ROBERT CAMPBELL GOES WOOING
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:
"DEAR ROBERT:--We reached home four days ago, and found
everything in perfect order. I hope mother and Christina and
you yourself are well. I am in fine health, never was better.
When we were in California I came unexpectedly upon Theodora.
We stayed two weeks with her, very pleasant weeks, and if you
will come to Wynton as soon as convenient, we shall be glad to
see you and tell you all about your wife and child. You need
have no anxiety about them. They could not be happier. Give my
love and duty to mother, and tell Christina I have a few pretty
things for her.
"Your loving sister,
"ISABEL."
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."