. Hopeful found the key of it in his breast. Do likewise. You ought to be in the very height and glory of your existence. You are doing nothing, learning nothing, losing everything. Make a change; you cannot make it too quickly. It will probably ploughshare and harrow your heart, as the farmer ploughshares and harrows the field; but after this preparation, you can sow the seeds of your future happiness. Now all seed sowing is a mystery, whether in the heart, or in the field, but sow in love and in faith, and the harvest will truly better all your expectations. Think well over your movements, but do not think till you cannot act. Begin at once to prepare for what must be done, keeping in mind the good motto of the Eighty-seventh Regiment: 'Clear the Way!' sweep every fear and doubt out of it, all encumbrances of body or mind. Carry no old grudges or offences with you, no sad memories. Step out into the new way with a trusting, cheerful, childlike spirit, and be sure and take the Great Companion with you. Mother will write you to-morrow.Your loving parents,"John and Mary Newton."
"My Dear Theodora:—Your mother and I have thoroughly considered all your good brother-in-law has told us. I will not dwell on our surprise and sorrow. I will but say, that you ought to put an end at once to a life which is dwarfing you on every side, and must be fast ruining your husband's better nature. For the cruelty and injustice done at first reluctantly has evidently become to him a necessary alternative to the dreariness of his business life. As some men find amusement in badgering and baiting animals, he apparently satisfies the same brutal instinct by baiting a wife whom our cruel laws has placed in his absolute power. I counsel you to leave him before conditions are worse, and some tragedy results. Take David Campbell's advice as to the locality where you may dwell in peace and safety. I approve what he has proposed to us so entirely, that whenever you are ready to move, your mother and I will go with you, though it should be to the ends of the earth. Think a moment, and you will understand that you must go with us, and not with your brother-in-law. I shall write to the Chairman of Conference to-day and resign my pastorate, and you know a Methodist preacher and his wife can move almost at a day's notice. Our clothing is all we personally own. My future is prepared for. There is nothing to fear. The Great Companion will go with us. Wherever your new home is made, our home will be made, and we will pray together for the man you still love. He will return to you "clothed and in his right mind." Do not doubt. Go away and rest your aching heart. Has the sun of your love set? Some blessing lies in the night; do not fear the darkness. Rest, and the sun of love will rise again. I append a few reasons why you should at this crisis leave your husband. If you are fully satisfied in your own mind, you can neglect them.
"1st. Habit reconciles us to much suffering, but a miserable marriage is a trial no one has any business to have. It is without excuse, and therefore without comfort. Submission to evils God ordains is the height of energy and nobility; submission to the mistakes we ourselves make is the climax of weakness and cowardice. If two cannot live together in peace, they had better separate than cause each other to sin every day.
"2d. If you know you are on a wrong road, leave it; a wrong road cannot lead you right.
"3d. If you are sick, and the surgeon's knife is necessary, do not waste time with drugs and sedatives. Accept the knife as restorative.
"4th. If you make a mistake of any kind, it is your manifest duty to rectify it, or to spring out of its shadow; and an unhappy marriage is the most pathetic of all mistakes. If, however, you have made an unhappy marriage, why should you give permanency to wrong, and finality to suffering? There are no elements of reformation in the irrevocable, it is a hell without hope and without energy.
"5th. You must not judge your position near the twentieth century by the laws of Moses. The Church has gone back to them for authority to burn witches, and buy and sell slaves, and collect tithes, etc. We are come unto Bethlehem, and are not under the laws of Sinai. The laws of England are cruel enough to wives; there is no need to go back to Leviticus.
"6th. Christ truly said, 'What God has joined together, let no man put asunder.' WhatGodjoins together, no man can put asunder. Poverty, sorrow, care, shame, helplessness only draw the bond tighter. They go to the grave together, and with a noble constancy look across the grave to an immortal companionship.
"I dare say, my dear daughter, you have thought of all these things; think now of what good you can do each other by separation:
"1st. Robert is under wrong influences, while you are present to provoke them. Day by day he is learning to be more and more cruel. But when he has lost you, he will remember your sweetness and goodness, and long for you,
'For we never know the worth of a thing,Until we have thrown it away.'
'For we never know the worth of a thing,Until we have thrown it away.'
"2d. That evil old woman is growing constantly in all malice, cruelty, and sin. Be no longer an occasion for her wickedness.
"3d. You yourself are wasting your life in Doubting Castle. Hopeful found the key of it in his breast. Do likewise. You ought to be in the very height and glory of your existence. You are doing nothing, learning nothing, losing everything. Make a change; you cannot make it too quickly. It will probably ploughshare and harrow your heart, as the farmer ploughshares and harrows the field; but after this preparation, you can sow the seeds of your future happiness. Now all seed sowing is a mystery, whether in the heart, or in the field, but sow in love and in faith, and the harvest will truly better all your expectations. Think well over your movements, but do not think till you cannot act. Begin at once to prepare for what must be done, keeping in mind the good motto of the Eighty-seventh Regiment: 'Clear the Way!' sweep every fear and doubt out of it, all encumbrances of body or mind. Carry no old grudges or offences with you, no sad memories. Step out into the new way with a trusting, cheerful, childlike spirit, and be sure and take the Great Companion with you. Mother will write you to-morrow.
