THE RECONSTRUCTED MARRIAGE
During the following three weeks, Robert lived in an earthly paradise.
His brother drew him with cords of strong wisdom and affection always
into the ways of pleasantness and peace. Theodora grew every day more
lovely and more familiar; her little coolnesses vanished in the warmth
of Robert's smiles, her shy pride was conquered by his persistent and
passionate wooing; and the days went by in a glory of innocent
amusements. Theodora and little David were clever and fearless riders,
and they soon made the accomplishment easy to Robert, who was delighted
with its joyful mastery, and greatly disappointed if bad weather, or any
other event, prevented their morning gallop.
Very frequently he accompanied his brother into San Francisco, met many
of her great financiers and merchants, and was their guest at such
elaborate lunches and dinners as he had never dreamed possible. Or, he
went with Mr. Newton to his vineyard and watched the process of
raisin-making. And Theodora had a dance for him, and the lovely young
girls present taught him the American steps, and made him wonder over
their beauty, their brightness, their perfect ease of manner, and their
manifest superiority and authority over male adorers, who appeared to
be perfectly delighted with their own subjugation. A full course at the
greatest university in the world would not have given him such a
civilizing social education as the pretty girls of San Francisco did in
a month.
But all things come to an end, and one day Robert received two letters
which compelled a pause in this pleasant life. They were from his mother
and his head manager. His mother wrote: "You be to come home, Robert
Campbell; everything is going to the mischief wanting you! I am hearing
that the men are on strike at the works, and that the fires have been
banked, and the gates locked. Jamie Rathey is drinking too much wine and
neglecting his business, and Christina is whimpering and scolding, for
she knows well he will not behave himself until he gets the word from
you. As for myself, I am barely holding up against the great strain, for
there's none to help me, Christina having trouble enough in her own
shoes, and My Lady Wynton having almost forgotten the way to her own
home, since she was promoted to a residence in Wynton Castle. So,
Robert, my lad, come back as quick as you can, for your mother is sorely
needing you."
He showed this letter to his brother, and David only smiled. "Let me see
your manager's letter, Robert," he asked, and when he had read it, he
smiled still more significantly.
"I do not think your letters need give you any anxiety, Robert," he
said. "The letter from Andrew Starkie, your manager, is dated two days
later than mother's, and he does not even name a strike among your
workers. He seems troubled only because the orders are so large he is
afraid that the cash left at his command will not be sufficient to carry
them out. We can send more money to-day. I see no necessity for you to
hurry. I want you to take a sail up to Vancouver, and another sail down
to the Isthmus. You have given me no time yet. And what about your
position with Theodora?"
"I must find that out immediately. The day after I came, I gave her a
ring she valued highly--a ring that her pupils presented to her. It had
been stolen, and I recovered it, and she was delighted when I put it on
her finger. But when I offered her the wedding ring she returned it to
me, she shook her head, closed her eyes, and would not look at it."
"Try her again. She has changed since then. I am sure she loves you
now."
"I am just going to her," and he turned away with such a mournful look
that his brother called him back.
"Look here, Robert," he said, "faint heart never won fair lady, or
anything else for that matter. Your face is enough to frighten any
woman. Women do not fancy despairers."
"David, you don't know what a hopeless task it is to court your wife.
She knows all your weak points, and just how most cruelly to snub you."
"That is not Theodora's way! Speak to her kindly, but bravely. Be
straight in all you say, for I declare to you she _feels_ a lie."
"Great heavens! I should think I know that, David. I was often forced to
break my promises to her, or in the stress of business I forgot them;
and at last, she never noticed any promise I made. It used to make me
angry."
"What made you angry?"
"O, the change in her face, when I said I would do anything. She never
contradicted me in words, but I knew she was mentally throwing my
promise over her shoulder. It was not pleasant."
"Very unpleasant--to her."
"I meant to myself."
"Well, Robert, when you are going to ask a woman to do you a miraculous
favor, do not think of yourself, think of her. Forget yourself, this
morning."
"O, I think constantly of Theodora."
David looked queerly at his brother, and seemed on the point of asking
him a question, but he likely thought it useless. Robert went off trying
to look hopeful and brave, but inwardly in a muddle of anxious
uncertainty, because of his mother's letter. He found Theodora in a
shady corner of the piazza; she was reclining in a Morris chair, and
thinking of him. Her loving smile, her happy leisure, her morning
freshness and beauty, her outstretched hand, made an entrancing picture.
