  It will not now be difficult for any one to construct in their imagination the life in Traquair House for the next two years. But at the end of that time, a great change was approaching, and the bringer of it was Isabel, Lady Wynton. She was sitting at her husband's side one afternoon, in the office or foyer of a large hotel in San Francisco. Sir Thomas was smoking and watching with her the constant kaleidoscope of humanity passing in and out. They were not talking, but there was a thorough, though silent sympathy between them. Sometimes Sir Thomas looked at her with an admiring glance, which she answered with a smile, or a move of her chair closer to him; but her attitude was that of a woman silently interested and satisfied. It was the old Isabel in a repose, informed, vigilant, and conscious of a perfect communion of feeling. Suddenly her whole appearance changed. She became eager and watchful, and her personality appeared to be on the tiptoe of expectation. With her eyes she followed every movement of a beautiful young woman attended by a scholarly-looking man, nearing sixty years of age. The couple were quickly joined by a much younger man, they walked with him to the main entrance, stood talking a few minutes, and then bid him farewell. The woman and older man then turned back into the hotel, and Lady Wynton had a full leisurely look at them. She did not recognize the man at all, but she was perfectly satisfied as to the identity of the woman, and she stepped hastily forward, crying softly: "Theodora, Theodora! I know it is you. I have found you at last. Oh, how glad I am, how glad I am!" "Isabel!" "And here is my husband, Dora." "I need no introduction, Mrs. Campbell," said Sir Thomas, with smiling courtesy. "I remember you perfectly, though you have been growing younger, instead of older." Theodora quickly introduced her father, leaving him with Sir Thomas while she and Lady Wynton went to the Wyntons' parlor for conversation. "I must write Robert at once," said Lady Wynton. "It will be such a wonderful thing to him, for I am sure he has given up all hope of ever seeing you again, Dora. Two years ago he left Traquair House; he could not endure his empty lonely rooms any longer." "Poor, dark, sad rooms! I try to forget them also." "They are not dark and empty now, Christina and her husband and babies are living in them, and they make them lively enough, I have no doubt." A shadow passed over Theodora's face, and she did not speak for a few moments. Then she asked: "What was done with the furniture and the things I used to believe were mine?" "Christina wrote me that Robert had given everything in the rooms to her." "How kind of him!" There was a little scorn in her voice, and she asked, "What about my piano, and my music?" "Oh, Theodora, you must not feel hurt. Poor Robert! He was nearly broken-hearted. He never expected to see you. He had spent a fortune on detectives, who looked all over Europe for you. One night I sat with him, and I really thought he was insane. He acted like it." "But he gave my piano and music away." "I suppose he could not bear to see them—and you had left them, you know." "Isabel, he gave me that piano as a birthday gift, one week before we were married; but then, of course, he took it back after the ceremony. He told me once my wedding ring was his property, and that he could sell the very hair off my head if he chose to do so." "He must have been in a vile temper to say such things. Legally, I suppose he was right, but no good man ever does such things." "But if a woman has the ill-fortune to marry a bad man? and many women innocently do this, then——" "Then what?" "If she has any self-respect, she emancipates herself from such a condition of slavery." "Are you still angry at Robert?" "I never was angry at him. He was only the rock on which my love bark struck, and went down." "How is David?" "Come home with me, and see him. We shall be home for supper, and it is about time we were leaving." "Both Sir Thomas and I will come with you gladly." For nearly ten miles their road lay through a delightful country, and just at the darkening ended in a plateau among some foothills. A number of white houses were scattered over it, and towards one of these Theodora drove her carriage. They entered an inclosure studded with forest trees, and kept in fine order; and as they neared the dwelling, came into a lovely garden full of all kinds of flowers and fruits. The house was square and large, surrounded by deep piazzas, and covered to the chimney-tops with flowering vines, chiefly with jasmine and passion flowers. On either side of the wide hall there were cool, large parlors, and from its centre rose the white stairway leading to the upper rooms—and everywhere there was an indefinable sense of peace and comfort. "What a beautiful home! What a heavenly place!" cried Isabel, and Theodora answered: "My father bought it when we first came. We have lived here ever since. It is beautiful. The sun shines on it, the winds blow through it, in every room there is happiness and peace. You were asking about David," she said in a tone of exultation, "here he comes!" and they went to the window and watched his approach. He was riding a fine, spirited horse, and riding like Jehu the son of Nimshi, who doubtless rode—as well as drove—furiously. "How wonderfully he rides, Dora." "David can do anything with a horse, or a rifle, and he is so strong, and tall, you would think him much older than he is. Come, we will go down and have supper, and let unpleasant memories die." For two weeks the Wyntons stayed with Mr. Newton—two weeks of perfect delight to them. They visited various lovely towns along the coast, they hunted, and fished, and talked, the women of household things, and family affairs—the two men of their college days, and sports, and poetry; Sir Thomas quoting the Greek poets, and Mr. Newton the English, old and new. In the