Your loving parents,
"John and Mary Newton."
This letter "cleared the way," for Theodora, and with the daring decision of fresh young faculties, she grasped the whole position confidently. She saw that she must, for the present, give up her husband—it was absolutely necessary and remedial. But she also saw a future with him that should redeem the whole unhappy past. She saw it, because from her long trial she had brought a three-edged spirit, tempered and polished by the fires of many afflictions; and an Inner Woman perfect—no member wanting, none sick or disabled, an Inner Woman full-grown, ready for any emergency, with time for everything human. She had also been much encouraged and strengthened by her father's prompt preparation, and she told herself, as she carefully destroyed the letter, that as the thing was to do, it were well to do it as soon as possible.
As if to urge her to this finality, her home became still more uncomfortable after Ducie's departure. Day after day passed, 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 lasses. 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 God 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 lasses 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 passing 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 anticipated. 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 hoarse 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 attitude. 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 God, O thank God, 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 passionate 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."
Robert was hastening to the carriage and did not hear her reply, but when it was about to move, he bent forward and looked at the door he was leaving. Theodora stood on the steps. Her heart was in her eyes, her hands clasped above her breast. She saw him bend forward, and leaned towards him smiling. Never throughout all his life days did he forget that last glimpse of the beautiful woman who that morning watched him out of her sight. When he was quite gone she turned into the house with that sense of completeness so essential even to the sorrowful. She had seen the last of her husband. The bitterness of the separation was over. She went to Davie and let him comfort her, then she dressed the boy, and left him in the care of McNab; for she knew that she must go to Mrs. Oliphant's without delay. The door had been set wide open for them, and they must make the best of the opportunity; or perhaps lose their lucky hour forever.
Fortunately David Campbell was at Mrs. Oliphant's, having returned from Edinburgh not ten minutes previously. He heard Theodora's tidings with a calm pleasure. "We are ready," he said. "Your father and mother have been in Glasgow for a week. They are boarding at a house in Monteith Row, a pretty locality on Glasgow Green."
"Oh, David, were you not afraid?"
"Not at all," he answered, "the Campbells are exclusive West-Enders. They would be as likely to go near Monteith Row as to go to Ashantee. Your parents are known as Mr. and Mrs. Bell. You must not try to see them until you meet on the steamer."
"Very well. When shall we sail?"
"This is Tuesday. The Anchor Line have a good boat sailing at noon, Saturday. Can you be ready?"
"Easily. About your daughters?"
"They are ready. They will be here Friday, or perhaps Thursday. Now I will go and secure the four best staterooms possible. I shall take them in the name of Kennedy—and that will be our name, until we reach New York."
Theodora remained with Mrs. Oliphant until David returned with the tickets for the four staterooms. She felt then, that there was no reprieve, and that her first duty now was to be as cheerful and brave as she ought to be. On reaching home, she found that David's cot had been carried to the maid's room, but she made no complaint. The fact swept away all doubts and misgivings; it was the last injustice, the last cruelty that could be inflicted, and it was a vain one, for David could sleep with her, until the end came.
On the following morning, she asked Jepson to send to her room the smallest of her trunks, and she put into it a few things belonging to her girlhood's life—her music, her textbooks, a novel she had nearly finished writing, and the beautiful linen she had made and embroidered with her own hands for her marriage outfit. Two dresses were all that remained of the gowns bought at this date. These she took with her. In her hand she would carry a Gladstone bag with toilet necessities, and plenty of clean white waists and collars for David and herself. Their suits, bought with reference to this necessity, were of dark blue cloth; David's made into his first breeches and jacket, and Theodora's in the simplest manner possible, but as Mrs. Campbell said to Isabel:
"Plain, of course. But look at the lines and the make o' it! Menzie's cutting and fitting no doubt. It cost five guineas to make that dress and the cloak with it. She's a wasteful creature."
"Robert said she bought it herself, and——"
"So she ought, so she ought! And the boy dressed up in broadcloth and linen waists! A few yards of lindsey would be more fitting."
"Mother, he is a beautiful boy."
"Is he? I cannot see myself where his beauty comes in."
During the next two days Theodora employed herself in folding carefully away all her clothing, and locking it up in its proper drawers. Her jewels she packed separately, and with a letter, put into McNab's charge, requesting her to give them to Mr. Campbell, if she did not return with him. When Friday morning came, she rose early, dressed herself and David, and was ready for the train that left just about the time the Campbell breakfast was served. In this way, she hoped to escape the presence of Jepson, whom she feared might be told to accompany her. On the contrary, Mrs. Campbell grumbled at Jepson for helping the coachman with her trunk, and the only question she asked was: "What road did she take, Jepson?"