He placed a chair at her side, and sat down, and Theodora after a glance
into his face asked:
"O, knight of the rueful countenance, what troubles you this beautiful
morning?"
"I have had letters from home," he answered; "not pleasant letters."
"From your mother, then?"
"One of them is from mother."
"She could not write a pleasant letter, and if she could, she would
not."
"Will you read it?"
"I would not cast my eyes upon anything her eyes have looked on."
"She says enough to make it necessary for me to go home."
"Home?"
"It is the only home I have. You----"
"Do not include me, in any remark about your home."
"Once you made my home your home."
"Never! There was no such thing as home, in Traquair House."
"But, my darling Dora--my darling wife----"
"I am not your wife. When I sent you the wedding ring back--that you
said was yours, not mine--I divorced myself from all a wife's duties,
pains, and penalties."
"You are my wife, and nothing but my death can make you free."
"Oh, but you are mistaken! You made a solemn contract with me, and you
broke every condition of that contract."
"Suppose I did, that----"
"Your faithlessness made the contract null and void----"
"The law of England----"
"I care nothing about the law of England. I am now an American citizen."
"But, Dora, my dear, dear love, you will surely go back to Glasgow with
me?"
"Not for all creation! I would rather die."
"Am I to go back alone? That is too cruel."
"Why do you wish to go back?"
"Have you considered my business, Dora?"
"No, I have thought only of you."
"But you must think of my business. How can you expect me to give it up?
Why, the 'Campbell Iron Works' are almost historic. They were founded by
my great-grandfather. They are making more money under my management
than ever they did before."
"If you put your historic iron works before me, you are not worthy of
me."
"My mother's, and my sister's livelihoods are in the works. They look to
me to protect them."
"If you put your mother, and your sisters before me, you are not worthy
of me."
"They love me, Dora."
"Your mother has many investments. She is rich. Your sisters are well
married. Neither of them would put you before their husbands, why should
you put them before your wife and son? If they had loved you, they would
not have broken up your home, and driven your wife and child away from
you. You were a provider of cash, a giver of social prestige to them--no
more."
"Then you expect me to give up my family, my business, my
country--everything."
"I will have everything, or nothing."
She rose as she said these words, and stood looking into his face with
eyes full of love and trouble.
"Then God help me, Theodora," he faltered, "for this hour I die to every
hope of happiness in this life!" He lifted her hand, and his tears
dropped on it as he kissed it. "Farewell! Farewell!"
He was standing before her the image of despairing Love, and she lifted
her eyes, and they met the passionate grief in his. She could not bear
it. "Oh, Robert!" she sobbed, "Oh, Robert, I do love you. I have loved
none but you. I never shall love any other." She laid her head against
his shoulder, and he silently kissed her many times, and then went
slowly away.
He went straight to his brother with his sorrow, and David listened in
grave silence, until the story of the interview was over. Then he said
softly:
"_Poor Theodora!_"
Robert was astonished, even hurt by the exclamation. "Why do you pity
Theodora?" he asked. "It is I you ought to pity."
"You ought to have had pity on yourself, Robert. Of course, you are
miserable, and you will be far more miserable. How could you bear to
give your wife such a cowardly disappointment; how could you do it?"
"I do not understand you, David--cowardly----"
"Yes, that is the word for it. You have been persuading her for a month,
that you loved her before, and above, all earthly things. As you
noticed, she did not at first believe this, but I am sure the last two
weeks she has taken all your protestations into her heart."
"I told her nothing but the truth."
"And as soon as you think she loves you----"
"She does love me--she says so."
"You take advantage of her love, and ask her to go back to a life that
almost killed her, before she fled from it. Poor Theodora! And I call
your act a selfish, cowardly one."
"What did you expect me to do?"
"To give up everything for her."
"To give up the works--the Campbell Iron Works! To give them up! Sell
them perhaps at a loss! Did you expect I would do this?"
"I did. I supposed you wished her to be again your wife."
"You know I wished it."
"I do not believe you. I think as your holiday was over, you wished to
back out of your promise, and you knew the easiest way to do so was to
require her to go back to Glasgow."