evenings, Theodora played and sang, and David recited stirring lines from "The Lady of the Lake" and other works. Night and day followed each other so happily and so quickly, that the week promised became two weeks, without notice or protest. No letter during this time had been sent to Robert. Theodora insisted on this point. "I do not like letters, Isabel," she said. "They say too much, or too little. When you see Robert, tell him what your eyes have seen, and your ears heard—just the plain truth—and leave him to act on it, as he wishes." "Then remember, Dora, that we are not intending to hurry home. We shall remain a few days at Salt Lake City, Denver, St. Louis, Chicago, and of course visit Niagara. It may be a month before we reach New York. You must give us five or six weeks before we reach Liverpool, and so do not lay the blame of our loitering to Robert's indifference. Be patient." "I have been four years without a word. You see that I am neither impatient nor unhappy." "Tell me, Dora, who was that dark, handsome man you seemed so much at home with in the hotel? I am curious about him. He appeared to be so familiar with your father and yourself." "He is a neighbor. His house is about two miles from ours. The two eldest girls you saw reading and singing with me are his daughters. I am educating them with the three younger girls, who are the only children of a neighbor in another direction." "He seemed very fond of you—I mean the man at the hotel." "He is a good friend. He spends much time with my father. When he bid us good-bye, he was going to his mining property. That is the reason you have not seen him. Had he been at home, he would have made your visit here much pleasanter." "Then I think we should never have got away. What a book full I shall have to tell Robert? I wish I was home. It will be good to see the light come into his sad face, when I say, 'Robert, I have found Theodora!'" "Say nothing to influence him, one way or the other. His own heart must urge him to seek me, or he will never find me. It is a long journey to take, for a disappointment." "He will doubtless write to you at once." "I should take no notice of a letter." "Why?" "I have learned that a woman who lets slip the slightest respect which is due her, invites, and perhaps deserves the contempt she gets." "Sir Thomas is very respectful to me, Dora." "And very kind and loving. And you must know that you are much handsomer than you were before your marriage. You converse better, your manner is dignified yet gracious, your dress is rich, and in fine taste, and the touch of gray in your abundant black hair is exceedingly becoming to you. You are a fortunate woman." "But, Dora, remember how long I waited for good fortune. I am in real living only two years old; all the years before my marriage were blank and dreary. I am forty years of age according to my birth date, and I have lived two, out of the forty." "Thank God for the two years!" "I do. We both do. Sir Thomas is very religious." At length the Wyntons departed, and when Theodora had made her last adieu, and watched their carriage out of sight, she turned to her mother, who stood pale and depressed at her side. "I am glad the visit is over. It has been something of a trial to you, mother—and to me also." "The last week I was a little weary. But father and David enjoyed it, so it does not matter." "Yes, it does matter. The men in a house should not be made happy at the cost of the women's exhaustion." "How soon do you expect your husband?" "Not for eight weeks—it may be longer, and it may be never." "Do you love him at all now?" "I love the Robert who wooed and married me, as much as ever I did; the Robert of the last five or six years, I do not wish to see again. I have been away from him four years, and I cannot hope that his manner of life has improved him." "How has he lived?" "From what Isabel told me, I should say his family had full dominion over him for two years; the result being the tearing to pieces of the home he made for me, and the handing over to his sister everything that was mine. The last two years he has lived a solitary life at his club, no doubt self-indulgent, self-centred, and self-sufficient." "Theodora, no one but God knows anything about Robert. He would show himself to no one—I mean his real self. Do not judge him on the partial evidence of his sister. She would look no further than his words and actions." "I wish I had heard nothing about him. I thought he was out of my life forever." "Do not let the matter disturb you, until you are compelled to. Grace for the need is sure. Nowhere have I seen, grace before the need promised." "You are right, mother, we will go on with our lives just as if this visit had never happened. I will neither hope nor doubt. I will do my day's work, and leave all with God." So the Newton House went back to its calm routine, and Theodora taught and wrote, and helped her mother with her housekeeping, and her father with copying his manuscripts, and her boy with his lessons, and the days passed into weeks, and the weeks into months, and the promise of Robert's coming became as a dream when one awakeneth. Yet all was proceeding surely, if leisurely, to the appointed end. In about eight weeks, the Wyntons arrived in London, and following their usual habit delayed and delayed there, for a whole week before starting for Scotland. But once at Wynton Castle, Isabel felt freed from her promise of silence, and she wrote to Robert a few days after her return home, the following note:
Robert found this letter beside his dinner plate, and after he had taken his soup he deliberately opened it. He knew it was Isabel's writing, and the post-marks showed him she was at home again. He knew also that it would contain an invitation to Wynton, and before he was sure of it, he made a vow to himself that he would not go. "Sir Thomas will prose about the persons and places he has seen, and Isabel will smile and admire him, and I shall have to be congratulatory and say a hundred things I do not want to say. I do not care a farthing for Sir Thomas and his partnership now, and I will not have his patronage." Thus he talked to himself, as he opened the letter, and gave his order for boiled mutton and caper sauce. When the mutton came he could not taste it. He looked dazed and shocked, and the waiter asked: "Are you ill, sir?" "Yes," was the answer. "Give me a glass of wine." The wine did not help him, and he lifted the letter and went to his room. There he threw himself upon the bed and lay motionless for an hour. He was not thinking, he could not think; he was gathering his forces physical and mental together, to enable him to overcome the shock of Isabel's news, and decide on his future course. For the information which Isabel had given him in a very prosaic way had shaken the foundations of his life, though he could not for awhile tell whether he regarded it as welcome, or unwelcome. But as he began to recognize its import, and its consequences, his feelings were certainly not those of pleasure, nor even of satisfaction. He had rid himself of all the encumbrances Theodora had left behind her. He had given his home away and reduced the obligations to his kindred to a minimum, for a visit once a week satisfied his mother and Christina; and if he missed a week, no one complained or asked for the reason. At his club he was well served, all his likes and dislikes were studied and pandered to. There was no quarrelling at the club, no injured wife, no sick child, no troublesome servants. He was leading a life that suited him, why should he change it for Theodora? If Theodora had been in poverty and suffering, he felt sure he would have had no hesitation, he would have hurried to her side, but a Theodora happy, handsome, and prosperous, was a different problem. Why had she not sent him a letter by Isabel? She must have known, that Isabel would certainly reveal her residence, why then did she not do it herself? "She ought to have written to me," he muttered, "it was her duty, and until she does, I will not take any notice of Isabel's information." With this determination he fell into an uneasy sleep, and lo, when he awoke, he was in quite a different mood! Theodora, in her most bewitching and pathetic moods, was stirring his memory, and he said softly, yet with an eager passion: "I must go where Dora is! I must go to her! I cannot go too quickly! I will see Isabel to-day, and get all necessary information from her." He found Isabel enthusiastically ready to hasten him. She described the Newton home—its beauty, comfort, peace, and happiness. She went into italics about David—he was a young prince among boys of his age. He rode wondrously, he could do anything with a rifle that a rifle was made for, he was a good English scholar for his age, and was learning Latin and German. She said his grandfather was his tutor, and that the two were hardly ever apart. At this point Robert had a qualm of jealousy. The boy was his boy, and he ought to be with him, and not with his grandfather. He was defrauded on every side. He said passionately, he would go for the boy, and bring him home at any rate; and Isabel told him plainly it could not be done. "And as for Theodora," she continued, "she looks younger and lovelier than when you married her. You should see her in white lawn with flowers on her breast, or in her wonderful hair; or still better, on horseback, with David riding at her side. Oh, Robert! You never knew the lovely Theodora of to-day." "If she had any lover," he said slowly, "if she had any lover, you would have discovered that fact, Isabel?" "Lover! That is nonsense. Her time and interests are taken up with her teaching, writing, and her care of her child. She is educating five girls, daughters of wealthy men living near, and she has published one novel, and is writing another; and she helps Mr. Newton with his manuscripts, and Mrs. Newton with her house. She is as busy as she is happy. We stayed two weeks with her, and I saw no one like a lover. I do remember at the hotel where I first saw her, there was a very handsome dark man, who seemed to be on the most friendly, even familiar terms with both Theodora and Mr. Newton. I asked her once who the man was, and she said he was a neighbor, and that she was educating his two daughters. Then I asked if he was likely to call and she told me he had gone to his mine, and that was the reason we had not seen him every day. She said she was sorry it had so happened, because he would have made our visit much pleasanter." "No doubt," he answered. "Much pleasanter, of course. Thank you, Isabel. I owe you more than I can ever pay. I shall go to San Francisco, and see with my own eyes how things are." "You will see nothing wrong, Robert. Be sure of that. Dora is as good as she is beautiful. I did not love her when I thought her an intruder into my home, but in her own home, she is adorable. Every one loves her." "I object to every one loving her. She is mine. I am going to bring her to her own home—where she ought to be." He would not remain to dinner. He was in haste to reach a solitude in which he could commune with his own heart. For Isabel's words had roused a fiery jealousy of his wife, and he had suddenly remembered his mother's first question when she heard of Theodora's flight: "Has she gone with that black-a-visored dandy staying at the Oliphants'?" He had then scornfully denied the supposition—had felt as if it was hardly worth denying. But at this hour, it assumed an importance that tortured him. His mother had called him black-a-visored, and Isabel had called him dark. The two were the same man, and this conviction came with that infallible assurance, that turns a suspicion into a truth, beyond inquiry or doubt. He got back to Glasgow—he hardly knew how. He was a little astonished to