"The Caledonian, ma'am," was the answer.
"Hum-m-m! I thought so."
"Has she gone?" said Isabel.
"Yes, and a good riddance of her."
"Oh, mother, and none of us bid her good-bye, or wished her a pleasant time. I intended to go to the train with her—now I have missed——"
"Making a fool of yourself. That is all you have missed."
"What train would Mrs. Campbell take, Jepson?"
"The nine o'clock train, I suppose, miss."
But Theodora did not take the nine o'clock train. She gave a porter a shilling to care for her trunk, and watched an hour in a waiting-room. No one suspicious appearing, she requested the porter to call a cab, and put her trunk upon it, and then without fear or hurry, she drove to a certain store, where David Campbell was waiting. He went with her at once to the pier of the Anchor Line, where they left her trunk to be placed with the rest of the Kennedy luggage in the hold. "And now, where will you hide yourself until to-morrow morning, Theodora?" he asked kindly.
"Mrs. Oliphant——"
"No. She wants you, but I told her it could not be. Her servants will be closely questioned, no doubt."
"I see."
"The steamer touches at Greenock. Get a room in the Tontine Inn. Have your food served in your room, and keep quiet until you walk down to meet the steamer."
"I will do so. It is the best plan."
So they went to the railway station, and David Campbell put them into a comfortable carriage for Greenock. "You will see your father and mother to-morrow," he said. "They are as happy as two little children over the journey. It is a great event for them, and they are talking of their little grandson continually. They long to see him."
Theodora hardly knew what was being said to her. She was in a kind of dreamlike state—a state, however, in which no mistakes are ever made. The Inner Woman had control, and she had quite resigned herself to its leading. "David and I will meet the steamer in the morning. Be on the watch for us, brother," she said.
"I will. You will go to the Tontine?"
"Certainly."
"And if they should not have room for you there, then go to the——"
"I will go to the Tontine. There is a room ready for me there."
He looked at her kindly and understood. Those who have watched long, solemn nights away with the Beloved One, slowly dying, know something beyond the lines of science, or the teachings of creeds. He said good-bye to her, without a fear of any mistake.
At Greenock she found the prepared room in the Tontine, and she made herself and little Davie comfortable, and then ordered their dinner to be brought to them. She was glad of this pause in her affairs, and long after Davie was asleep, she sat pondering the past and the future. At first she was dazed and half-unbelieving of the great event that had taken place in her life. In the darkness of the room, she fell into short sleeps, and kept feeling around in the darkness of her mind to learn what troubled her, until suddenly, in cruel starts from sleep, her sorrow found her out.
But this is the depth in our nature, where the divine and human are one. Here, in our weakness and weariness, we are visited by the Upholder of the tranquil soul, and words wonderful and secret, cheer the weary and heavy-laden; for God has royal compassions for the broken in heart. Theodora awoke in the morning full of hope, and in one of her most cheerful moods. The road no longer frightened her, the ocean no longer separated her. She had wings now for all the chasms of life, and when she opened a little book for a word to clear the way, and the day, she cried out joyfully, for this was her message:
"The Lord is with me, hastening me forward."[2]
"The Lord is with me, hastening me forward."[2]
[2]1st Esdras 1, 27.
[2]1st Esdras 1, 27.
At the time appointed the steamer reached Greenock, she was there to meet it, and David Campbell was at the gangway watching for her. There was a crowd of incomers and outgoers, and David was glad of it, for Theodora with her child reached their stateroom without notice from any one. There she found her father and mother, and the joy and wonder of that meeting may well be left to the imagination.
It had been decided, that until David found out whether any of the passengers were sitters in Dr. Robertson's church, or people from any circumstance likely to know Theodora, she should remain in seclusion; but in a couple of days, David had clearly established the safety of her appearance; and after that assurance, she was constantly on deck with the rest of the party. All the way across the Atlantic they had a blue sky, a blue sea, sunshine, and good company; and one morning they were awakened by some one calling "Land! Land in sight!" and hastening on deck they stood together watching their approach to the low-lying shores of that New World which held for them the promise of a happy home and a prosperous future.
Just about the time Theodora's party were sitting down to a happy dinner in the Astor House, New York, Robert reached his home in Glasgow. He had confidently expected to see his wife waiting for him at Crewe Junction, and been disappointed and angry at her failure to do so. "Women are all alike," he muttered to himself, "they never keep an appointment, and they never catch a train." He wandered round the waiting-rooms looking for her, and so missed his own train, and had to wait two hours at one of the most depressing stations in England. For though the traffic is immense there, the stony, prison-like order, the silent, hurrying passengers, and the despondent-looking porters, fill the heart with a restless passion to escape from the place. Without analyzing this feeling, Robert was conscious of it, and it intensified the annoyance of his detention.