"Back out! What do you mean, David?"
"Your mother orders you home, and rather than offend her, or meet her
sarcasms, you ask Theodora to do what you well know she will never do.
Having taught her to love you again, you make her an offer that it is
impossible for her to accept; then you leave her to suffer once more
the pang of wrong and despairing love. Cowardly is too mild a word; your
conduct is that of a scoundrel."
"My God, David, are you turning against me?"
"Robert, Robert! I am ashamed of you. Suppose Theodora went back to
Glasgow with you, what would be her position, and what would
people--especially women--say about it? She would be a wife who ran away
from her husband, but whom her husband discovered, and brought back to
her duties. Upon this text, what cutting, cruel speeches mother and all
the women in your set would make. The position would be a triumph for
you--some men would envy and admire you, all would praise you for
standing up so persistently for the authority of the male. But poor
Theodora, who would stand by her?"
"I would."
"And your defence of your wife would be counted as a thing chivalrous
and magnanimous in you, but it would be disgraceful in her to require
it. She, the poor innocent one, would get all the blame and the shame,
you, the guilty one----"
"Stop, David! I never thought of her return in this light."
"I can imagine mother and the rest of the women chortling and glorying
over the runaway wife brought back."
"I tell you, I would stand by her through thick and thin."
"But you could not prevent the women hounding her, and upon my honor,
Robert, she would deserve it."
"No, David. She would not deserve it."
"I say she would."
"What for?"
"For coming back with you. Every woman with a particle of self-respect
would feel that she had betrayed her sex, and dishonored her wifehood,
and they would despise, and speak ill of her for doing so. And she would
deserve it."
"Then all this month you have been expecting me to come here to live?"
"There was no other manly and gentlemanly way out of your dilemma; and
your coming at all authorized the expectation."
"The iron works are not all, David. Do you think I care nothing for my
family, and my country?"
"Do you think you are the only person who cares for their family? What
about Theodora's feelings? Her father gave up his ministry, and taking
his wife and the savings of his whole life, he came here to the ends of
the earth with his child, because you had treated her and her son
cruelly. Now you ask her to leave them here, in a new country, where
they have not one relative--in their old age----"
"I forgot their claim. I will pay all their expenses back to England."
"Mrs. Newton could not bear the journey back. Mr. Newton has lost all
his interests in England; what money they have is invested here. Oh, if
you do not instantly see their pitiful condition without their
daughter, it is useless to explain it to you. Then there is their
grandchild. He is the light of their life. If their grandchild was taken
away, they would be bereft indeed."
"Their grandchild is my son. My claim is paramount. I must have my boy
at all hazards. I want him educated in Scotland, and brought up a
Scotchman, not an American. He will be heir to the works, and must
understand the people, and the conditions he has to live with, and work
with."
"You will never make a Scotchman of Davie. You will never get him out of
this country, or this state. You will never make an iron-worker of
David, he loves too well the free, and open-air life; and the blue
skies, and sunshine."
"He is under authority, and must come."
"Under his mother's authority yet, and mind this, Robert, _you will not
be permitted_ to take him from her; _not be permitted_, I say."
"My God, what am I to do?"
"Do right. There is no other way to be happy."
"There are two rights here, my mother and my sisters have claims as well
as my wife and my son."
"Then for God's sake go to your mother and your sisters! Why did you
come to me for advice, when you are still tied to your mother's
apron-strings."
"Now, you are angry at me."
"Yes, and justly so. But if you are bent on Glasgow, the sooner you
start for the dismal city, the better."
"I will go at once. Will you let some one drive me to San Francisco?"
"I will tell Saki to bring a buggy to the door in half-an-hour."
"Don't go away from me, David--don't do that! I am miserable enough
without your desertion."
"I am disappointed in you, Robert--sorely, sorely disappointed. I have
had a dream about our future lives together, and it is, it seems, only a
dream. Good-bye, Robert! I do not feel able to watch the ending of all
my hopes, so Saki will drive you to the city. And you, too, will be
better alone. Good-bye, good-bye!"