find himself there. But something, held in abeyance while he was out of the city, returned to him the moment he felt his feet on the wet pavements, and breathed the foggy atmosphere. He knew himself again as Robert Campbell, and with an accented display of his personality went into the discreet, non-observant refuge of his club. He was hungry, and he ate; in a whirl of intense feeling, and he drank to steady himself. Then he went to see his mother. He wanted a few words with her, about "the black-a-visored dandy." He found Traquair House topsy-turvy. Christina was giving a dance and there was no privacy anywhere, but in his mother's room. She was dressed for the occasion, and wearing her pearl and diamond ornaments, and he had a moment's surprise and pleasure in her appearance. "Christina is giving a bit dance," she said apologetically, "and the house is at sixes and sevens. It is the way o' young things. They must turn everything upside down. You look badly, Robert. What's wrong wi' you?" "I have found Theodora." "No wonder you look miserable. Where is she?" "In California." "Just the place for the like o' her. It is not past my memory, Robert, when the scum o' the whole earth was running there. She did right to go where she belongs." "Hush, mother! The Wyntons have been staying with her for two weeks—and they were well entertained. She has a beautiful home, Isabel says." "Have you seen Isabel?" "For an hour or two. She sent her love to you." "She can keep it. If it isn't worth bringing, it isn't worth having." "Mother, you once spoke to me of a dark man staying at the Oliphants', and asked if Theodora had gone away with him. What made you ask that question?" "Weel, Robert, she was always flitting quiet-like between this house and the Oliphants'; and twice he walked with her to the top o' the street, and they were a gey long time in holding hands, and saying good-bye." "Why did you not tell me then?" "I wanted to let the cutty tak' her run, and to see how far she would go. I had my een on her." "I feel sure he is living near her, in California." "Very close, indeed, no doubt o' that—pitying and comforting her. Why don't you do your own pitying?" she asked scornfully. "I am going to California to-morrow." "Don't! You'll get yoursel' shot, or tarred and feathered, or maybe lynched. Those West Americans are an unbidable lot; they are a law to themselves, and a very bad law, generally speaking. Bide at hame, and save your life. What for will you go seeking sorrow?" "I want my son. Isabel says he is a very prince among boys of his age." "No doubt o' it. There's enough Campbell in him to set him head and shoulders over ordinary lads. But you send men now, that you know where to send them, and let them get the lad away. They'll either coax or carry him." "I want to see Theodora." "If you have a thimbleful o' sense, let her alone. Old love is a dangerous thing to touch. She'll gie you the heartache o' the world again, and you'll be down at her feet for comfort." "Did I ever down at her feet for anything?" "If you are tired o' freedom, and easy days, tak' yoursel' to California. And what about the works, while you are seeking dool and sorrow?" "I shall only be gone about six weeks." "Fiddlesticks! You are going into captivity—settle your business before you go, and see that you don't forget your mother and sisters' bed and board is in it." "I shall be back in six weeks. Good-bye, mother. Give my love to Christina and Jamie, I will not trouble them now." "They are full o' their ain to-do at the present. I'll gie them your message. Good-bye, and see you are home, ere I send after you." He went hastily downstairs, and could hardly believe he was walking through Traquair House. Pretty girls in dancing dresses were constantly passing him, young men were standing about in groups laughing and talking, and there was the sound of fiddles tuning up in the distance. It was all so unnatural that it affected him like the phantasmal background of a dream. And he was suffering as he had never before suffered in all his life, for jealousy, that brutal, overwhelming passion, had seized him, and he was in a fire constantly growing fiercer. Every thought he now had of Theodora fed it, and he hastened to his club and locked himself in his room. It was clear to him, that he must reach San Francisco by the swiftest means possible. In his condition, he felt delay might mean severe illness, if not insanity. On the third morning after this determination, when he awoke he was out of sight of land. The wind was high, and the sea rough, but he was not sick, and the tumult of the elements suited his mood very well. He made no friends, and his trouble had such a strong personality, that many divined its reason. "He looks as if he was after a runaway wife," said one man, and his companion answered: "I do not envy the fellow who has run away with her, he will get no mercy from yonder husband, and as for the wife!" "God help her!" "It is Campbell of the Campbell Iron Works near Glasgow," said a third. "I never heard that he had a wife. I shouldn't think he would care for one. He lives only for those black, blasted furnaces. He is happy enough among their slag and cinders, and smoke and flame. The country round them is like Gehenna, but it suits him better than green pastures and still waters. He isn't such a big man physically, but when he is marching round among his workers, ordering this, and abusing that, you would think he was ten feet high, and the men are sure of it. But Campbell isn't a bad fellow take him by and long; he goes to Kirk regular, and when he feels like giving, gives with both hands." "We might ask him to join us in a game of whist." "Nay, we had better let him alone. I think some American has maybe stolen one o' his patents, or got ahead o' him in some way or other; and he is going to have it out with him face to face—that would be like Robert Campbell. He is