All the way to Glasgow he pondered on the singular circumstance of Theodora's failure to obey the telegram he had sent her. She had always been so prompt and glad to meet him, there must have been some mistake made in the message. He tried to remember its exact words, but could not, and as he neared his own city a certain fear assailed him. He began to wonder if his wife or child was sick—or if any accident had happened on their journey from Bradford to Crewe. But this solution he quickly dismissed as incredible. Theodora would have managed under any circumstances to send him word. She would not have kept him waiting and wondering. It was utterly unlike her. At length the anxious journey was over, but in hurrying from the train to his carriage, he noticed that the coachman spoke in an easy, nonchalant way, and that there was no sign about him of anything unusual or unhappy. When he reached Traquair House his mother and Isabel met him at the door, and Jepson unlocked his apartments, and began to turn on the light in the parlors.
"We shall have dinner in twenty minutes, Robert," said Mrs. Campbell, and Jepson added:
"Your rooms upstairs are prepared for you, sir."
No one had named Theodora, and he had not done so either. Why? He could not tell "why"; for her name beat at his lips, and inquiry about her was the great demand of his nature. He looked into her rooms, and the sense of emptiness and desertion about them was like a blow. David's cot had been removed, he saw that at once, and felt angry about it. And the perfect order of things shocked something in his feelings never before recognized. He missed sorely those pretty bits of disorder, that seemed to him now almost a part of his wife and child—the bow of ribbon, the little shawl or scarf over a chair-back, the small book of daily texts, and the thin parchment copy of "The Imitation" on her table; David's puzzle on the window seat, or his tiny handkerchief on the floor beside it.
Restless and unhappy he went down to the dining-room. His mother was in high spirits; Isabel still and indifferent. But it was Isabel who asked: "How much longer is Dora going to stay? The house is so lonely without her."
"The house has been peaceful and restful without her, and the noisy child. I am sure it has been a great relief," corrected Mrs. Campbell.
"I am anxious about Dora," said Robert with a touch of his most sullen temper, "she ought to have met me at Crewe, and did not do so. It was not like her."
"It was very like her. She is the most unreliable of women. I dare say we shall see her by the next train—perhaps we——"
"Mother, you are mistaken both about Dora and the train. Dora can always be depended on, and I waited for the next train, but she was not on it. After dinner I must telegraph to Bradford and elsewhere."
"Perfect nonsense! Let her alone, and she'll come home—no fear of it. She was, however, keen enough to get away—off before we had breakfast—and without a word to any one."
"Mother," corrected Isabel, "that was our fault. She came to bid us good-bye, but we neither of us spoke to her."
"Drop the subject," said Robert in a manner too positive to be disobeyed.
He himself dropped every subject, and finished his meal in a silence so eloquent, that no one had the spirit to break it. His mother looked at him indignantly, his sister kept her eyes on her plate, and ate with a noiseless deliberation, that was almost provoking. It was a most wretched meal.
"And all because that creature missed meeting him at Crewe," snorted the angry mother as her son left the room.
"You had better go to the library, mother, and find out what is the matter. I dare say it is business—and not Dora at all."
"I will go as soon as he has had a ten minutes' smoke. He is as touchy as tinder yet, Isabel."
But Robert did not go to the library. As he came out of the dining-room McNab walked up to him, and he spoke more pleasantly to her than he had yet done to any one since his return. "Good-evening, McNab," he replied to her greeting, "I hope you are well."
"As well as I ever expect to be in this house, sir. My dear young mistress left these jewels in my care—fearing what happened once before, sir—and I promised to keep them safe till you came home; the same I've done. And she left this letter likewise for you, and I hope there is no bad news in it, sir, for she was breaking her heart the day she was writing it."
"Breaking her heart? What about, McNab?"
"They were going to take the bit bonnie bairn from her—and him every night, as like as not, having a black life-and-death-fight wi' what they ca' croup. You know, sir?"
"I know, McNab. Thank you!" and instead of going to the library, he went into his own parlor, and locked both doors leading into it. Then he sat down with the letter in his hand. He looked at the neatness with which it was folded, addressed, and sealed, and he had a sudden memory of the joy and expectation with which he had once been used to receive such letters. He had no fear of bad news. He expected only Theodora's usual pleading for little David, and he thought it likely the removal of the boy's cot typified a more than common dispute concerning the child.
When he finally opened the letter, a small parcel fell out of it, which he laid aside. Then he read without pause or faltering, the following words:
"My Dear Robert:—A little while ago, you told me all that I possessed, that even my wedding ring, belonged to you. To-day I restore you all that you have given me, and with my raiment and ornaments, the dearest ornament of all—my wedding ring. You have broken every pledge it promised. You have treated me, and permitted others to treat me, with a sustained, deliberate neglect and cruelty that is almost incredible. To-day I make you free from all obligations to me, and my child. Do not try to find us. You cannot. We shall disappear as completely as a stone thrown into mid-ocean. But you know well, that I may be fully trusted to do all my duty to David. Oh, Robert, Robert, I cannot bear to reproach you! I love you, though I am leaving you forever. My father and mother go with me, and God and they are a multitude. I shall want for nothing but your love, and that was taken from me long ago. My love, my love! Farewell forever."Theodora."