So they parted, and Robert was driven into the city and took his ticket
for the next train bound for New York. He had some hours to wait, and he
went to the hotel he had frequented with his brother, and sat down in
the office. Undoubtedly there was a secret hope in his heart, that David
would follow him, and he watched with anxiety every newcomer. But David
did not follow him, and when he could wait no longer, he went to his
train. Bitter disquiet and uncertainty wrung his heart, and he was glad
when the moving train permitted him to isolate himself in a dismal,
sullen stillness.
He had also a violent nervous headache, and physical pain was a thing he
knew so little about, that he was astonished at his suffering, and
resented it. "And this is the end of everything!" he muttered to
himself, "the end of everything! It was brutal to expect me to give up
my business, my family, and my country," and then he ceased, for
something reminded him that Theodora had once made that same sacrifice
for him. In any crisis the "set" of the life will count, and the "set"
of Robert's life was selfishness. This passion now boldly combated all
dissent from his personal satisfaction, denied any supremacy but his
will, drowned the voice of Honor, the pleadings of Love, and insisted on
his own pleasure and interest, at all costs.
Sorrow, if it be possible, takes refuge in sleep; but sleep was far from
Robert Campbell. His body was racked with physical suffering that he
knew not how to alleviate; his soul was aching in all its senses. He was
assailed by memories, every one of which he would like to have met with
a shriek. All he loved was behind him, every moment he was leaving them
further behind. And his God dwelt--or visited--only in sacred buildings.
He never thought of Him as in a railway car, never supposed Him to be
observant of the trouble between his wife and himself, would not have
believed that there was present an Omniscient Eye, looking with ancient
kindness on all his pain, and ready to relieve it. And oh, the terror of
those long nights, when suffering, sorrow, and remorse were riotous, and
where to him, _God was not_!
On the second day, the conductor began to watch Campbell. He induced him
to take a cup of strong coffee and lie down, and then went among the
passengers seeking a physician. "I am a physician," said a young man
whose seat was not far from Robert's. "I am Dr. Stuart of San Francisco.
I have been watching the man you mean; he is either insane or ill. I
will not neglect him."
Robert was really ill; he grew better and worse, better and worse
constantly, until they were near Denver. Then Dr. Stuart went to his
side and made another effort to induce him to converse. "You are ill,"
he said. "I am a physician and know it. You must stop travelling for a
few days. Get off at Denver. Where is your home?"
"In Scotland. I am going there."
"Impossible--as you now are. Get off at Denver. Go to an hotel, and send
for this physician," and he handed him a slip of paper on which the name
was written. Robert glanced at it, and held it in his hand.
"Put it in your vest pocket."
He did so, but his hands trembled so violently, and he looked into the
man's face with eyes so full of unspeakable suffering and sorrow, that
the stranger's heart was touched. He resolved to get off at Denver with
him, and see that he was properly attended to.
"What is your name?" he asked.
"I am Robert Campbell."
"Brother of David Campbell of San Francisco?"
"Yes."
"He is as good a man as ever lived. I know him well."
"Write and tell him his brother is dying--he will come to me."
"Oh, no! you are not dying. We will not bring him such a long journey. I
will stay with you, until you are better--but off the train you must
get."
"Thank you! I will do as you say. I will pay you well."
"I am not thinking of 'pay.' I know your brother, it is pay enough to
serve him, by helping you."
Robert nodded and tried to smile. He put his hand into the doctor's
hand, went with him to a carriage, and they were driven to an hotel.
During the change, he did not speak, he had all that he could manage, to
keep himself erect and preserve his consciousness. But there are
mystically in our faces, certain characters, which carry in them the
motto of our souls; and the motto the doctor read on Robert's face
was--_No Surrender_. He told himself this, when he had got his patient
into bed, and surrounded him with darkness and stillness and given him a
sedative. "Some men would proceed to have brain fever," he mused, "but
not this man. He will fight off sickness, resent it, deny it, and rise
above it in a few days. I'll give him a week--but he will not succumb.
There's no surrender in that face, though it is white and thin with
suffering."
For four days, however, Robert wavered between better and worse, as the
gusts of frantic remorse and despair assailed him. Then he forgot
everything but the irreparable mistake that had ruined his life, and
during the paroxysms whispered continually: "Oh, God! oh, God! that it
were possible to undo things done!" a whisper that could hardly be heard
by mortal ears, but which passed beyond the constellations, and reached
the ear and the heart of Him, who dwelleth in the Heaven of Heavens.
