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 easy dÉshabille mair than you do; if you are understanding what I mean by dÉshabille—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 come at 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 bid not to 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 the right side 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."

"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.