"My Dear Robert:—A little while ago, you told me all that I possessed, that even my wedding ring, belonged to you. To-day I restore you all that you have given me, and with my raiment and ornaments, the dearest ornament of all—my wedding ring. You have broken every pledge it promised. You have treated me, and permitted others to treat me, with a sustained, deliberate neglect and cruelty that is almost incredible. To-day I make you free from all obligations to me, and my child. Do not try to find us. You cannot. We shall disappear as completely as a stone thrown into mid-ocean. But you know well, that I may be fully trusted to do all my duty to David. Oh, Robert, Robert, I cannot bear to reproach you! I love you, though I am leaving you forever. My father and mother go with me, and God and they are a multitude. I shall want for nothing but your love, and that was taken from me long ago. My love, my love! Farewell forever.
"Theodora."
Then he unfolded the bit of tissue paper which the letter contained, and out of it fell the wedding ring. He laid it in the hollow of his hand and looked at it. And as he looked, the storm in his heart gathered and gathered, until all its waves and billows went over him.
"Gone! Gone forever!" he said in an awful whisper—a whisper that came from a depth of his nature never plumbed before; an abyss that only despair and death know of. He rose and walked about, he sat down, he re-read the letter, he tried to think, and could not. He threw off his coat and vest, his collar and neckerchief; they lay at his feet, and he kicked them out of his way. "I am choking—dying!" he murmured. "Dora! Dora! Dora! Where are—you?"
The unfortunate man was torn with the most contrary feelings. He loved the adorable woman who had cast him off; and he hated her. Remorse for his own neglect and cruelty alternated with anger at his wife for the pain she was giving him. And she had robbed him of his child also,his child! Oh, he would have the child back, if he moved heaven and earth to compass it. There was no order, no method in his grief, one dreadful accusation followed another like actual blows, from a hand he could neither stay, nor entreat, nor reason with.
In hoarse mutterings, and fierce imprecations, he gave voice to a passion of grief and anger so furious, that ordinary speech utterly failed it. Frequently he struck the table or the piano frenzied blows with his hand—or he kicked out of his path chairs, stools, or whatever came in his raging way. Even Theodora's embroidery frame was thus treated, and then tenderly lifted and straightened, and put in its place. His restless feet and hands, his distracted walk, his mad motions, his distorted face and inflamed eyes, all indicated a tumult of suffering and despair, rendered all the more terrible by the shrill strain of half-religious oaths, which like flashes of hell-fire made the blackness of darkness in which he suffered all the more lurid and awful.
At length his physical nature refused to express any longer his mad sorrow by motion. He fell prone upon the sofa, and clasping his hands over his heart, he sobbed as only strong men in the very exhaustion of all other expression of feeling can sob. By this time it was late, the house was dark and still, and only the miserable man's mother was awake and watching. She felt that there was sorrow in the house, and when midnight came she went softly downstairs and stood at her son's door, listening to the soul in agony, moaning, sobbing, accusing, blaming, entreating, defying. She feared to let him know she was there and she feared to leave him. She was at a loss to account for a passion so amazing and uncontrolled. Stepping softly back to her room she reconsidered herself. In a couple of hours there was the crash of china falling, and her temper got the better of her fear. She went hastily and without attempt at secrecy, to her son's door.
"Robert!" she called, but there was no answer.
"Robert, Robert Campbell, open this door!" and she shook the handle violently.
He rose with an oath, flung the door wide, and stood glaring at her from eyes red and swollen and fierce with anger. "What do you want?" he asked. "Can you not let me alone, even at midnight?"
"What is the matter with you? Are you ill?"
"No."
"Then what for are you sobbing and crying? I'm fairly ashamed for you. Do you know it's two o'clock in the morning?"
"I don't care what time it is. Go away."
"I will not go. You are demented—or you are wicked beyond believing."
"Go away!"
"I will not. What, in God's name, is the matter?"
"Theodora!" he shrieked, as he flung his arms upward.
"O, it is Theodora, is it? I thought so."
"She has left me, left me forever! She has gone, and taken my little Davie with her."
"Just what I expected."
"Just what you drove her to."
"Has that black-a-visored dandy staying at the Oliphants' gone with her?"
"Damnation, no! Her father and mother went with her."
"She says so, no doubt. Do you believe her?"
"Yes."
"Weel, I'm glad she's off and awa'. We'll hae a bit o' peace now."
"My heart is bleeding, bursting; I cannot listen to you."
"Such parfect nonsense! You ought to be thanksgiving. Who broke that vase to smithereens?"
"I did."
"It cost twenty guineas."
"I don't care a tinker's curse, if it cost a hundred guineas." He walked to the mantlepiece and flung down on the marble hearth a valuable piece of Worcester.
"My God, Robert! Have you lost your senses?"
"I have lost my wife and child."
"Good riddance of baith o' them."
"How dare you?"
"Dinna say 'dare' to me."
"Go away! Go instanter!"
"You will go first. I'll not leave you alane."