It was in one of those awful encounters of the soul with itself, that he
reached the depth of suffering in which we see clearly; for there is no
such revealer as sorrow. Suddenly and swift as a flash of light, he knew
his past life, as he would know it in eternity--its selfishness, its
cruelty, its injustice. Then he heard words which pealed through his
soul, with heavenly-sweet convincingness, and left their echo forever
there. For awhile he remained motionless and speechless, and let the
comforting revelation fill him with adoring love and gratitude. And
those few minutes of pause and praise were not only sacrificial and
sacramental, they were strong with absolution. He knew what he must do;
he had not a doubt, not a reservation of any kind. In a space of time so
short that we have no measure for it, he had surrendered everything, and
been made worthy to receive everything.
O, Mystery of Life, from what a depth proceed thy comforts and thy
lessons! Even the chance acquaintance had had his meaning, and had done
his work. Robert had some wonderful confidences with him, as he lay for
a week free of pain, and quietly gathering strength for the journey he
must take the moment he was able for it. He had no hesitation as to
this journey. He knew that he must go back to Theodora--back to the same
goal he had turned away from. Peradventure the blessing he had rejected
might yet be waiting there.
In ten days Dr. Stuart permitted him to travel, and without pause or
regret he reached San Francisco, refreshed himself, and taking a
carriage drove out to the Newtons'. It was afternoon when he reached the
place, and it had the drowsy afternoon look and feeling. He sent the
carriage to the stable, and told the driver to wait there for further
orders--and then walked up to the house. As he passed Mr. Newton's study
he saw him sitting reading, and he opened the door and went in. The
preacher looked up in astonishment, rose and walked towards him.
"Robert," he said softly, "is that you?"
"Yes, father. I have been very ill. I have come back to ask your
forgiveness--and _hers_--if she will listen to me."
"I am glad to see you. Sit down. You look ill--what can I do for you?"
"Listen to me! I will tell you all."
Then he opened his heart freely to the preacher, who listened with
intense sympathy and understanding--sometimes speaking a word of
encouragement, sometimes only touching his hand, or whispering, "Go on,
Robert." And perhaps there was not another man in California, so able to
comprehend the marvellous story of Robert's return unto his better self.
For he had in a large measure that penetrative insight into
spiritualities, which connect man with the unseen world; and that
mystical, incommunicable sense of a life, that is not this life. He knew
its voices, intuitions, and celestial intimations--things, which no one
knoweth, save they who receive them. And when Robert had finished his
confession, he said:
"I also, Robert, have stood on that shining table-land which lies on the
frontier of our consciousness; and there received that blessed
_certainty of God_ which can never again leave the soul. And you must
not wonder at the suddenness and rapidity of the vision. Every
experience of this kind _must_ be sharply sudden. That chasm dividing
the seen from the unseen, must be taken at one swift bound, or not at
all. You cannot break that leap. Thank God, you have taken it! This
remembrance, and the power it has left behind, can never depart from
you; for
'_Whoso has felt the Spirit of the Highest,
Cannot confound, nor doubt Him, nor deny._'
The whole world may deny, but what is the voice of the whole world to
those, who have _seen_ and _heard_ and _known_
_'A deep below the deep,
And a height beyond the height,
Where our hearing is not hearing,
And our seeing is not sight'?_
What you have told me, Robert, also goes to confirm what I have before
noticed--that this great favor of vision is usually the cup of strength,
given to us in some great agony or strait."
"Now, father, may I see Theodora?"
"She went to her room to rest after our early dinner. She also has
suffered."
"She is in the parlor. I hear her singing. Let us go to her."
At the parlor door they stood a minute and listened to the music. It was
strong and clear, and her voice held both the sorrow and the hope that
was in her heart:
"_My heart is dashed with cares and fears,
My song comes fluttering and is gone,
But high above this home of tears
Eternal Joy sings on--sings on!_"
The last strain was a triumphant one, and to its joy they entered. Then
Theodora's face was transfigured, she came swiftly towards them, and Mr.
Newton laid her hand in Robert's hand, and so left them. And into the
love and wonder and thanksgiving of that conversation we cannot enter;
no, not even with the sweetest and clearest imagination.
In a couple of hours David came, and Robert joined his father and
brother, and Theodora went to assist her mother in preparing the evening
meal. She found her standing by an open window, wringing her thin, small
hands, and silently weeping.