in a fighting mood anyway, and he wouldn't help our pleasure; far from it." This opinion seemed the general one, so on the voyage he made no acquaintances, and when the steamer reached New York, he went directly from her to the railway station, and bought a ticket for San Francisco. His train was nearly ready, and in half-an-hour he was speeding westwards. For a few days he noticed nothing, but after he had passed St. Louis, he began to be astonished, and even slightly terrified at the immense space separating him from all he knew and loved. Often he had an urgent feeling that he must at once turn back, and he might have done so, if a still stronger feeling had not urged him forward. A journey from London to Edinburgh had always appeared to him a long one, and he had even felt Sheffield very far from Scotland; but the vastness of the present journey stupefied him. Before he reached San Francisco, he was subject to attacks of sentiment about his native city and country. He felt that he might never see them again. But the end came at last, and San Francisco itself was the climax to all his wanderings. What could induce men to travel to the extremity of creation, and then build there a city so large and so splendid? How could they live and trade and make money so far from London and Paris and the centre of the civilized world? He went to the hotel at which his sister had stayed, and was obliged to admit that neither Glasgow, London, nor Paris had anything to rival its luxury and splendor. He began to be interested. He thought it might be worth while to dress a little for dinner. For to a man as insular in mind as Robert Campbell, the scene was amazing. He could have gone every day for fifty years to Glasgow Exchange, and never witnessed anything like its cosmopolitan variety. There did not seem to be two persons alike in nationality, caste, or occupation. Even the Americans present were as diverse as the states from which they came. For the first time in his life it struck Robert Campbell, that Scotchmen might not possibly be the dominant race in all the world's great business thoroughfares. He forgot his absorbing trouble for awhile, or at least it blended itself with elements that diluted and even changed its character. Thus, he began to fancy Theodora in her loveliest, proudest mood walking through this motley crowd. How would she regard him in it? How would the crowd regard her? He was busy with this question, when his attention was attracted by a man who reminded him of something known and familiar. "He at least has the look of a Scotchman," he mused. "I must have seen him before somewhere." If he had kept any memory of his own face and figure, perhaps he might have traced the resemblance home. But often as we look in our mirrors, who does not straightway forget what manner of man, or woman, they are? For the stranger who had been able to interest Robert Campbell was his brother David. He was talking earnestly to two men whom Robert could not classify. They wore no coats, or vests, and the wide, strong leather belts with which they were girdled had somehow a formidable look; for though quite innocent of offensive weapons, they appeared to promise or threaten them. David was evidently their superior, perhaps their employer, but there was a kind of equality unconsciously exhibited which Robert wondered at, and did not approve. He felt that under no circumstances would he have been seen talking familiarly to men so manifestly of the lower classes. But when they went away, David shook hands with them and then stood still a moment as if undecided about his next movement; and Robert watched him so fixedly, that he probably compelled his brother's attention. For he suddenly lifted his eyes, and they met Robert's eyes, and his face brightened, and he walked rapidly forward, till he placed his hands on Robert's shoulders, and with a glad smile cried: "Robert, Robert Campbell! Don't you know me, Robert? Don't you know me?" And Robert gazing into his eager face answered slowly: "Are you David—my brother? Are you David Campbell, my brother David?" "Sit down, dear lad! I am David Campbell. Sure as death, I am your brother David. Get yourself together, and we will go and have dinner. You look as if you were going to faint—why, Robert!" "I forgot dinner. I have had nothing to-day but a cup of coffee. Oh, David, David! what a Providence you are! How did you happen in here?" "I came to watch for you. I have been coming every day for three weeks. Can you walk a few steps now? You are requiring food. What made you forget to eat?" "Trouble, great trouble—crazy love, and crazy jealousy. My wife and my child have left me!" "I know." "How do you know?" "They are my dearest neighbors." "Then you saw Isabel?" "I did not. I was at the mine, but Theodora told me all about her visit, and as I knew Isabel would tell you where your wife and child were living, I have been watching for your arrival. Come now, and let us have something to eat. Afterwards we will talk." "What a splendid dining-room!" "Isn't it? And you will get a splendid meal!" He called a negro and said: "Tobin, bring us the best dinner you can serve." The order was promptly and amply obeyed, and before dinner was half over Robert's irritability and faintness had vanished, and he was the usual assertive, domineering Robert Campbell. But not until they had finished eating, and were sitting in the shady court with their cigars would David allow their personal conversation to be renewed. He began it by saying: "You will wish to see Theodora to-morrow, I suppose?" "I wish to see her at once—to-night." "That will not do! You want a good sleep, you want a bath and a barber, and some decent clothes on you." "I am not going courting, David." "Then you need not go at all. You will require to do the best courting you ever did, or ever can do, if you hope to get a hearing from Theodora." "She is my wife, David, and