"If you don't go, I will call McNab and Jepson, and they will help you to your own room. Do you hear me?"
"Robert Campbell, go to your decent bed and sleep, and behave yourself."
"My God, woman!"
"I am your mother."
"God pity me! I can't throw you down, but——" then he lifted a white marble clock, and let it crash among the broken china. "Out of here!" he screamed. His usually deep, strong voice had been rising with every word he spoke, and his last order was given in a madaltowhich terrified the woman browbeating him. It was not Robert's voice; its shrill shriek was the cry of extremity or insanity. She fled upstairs to McNab's room.
"Waken! waken! McNab," she cried. "Your master has lost his senses. Run for Dr. Fleming. Make him come back wi' you."
"What hae ye been doing to the poor man?" she asked sleepily as she put on her shoes.
"Nothing, nothing at all. Just advising him. It is that English cutty—she——"
"Meaning Mrs. Robert Campbell?"
"Call her what you like. It is her, it is her! She has taken the bairn and gone."
"Gone?"
"Left her husband forever. Be in a hurry, woman. Don't you hear the man raving like a wild beast?"
He was not raving when McNab looked at him in passing. He was lying on the sofa perfectly still, with his hands clasped above his head. So the doctor found him a quarter-of-an-hour later. "You have had a great shock, Campbell," he said.
"A shot in the backbone, doctor. My wife has left me, and taken my son with her."
"I know! But were you not expecting her to do so?"
"No, no! Why should I?"
"How much longer did you think your wife could bear—what she had to bear? Come, come, you must look at this trial like a sensible man! I suppose you want to find her?"
"It is all I shall live for."
"Then you must sleep. I will go with you to your room, and give you a sedative. You must sleep, and get yourself together. Then you will have to make your face iron and brass, for all you will have to meet—advice and pity, blame and sympathy, but you will carry your cup of sorrow without spilling it o'er everybody you meet—or I don't know you. What made you lose your grip to-night?"
"Necessity, doctor. I had to, or——"
"I know."
"One towering rage was better than daily and hourly disputing. The subject is buried now, between my family and myself. It was a necessity."
"Ay, ay, and when Necessity calls, none shall dare 'bring toherfeet excuse or prayer.' Your wife's flight was a necessity also. Keep that in your mind. You are sleepy, I see; don't look at the newspapers till the wonder is over."
The newspapers easily got hold of the story, and each related the circumstance in its own way. Some plainly said domestic misery had driven the ill-used lady to flight; others spoke of her great beauty and wonderful voice, and made suspicious allusions to the temptations always ready to assail beauty and genius. None of them omitted the world-weary taunt of the mother-in-law, and some very broad aspersions were made on Mrs. Campbell's well-known impossible temper, and her hatred of all matrimonial intrusions into her family. The story of her eldest son's unsatisfactory marriage was recalled, his banishment and exile and supposed death. Christina's flight from her rich, titled lover to the poor man she preferred added a romantic touch; and the final tragedy of the disappearance of Robert Campbell's wife and son seemed to the majority proof positive that the trouble-making element was in the Campbell family, and rested in the hard, proud, scornful disposition of the mother, and mother-in-law. There was not a single paper that did not take a special delight in blaming Mrs. Traquair Campbell, but all, without exception, praised extravagantly the beauty, the sweet nature, and the genius of her wronged and terrorized daughter-in-law.
Robert Campbell took no notice of anything, that either the newspapers or his mother said. One day Isabel showed him a remark concerning "the unhappy life of that unfortunate gentleman, the late amiable Traquair Campbell, Esq." "You ought to stop such shameful allusions, Robert," she said, "they make mother furious."
He looked at her with eyes sad and suffering, and answered: "Neither you nor I, Isabel, can gainsay those words. They describe only too truly our father's position. He was amiable, and he was unhappy."
"But, Robert, the insinuation is, that mother was to blame for our father's unhappiness."
"She was. Such accusations are best unanswered. If we do not talk life into them, they will die in a few days."
To those who did not know Robert Campbell, he seemed at this time indifferent and unfeeling. In reality he was consumed by the two passions that had taken possession of him—the finding of his wife and son, and the making of money to keep up the search for them. He spent his days at the works, his evenings were devoted to interviewing his detectives, writing them instructions, or reading their reports. Shabby-looking men, in various disguises, haunted the hall and library of Traquair House, and every single one of them gave Mrs. Campbell a fresh and separate attack of anger. They were naturally against her, they believed everything wrong said of her, they talked slyly to the servants, and would scarcely answer her questions; they trespassed on her rights, and disobeyed her orders; and if she made a complaint of their behavior to her son, he looked at her indignantly and walked silently away. Speech, which had been her great weapon, and her great enjoyment, lost its power against the smouldering anger in her son's heart, and the speechless insolence of his "spying men."