"Mother, mother!" cried Theodora, clasping her in her strong arms; "why
are you weeping?"
"It is that man here again," Mrs. Newton faltered. "I thought that
trouble was over. I can bear no more of it, dear."
"He will never give you another moment's grief, dear mother. He is
totally changed. He has had an experience; he has been what we
call--converted--mother."
"Do you believe that?"
"With all my soul! He has given up everything that made sin and
trouble."
"Then all is well. I am satisfied."
"Robert will not be happy until you have welcomed him."
"Then I will go and do so."
That evening as they sat together David said: "Father and mother, I wish
to speak for my brother and myself. We are going into a business
partnership, as soon as Robert has been to Glasgow, and turned all his
property into cash. Whatever he is worth, I will double, and 'Campbell
Brothers, Bankers,' I believe, will soon become an important factor in
the financial world of San Francisco."
"It is a good thing, David. You two working as one will be a multitude.
No one knows the financial conditions here better than you do, David,
and as an investor, I do not believe you have ever made a mistake."
"I think not, father. Well, then, we will all go into San Francisco as
soon as Robert has rested a little, and select a home for him. I know
of two houses for sale, either of which would be suitable."
"And when the house is chosen," said Robert, "I hope, mother, you will
assist Theodora in furnishing it just as she wishes, keeping her in
mind, however, that she must be quite extravagant. Simplicity and
economy are out of place in a banker's home, for entertaining on a large
scale will have to be done."
It was arranged that David should go East with Robert, and see him
safely on board a good liner, and the details of these projects occupied
the family happily for three days; at the end of which they went to San
Francisco. When Theodora's future home had been selected, David and
Robert took the train for New York; the whole family sending them off
with smiles and blessings. And Robert thought of his previous leaving,
and was unspeakably happy and grateful.
On their journey to New York, the brothers settled every detail of their
banking business, and Robert was amazed at his brother's financial
instinct and business enterprise. "We shall make a great deal of money,
Robert," he said, "and we must do a great deal of good with it. I have
some ideas on that subject which we will talk over at the proper time."
So the journey was not tiresome, and when it was over, both were a
little sorry. But work was to do, and Robert knew that he would be
restless until he had finished his preparations for his new life, and
got rid of all encumbrances of the past.
The sea journey was short and pleasant, and it removed the most evident
traces of his illness. His face was thinner, but that was an
improvement; and his figure, if more slender was more active, and there
was about him the light and aura of one who is thoroughly happy, and at
peace with God and man.
As soon as he arrived in Glasgow, he went to his club, and looked over
the accumulation of letters waiting him. It was raining steadily--that
summer rain which we feel to be so particularly unwanted. The streets
were sloppy, the air damp, the sky dull, and not brightened by the
occasional glints of pale sunshine; but when he had relieved his mind of
its most pressing business, he went to Traquair House. Jepson opened the
door for him, but the man looked ill, and said he was on the point of
leaving Glasgow. Robert could now sympathize with him, for he had
learned the agony of constant headache, and he said so. The man looked
at him in amazement, and he told McNab of the circumstance, adding: "The
master was never so kind to me in all his life, as he was to-day." McNab
answered curtly:
"No wonder! He has been living wi' decent folk lately, and decency
tells. Them Californians are the civilest o' mortals. You'll mind my ain
lad, that was here about four years syne?"
"I'll never forget him, Mistress McNab. A perfect gentleman."
"Weel, he was, in a way, a Californian--born, of course, in Scotland,
but knocked about among the Californians, until he learned how to behave
himsel' to rich and poor and auld and young, and special to women and
bairns."
While this conversation was going on Robert sat in the old dining-room.
It was dismal enough at all times, especially so in rainy weather, and
more specially so when it was summer rain, and no blazing fire
brightened the dark mahogany and the crimson draperies.
His mother was at home, but he was told Christina was occupying the
little villa he had bought at Inverkip. He had not been asked for its
use, and it contained a good deal of Theodora's needlework, and much
summer clothing. For a few minutes he was angry, but he quickly reasoned
his anger away. "There are no happy memories about any of the things. It
is better they should not come into our future life," he said to
himself. He wondered his mother did not come, and asked Jepson if she
had been told. "Yes, she had been told, and had sent word 'she would be
down as soon as dressed.'"