she——" "Will be far harder to win, than ever Miss Newton was." "Win! She was won long ago." "Won—and lost. You will not find this second winning an easy one." "How do you know so much about her?" "I knew all about her miserable life, before I knew her; but I finally met her at my friend Oliphant's." "And it was the Oliphants who told you all her complainings. Mother never trusted them. It seems she was right—as usual." "The Oliphants told me nothing. I heard all her life with you from my foster-mother, McNab." "McNab, your foster-mother, David?" "McNab nursed, and mothered me. She was the only mother I ever had." "McNab! McNab! Now I begin to understand—and the Oliphants are your friends? And you stayed with them when in Glasgow?" "Always. John Oliphant and I have been acquainted since we were lads together." Then Robert burst into uncanny laughter and answered: "You are the man, David, I have been wanting to kill all the way across the Atlantic and across the continent." David looked at his brother full in the eyes, as men look at a wild animal, and asked slowly: "Why did you want to kill me, Robert? What harm had I done you?" "When I told mother Theodora had gone away from me, her first words were: 'Has that black-a-visored dandy, staying at the Oliphants', gone with her?' She added, that she had 'seen you with Theodora and that at parting you held her hand—and seemed very loth to leave her.'" "Mother was altogether wrong. I never was on any street in Glasgow with your wife. I was never seen in public with her anywhere. I respected your honor, as well as my own, and never by word, deed, or even thought wronged it." "Why should mother have told such a—lie?" "Because it is her nature to make all the trouble she can." "But you advised Theodora to leave me?" "Never. She acted entirely on her father's and mother's advice. But when I saw they had resolved to come to the United States, and knew nothing of the country, I told Mr. Newton about California, and advised him to make a home here. And as I and my daughters were travelling the same road, I did do all I could, to make the long journey as easy as possible. Could any man seeing a party like the inexperienced minister, and his invalid wife, daughter, and her child, do less than help them all he could? You owe me some thanks, Robert, when you get sane enough to pay your debt." "I do thank you, David, and what other debt do I owe you? Theodora had no money." "Her father gave me money to buy two of the best staterooms for them. He paid all their expenses of every kind, and he bought the house in which they are now living, and paid for it. Since then he has preached, and lectured, and written, and made a very good living. He has had no necessity to be indebted to any one. Yet if he had needed money, I would have gladly loaned him all he required." "Oh, David, David! Forgive me. I am in a fever. I do not know what I am saying. Ever since my wife left me, and wronged me——" "Stop, Robert. Your wife never wronged you. She allowed you to wrong her six years too long. If she had not left you, she would have been dead long ago. To-morrow, you will see what love, and peace, and this splendid climate have done for her." "And what has her desertion done for me?" "If it has not taught you the priceless worth of the loving woman you were torturing daily, it has done nothing. Wait till you see your son, and then try and imagine the wretched child he would have been, if his mother had not braved everything for his sake and taken him beyond the power of the unnatural woman who hated him." "She hated him because he was called David." "And she hated me because she wronged me. If she had nursed me, she would have loved me. She sent me to Lugar Hill School because she hated me, and she would have sent your David there for the same reason. Theodora did well, did right to take any means to save the child from such a terrible life. If she had not done so, she would have been as cruel as his grandmother—and father." "My head burns, and my heart aches! I can say no more now, David." "Poor lad! My heart aches for you. But there is a happy future for Robert Campbell yet. I am sure of it. Put all thought and feeling away until the morning, and sleep, and sleep, as long as you can." "I want to see Theodora early in the day." "You cannot. As I told you before, the bath and the barber and the tailor are necessary. Have you forgotten the spotless neatness and delicacy of Theodora's toilet? You are going a-wooing, and you must be more careful in dressing for Theodora Campbell than you were in dressing for Theodora Newton." "I cannot think any longer. I will consider what you say in the morning." "You will be a new man, and begin a new life to-morrow." "I want the old life." "You do not. And you will never get it. The old life has gone forever." In the morning he did not even want it. He he had slept profoundly, and when he had made all preparations for his visit to Theodora, he was quite pleased with his renovated appearance. David spoke of sending a message to her, but Robert thought a surprise visit would be best for himself. He would not give his wife an opportunity to sit down and recall all his past offences, and arrange the mood in which she would meet him, and the words she would say. "We do not require to hurry," said David. "She is dismissing her classes for the summer holidays to-day, and will not be at liberty until near three o'clock. So we will eat lunch here, and then drive leisurely over to Newton Place." Robert shrugged his shoulders impatiently. He thought his brother was much too leisurely, but when they were rolling pleasantly along through the beautiful land, he was not disposed to complain. It was indeed a New World to him. Half-a-mile from the Newton dwelling, they heard voices and laughter, and the clatter of horses' feet going at full speed, and immediately there came into view three young riders—two