Very soon after his sorrow had found him out he locked every drawer and closet in the rooms that had been Theodora's. It was a necessary action, but he had a bitter heartache in its performance. The carefully folded garments, with their faint scent of lavender, held so many memories of the woman he longed to see. The knots of pale ribbons, the neckwear of soft lace! Oh, how could such things hurt him so cruelly? In one drawer of her desk he found the stationery she had begged her own money to buy. She had not even taken the postage stamps. That circumstance set him thinking. She was leaving England, or she would have taken the stamps—perhaps not—they might have been left for the very purpose of inducing this belief. Who could tell?
Meantime nothing in the life of Traquair House changed or stopped, because Robert Campbell's life had been snapped into two parts. Mrs. Campbell soon recovered her pride and self-confidence. She told all her callers she "had received measureless sympathy, and as for her enemies, and what they said, she just washed her hands of them—poor, beggarly scribblers, and such like."
Isabel's behavior was a nearer and more constant annoyance. She spent the most of her time in her own room with maps and guidebooks and writing, and the pleasure she derived from these sources was a pleasure inconceivable to her mother. "You are past reckoning with, Isabel," she said fretfully one day, "what on earth are you busy about?"
"I am planning routes of travel, mother, putting down every place to stop at, what hotel to go to, what is worth seeing, and so on. I have four routes laid out already. I am hoping some day, when I have made all clear, you will go with me."
"Me! Me go with you! Not while I have one of my five senses left me."
"I shall surely go some day. I might have been travelling ere now, but I disliked to leave you alone, after this trouble about Dora."
"There is no trouble about Dora, none at all. The running away o' the creature is a great satisfaction to me. I hate both her and her child."
"Robert is breaking his heart about them."
"And neglecting his business, and spending more money than he is making, looking for them. I might break my heart, too, but thanks be! I have more sense. Did I tell you the Crawford girls are coming to stay a week or two? I thought they would be a bit company to you. I suppose they can have the room next yours."
"Christina's room! Oh, mother, I wish you would put them somewhere else. You have a spare room."
"It is o'er near my own room. And they are apt to come home at night full o' chat and giggle, and get me wakened up and maybe put by all sleep for that night. What is wrong with the room next yours?"
"I don't like any one using Christina's room—and they will keep me awake."
"Nobody takes the least thought for my comfort."
"Why did you ask the Crawfords? You know Robert hates them."
"Robert is forgetting how to behave decently. He will at least have to be civil to the Crawfords, and that is a thing he has ceased to be either to you or me."
"Robert and I understand each other. He gives me a look, and I give him one. We do not require to speak."
"I wonder how I ever came to breed such unfeeling, unsocial children. If I get 'yes' or 'no' from your brother now, it is the whole of his conversation; and as for yourself, Isabel, you are at that wearisome reading or writing the livelong day. I'll need the Crawfords, or some one, to talk to me, or I'll forget how to speak. Now where will I sleep them?"
"I suppose in poor Christina's room."
"Poor Christina! Yes, indeed! I have no manner o' doubt it is 'poor Christina' by this time."
"Mother! mother! do not spae sorrow to your own child. I can't bear it. I think she is very happy indeed. If she was not, she would have sent me word. It is poor Isabel, and it is happy Christina."
"Your way be it."
The next day the Crawfords came, and were installed in Christina's room. Mrs. Campbell was in one of her gayest moods, and she said to Isabel: "I am not going to live in a Trappist monastery, because Robert is too sulky to open his mouth to me. I'll be glad to hear the girls clacking and chattering, and whiles laughing a bit. God knows, we need not make life any gloomier than it is."
For two or three days, the Crawfords had the run of the house. Robert went away, "on another wild goose chase" his mother said, just before they arrived; and his mother's words were evidently true, for he came home with every sign of disappointment about him. He looked so unhappy, that Isabel, meeting him in the hall, said: "I am sorry, brother, very sorry."
"I know you are," he answered. "It was a false hope—nothing in it."
"I would stop looking."
"You are right. I will give it up."
He went into the dining-room with Isabel, said good-evening to his mother, and bowed civilly to her guests. The dinner proceeded in a polite, noiseless manner, until the end of the second course. Then Robert lifted his eyes, and they fell upon Jean Crawford's hand. The next moment he had risen and was at her side.
"Give me the ring upon your right hand," he said in a voice that held as much passion as a voice could hold and be intelligible.
"Why, Cousin Robert!"
"I want that ring!"
"Aunt Margaret said——"
"Give me the ring. It is not yours. How dare you wear it?"
"I was bringing it back! Oh, Aunt Margaret!"
"Robert, I am ashamed of you!"
"Mother, I want Theodora's ring—the ring stolen from my wife years ago. I must have it—I must, I must!"
"Don't cry, Jean. Give him his ring. I'll give you a far handsomer one."
Then the woman threw it down on the table, and Robert lifted it and left the room.
Isabel sat until the tearful, protesting meal was over, and then she did the most remarkable thing—she went to her brother. He was sitting looking at the ring, recalling its history. He remembered going into Kendal one Saturday night, just after its receipt, and memory showed him again Theodora's delight and excitement, her wonder over its beauty, and her pride in her pupils' affection. He could see her lovely face, her shining eyes, he could feel her soft kiss, and the caress of her hand in his. Oh, what a miracle of love and beauty she was to him that night! He told Isabel all about it, and then he spoke of its theft, and of his frequent promises and failures to recover it for her.
"But, brother," said Isabel, "you have now quite unexpectedly got it back. It is a good omen. Some day, when you are not looking for such a thing, you will get its owner back, you will put it on her finger. I feel sure of it."
"I was a brute, Isabel."
"You were a coward. You were afraid of mother."
"No man ever had so many opportunities for happiness as Theodora offered me. I scorned them all. Why was I so blind, so unjust, so cruel? I am miserable, and deserve to be miserable. We can go to hell before we die, Isabel."
"Yes, we can, but we send ourselves there. 'If I make my bed in hell,' said the great seer and singer. It is alwaysIthat makes that bed, never God, never any other human being." And it was Robert Campbell, he himself, and no other, who had made his bed in that forlorn circle of hell, where men who have lost their Great Opportunity, weep and wail over their forfeited happiness. Poor Isabel, she remembered, and longed to remind her brother, that even there God was with him, waiting to be gracious, ready to help! But she was too cowardly, she did not like to give religious advice; she was only a woman—he would wonder at her. So she went away, and did not deliver the gracious message, and felt poor and mean because of her fear and her faithlessness.
This conversation, however, made a decided change in Robert Campbell's life. It had always been believed by the family, that Isabel, unknown to herself, had a certain occult, prophesying power; frequently she had proved that with her insight was foresight. So, though Robert said nothing to her when she told him the getting back of the ring was a good omen, he believed her and derived a singular peace and confidence from the prediction. At that very hour, he virtually put a stop to all inquiries, and to all search; he resolved to leave to those behind him the bringing back of his wife, and their reconciliation.
Carrying out this resolve compelled him to take account of the money he had spent in the quest for Theodora and his son, and the total gave him a shock. It had been an absolutely fruitless waste of money, and he had a fiery impetuous determination to restore to his estate the full amount. To this object he devoted himself, and if a man is willing to lose his heart and soul in money-making, he is sure to succeed.
So the weeks and the months passed, and he turned himself, body and soul, into gold and tried to forget. The loss of his wife and child became a something that had happened long ago—an event sorrowful, and far off. For there was nothing to keep their memory alive. No one mentioned their names, and the very rooms they had inhabited, had lost all remembrance of them. They were simply empty rooms now, for every particle of the lovely and loving lives that had once informed them, had been withdrawn.
Nearly two years had passed since Christina married, nearly as long since Theodora and David disappeared, and the big, silent Traquair House was a desolate place. Mrs. Campbell had no one but her servants to dispute with, for though Isabel's seclusion was constantly more marked, Robert would not listen to a word against his sister. She had been sorry for him, and forespoken good for him; he stood staunchly by all she did.
"Do you know that she is going away this spring, into all sorts of wild and savage countries, and among pagans and papists, and worse—if there is worse; with nothing but a woman nearly as old as myself to lean on. I wonder at your allowing such nonsense."
"Isabel knows what she is doing. She is going with Lady Mary Grafton. They will have their maids, and a first-class courier. I think she is doing right."
"And I shall be left here, all alone?"
"Do you count me a nonentity?"
"You are very near it, as far as I am concerned."
"I am alone, too. Will you remember that? You know whose fault it is." Then he rose and left her, and Mrs. Campbell was conscious of a secret wish that the good old quarrelsome days would come back, even though it were Theodora and David who brought them.
A few days after this conversation Robert had business in the city, and after it was finished, he walked leisurely down Buchanan Street. It was a fine spring morning, and there was a glint of sunshine tempering the fresh west breeze. Passing McLaren's, he saw a lady get out of a cab, and go into the shop. He followed her, and gently laid his hand on her shoulder, saying:
"Christina, sister!"
"Oh, Robert, Robert!" and she laughed, and cried, and clasped his hands.
"Come with me to my club," he said, "and we will have lunch and a good talk. You must have a deal to tell me."
"I have, I have! My cab is at the door. Will it do for you? You used to hate cabs." She laughed again and her laugh went to his heart, so he petted her hand, and said she was looking white and thin, and what was the matter?
"I had a little daughter only six weeks ago, the sweetest darling you ever saw, Robert. And I have a beautiful wee laddie, called Robert—called after you—he is nearly a year old."
"Then I must go with you and see my namesake."
"Do you really mean that?"
"I intend to give you this afternoon."
"I am so glad—so happy."
Then they were at the Club House, and Robert took her to a pleasant parlor and ordered a royal lunch, and a bottle of wine.
"We must drink the little chap's health," he said. "And now tell me, Christina, are you happy?"
"Yes, I am happy. I have some little anxieties about Jamie, but love makes all easy—and Jamie loves me and the children, and does his best for us. A man cannot do more than that, can he?"