girls, and a tall, gallant-looking lad as their escort. "Look, Robert, look!" cried David, much excited. "Here come my two girls, and your own little lad. They are racing, and will not stop. Be ready to give them a 'bravo!' in passing." He had hardly finished speaking, ere the gay, laughing party were behind them. They were all in white linen, and the girls' long bright hair was flowing freely, and had pink ribbons in it; and the boy had a black ribbon at his knees, and on his shoes, and an eagle's feather in his cap. And their bright faces were full of light and mirth, and their voices a living tongue of gladness, as they passed crying joyously, "Uncle David! Papa! Papa!" "My God!" ejaculated Robert. "Is it possible? Can that be my little David?" "It is your David." Then both men were silent, until Robert heard his brother say, "This is Newton Place," and he looked in astonishment at the house they were approaching. "It is a lovely spot," he said, "and there is a great deal of land round it." "Yes, Newton made a good investment. The land has increased in value steadily ever since he bought it. You had better get out at this turning. I will take the buggy to the stable, and you can go to the door and ring for admittance." Robert did not like to object, and he did as directed. The door was standing wide open, but he rang the bell. A Japanese boy answered the summons, and opening a parlor he told Robert to take a seat. "Your card, sir," he asked, holding out the little tray to receive it. Robert grew red and angry, but he took a card from his pocket-book, and threw it upon the tray, and when the boy had left the room he laughed bitterly, and muttered: "It is a fine thing for Robert Campbell to send his visiting card to his wife." He would not sit down, but stood glaring around the cool, dusky room, so comforting after the heat and sunshine. "I suppose I shall be kept waiting while my wife considers whether to see me or not; but she may consider too long. I will not be snubbed by any woman living." As he made this resolution, Theodora entered. She came forward with both hands extended, and her face was radiant, and her voice full of happy tones. He would have taken her in his arms, but she kept his hands in hers and led him to a seat. Then Mr. Newton came in with David, and he threw open the windows, and let in the sunshine, and Theodora was revealed in all her splendid beauty. In a long white dress, with a white rose in her hair, she lacked nothing that rich materials or vivid colors could have given her. Her beautiful hair, her sparkling eyes, her exquisite complexion, the potent sense of health and vitality which was her atmosphere, commanded instant delight and admiration; and Robert could only gaze and wonder. How had this brilliant woman been evolved from the pale, frail, perishing Theodora he had last seen? In a short time the three men went out together to look at the fruit trees and the wonderful flowers, and Theodora assisted her mother to prepare such a meal as she knew Robert enjoyed; and when they sat down to it, she placed Robert at her right hand. They were still at the table when David came galloping home, and in a few minutes he entered the room. Every eye was turned on the boy, but he saw at first no one but his uncle. "Cousin Agnes won!" he cried, "won by two lengths, uncle. Isn't she great?" Then he noticed his father, and for a few moments seemed puzzled. There was not a word, not a movement as the boy gazed. Theodora held her breath in suspense. But it was only for a few moments; joyfully he exclaimed: "I know! I know!" and the next instant his arms were round his father's neck, and he was crying, "It is father! Father, father! Let me sit beside him, mother." And Theodora made room for the boy's chair between them. The evening was a revelation to the discarded husband. Theodora sang wonderfully some American songs that Robert had never before heard—music with a charm entirely fresh and new; and David recited an English and Latin lesson, and then at his uncle's request, spoke in good broad Scotch Robert Burns' grand lyric, "A Man's a Man for a' That." Robert said little, but he drew the lad between his knees, and whispered something to him which transfigured the child's face. He trusted his father implicitly, he always had done, and his father had a heartache that night, when he thought of the wrong that might have been done to the helpless child. Soon after nine o'clock, David Campbell said: "Come, brother, we have a short ride before us, and I like to close my house at ten; also I am sure you are weary." Robert said he was, but he rose more like a man that had received a blow, than one simply tired. He could scarcely speak his adieus—and he could not answer Theodora's invitation to "call early on the following day" except in single words. "Yes—no—perhaps." They were outside the Newton grounds before he spoke to his brother, then he said: "David, it is too hard. I don't understand. She never asked me to stay—the Wyntons were asked. I feel as if I had no business here. I had better go back to Glasgow. I will go back to-morrow." "It is not her house. She rents her classroom, and pays her own and her child's board and lodging there. That is all. She had no right to ask you to remain. It is Mr. Newton's house, and he received you in a Christian and gentlemanly spirit. I do not care to say how I would have received a man who had treated my Agnes, or Flora, in the way Theodora was treated." "I will go back to Glasgow to-morrow." "You will do so at the peril of all your future happiness and prosperity." Then they were silent until they reached a great white house standing in green depths of sweet foliage. Robert wondered and admired. Its vast hall, and the spacious room, so splendidly furnished, into which his brother led him, filled him with astonishment. Two pretty girls were sitting at a table drawing embroidery patterns, and they nearly threw the table over in their delight when their father entered. "Here is your Uncle Robert Campbell!" he cried joyously. "Give him some of your noisy welcome, and then run away, you little cherubs, or you will miss your beauty sleep." They were soon alone, and David turned out some of the lights and placed a box of cigars on the table, and the two men smoked in silence for a little while. Then Robert said: "You are very rich, I suppose, David." "Yes, I am tolerably well off." "And very happy?" "As happy as a man can be, who has lost the dearest and sweetest of wives." "But you will marry again?" "Not until my daughters are married! I will never give them a stepmother; she might make me a stepfather. But when they are settled, I may marry again." "Do you know any one likely to take the place of your dead wife?" "No one can ever take her place. There is a very noble woman who may make her own place in my heart and home. I think it would be a very strong, sweet place." "Is she Scotch?" "No." "English?" "No." "American?" "Spanish-American." "Beautiful?" "Very—and of lovely disposition and great attainments. She is also rich, but that I do not count." "What is her name?" "Mercedes Morena. She is a Roman Catholic, a woman of fervent piety." "Spanish. And a Papist. What will mother say? "All kinds of hard things—no doubt—though money makes a good deal of difference in mother's conclusions. But I care nothing for her opinion; a wife is a man's most sacred and personal relation. No one has a right to object to the woman he chooses. It is no one's business but his own." "When I married Theodora, she looked as she looked to-night, only to-night she is far more lovely. Oh, David, I cannot give her up! She is tied to me by my heart-strings. I shall cease to live, if she refuses me." "And, Robert, she is good as she is lovely. I marvel that you could live six years at her side, and not grow into her spiritual and mental likeness." "The Campbells have a strong individuality, David." "I tell you frankly, she has lifted me upward almost unconsciously. I would not do the things to-day I did without uneasiness four years ago. For instance, I would not to-day go into my mother's home and presence unknown to her. I would not to-day visit you and your works as a stranger. I enjoyed the incognito four years ago. It appears to me now dishonorable and vulgar. No one has told me so, or corrected me for it—the knowledge came with the gradual and general uplift of my ideals, through companionship and conversation with your wife. How did you escape her sweet influences?" "I kept out of their way." "Did you never make any effort to find your wife and child?" "I spent four thousand pounds looking for her. Then Isabel advised me to give the search up, and leave the whole affair to Destiny. I did not mind the money—much, but I did mind terribly the talk and the newspapers. I felt it to be a great trial to face even my workmen." "How did mother take the event?" "She defied it—laughed at it—defended her cruelty—said she would do it all over again." "I have no doubt of it." "Dr. Robertson—who heard the whole story from Mrs. Oliphant—came out to the works to see me, and he said some awful things. He even told me, that until I repented of my sinful conduct, and acknowledged it before a session of the Kirk officers, he would refuse the Holy Communion." "He did right, Robert, and I am glad to hear that Scotch dominies are still brave enough to reprove sin in the rich places of the Kirk." "Then he went to mother, and told her the same thing." "Well?" "He could do nothing with mother. She ordered him to 'attend to his Kirk and his bit sermons, and leave her household alone.' I will not repeat their conversation—you would not believe any one would dare to browbeat a minister as she did. He forbid her the sacramental occasion, and she ordered him out of her house. It made a great scandal. It made me wretched." "What did you do about the Sabbath Day?" "There was a new church very near to us, and they were a struggling congregation, with a boyish kind of minister. Mother was gladly received there. She rented the most extravagant pew, gave one hundred pounds to the church fund, and took the minister into her personal care and protection. Christina and her husband went with her. Mother owns the Kirk and the minister, and the elders and the deacons, and all the congregation now. Every one praises her orthodoxy and her generosity, and she does as she thinks right in Free St. Jude's." David laughed heartily, and Robert continued: "All the ladies' societies meet in Traquair House, and all of them are prosperous. She is president of some, treasurer of others, and she entertains all of them with a splendid hospitality. And Christina tells me, she never fails to speak with pitying scorn of Dr. Robertson and his Kirk. I heard her myself one day tell them, 'that he was clean behind the times in Christian work. What is a Kirk worth?' she asked, 'without plenty of Ladies' Auxiliary Societies? The women in a Kirk must work, God knows the men won't! They spin a sovereign into the collection box, and think they have done their full share. Poor things, it is maybe all they can do! The women of Free St. Jude's must be an example to the Robertson Kirk, and the like o' it.'" "She is a great woman, is mother, in some ways," said David, and he laughed disdainfully. "She is," answered Robert. "I think I will go home to-morrow. Theodora no longer loves me, and yet, David, I love her a million times more than ever. No, I can not give her up; I can not, I will not! I will win her over again—if I stay a year to do it." "You would be unworthy of love, or even life, if you gave her up. But you are worn out and not able to arrange yourself. Come, I will take you to your room, and to-morrow go and ask her plainly, if she still loves you." "I will." |
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