It was an hour before she was dressed, and Robert felt the gloom and
chill of waiting. Indeed, he was so uncomfortably cold, that he asked
for a fire, and was standing before it enjoying its blaze and warmth
when Mrs. Campbell entered.
"Good gracious, Robert!" she cried, "a fire in August! I never heard
tell of such a thing."
"I am just from a warm, sunny country, mother, and I have also been ill,
and so I feel the cold."
"Well, well! Put a screen between me and the blaze. I am not auld enou'
yet, to require a blaze in August."
"To-morrow, it will be the first of September. How are you, mother?"
"Fine. That foolish fellow you left over the works came here--came
special, mind ye--to tell me you were vera ill. He said he had received
a letter from a Dr. Stuart, living in a place called Denver, saying you
were at Death's door, or words to that effect; but I sent him back to
his proper business wi' a solid rebuke for leaving it. I'm not the woman
to thank any one for bringing me bad news--lies, too, very likely."
"No, I was very ill."
"Say so, where was there any necessity for the man to be sending word o'
it half round the world? Nobody here could help. It was just making
discomfort for no good at all."
"I suppose he thought, if I died, my friends might possibly like to know
what had become of me."
"I wasna feared for you dying. Not I! I knew Robert Campbell had mair
sense than to die among strangers. Then there was the works left to
themselves, as it were, and that weary woman you've been seeking mair
than four years, just found out, and I said to myself, if I know Robert
Campbell, he won't be stravaganting to another world, whilst his affairs
in this world are all helter-skelter."
"I have come here to put my affairs as I desire them. Then I am going
back to California."
"I do not believe you. You are just leeing to me."
"Mother, I am going to sell the works. I want to live in California."
"To please Theodora," she said scornfully.
"To please Theodora and myself. I like the country; it is sunny and
delightful, and the people are wonderfully gracious and kind."
"Of course, they have to be more than ordinary civil, or what decent
people would live among the crowd that went there?"
"That element has disappeared. There are no finer men and women in the
world than the Californians. I shall ask for citizenship among them."
Then the temper she had been trying to control broke loose, and carried
all before it. "You base fellow!" she cried, "you traitor to all good!
You are unworthy of the country, the home, and the business you desert.
I am ashamed to have brought you into the world. To surrender everything
for a creature like your runaway wife is monstrously wicked--is
incredibly shameful!"
"If I could surrender more for Theodora, I would gladly do it, so that I
might atone for what I, and you, made her suffer. And she has not taken
me to California--you drove her there."
"I'm gey glad I did."
"And as she will not come back here, I must go to her there. Your own
work, mother."
"Very good. I accept it. I'm proud o' it."
"My dear mother----"
"Stop palavering! You can cut out 'dear.'"
"Let us talk reasonably. I came here to ask whether you will remain a
shareholder in the works, or withdraw your money?"
"I'll withdraw every bawbee out o' them. Your sisters can do as they
like. And may I ask, what you are going to do? Become a miner, and carry
a pick and a dinner-pail? That would be a proper ending for Robert
Campbell."
"I am going to join my brother David in a banking business in San
Francisco."
"Your brother David! Your brother David! So he is in California, too?
_Dod!_ I might have known it--the very place for the like o' him."
"He is one of the princes of Californian finance. He dwells in a palace.
He is worth many millions of dollars."
"_Dollars!_" and she spit the word out of her mouth with inexpressible
scorn--"dollars! what kind o' money is that? I wouldn't gie you a copper
half-penny for your dollar."
"A dollar is worth just one hundred half-pennies."
"I'm not believing you. Why should I? And pray how did you foregather
wi' your runawa' brother?"
"He is Theodora's neighbor, and she is educating his daughters."
"And pray how did Dora happen on your brother? It is a vera singular
coincidence, and I am no believer in coincidences. If the truth were
known, they have all o' them been carefully planned, and weel
arranged."
"She met my brother here in Glasgow."
"She did nothing o' the kind."
"She met him at the Oliphants'."
"Oh, oh! I see, I see! The dark man so often riding about wi' Mistress
Oliphant was your brother?"
"He was my brother David, and he was also McNab's foster-son."
"Great heavens! What a fool Margaret Campbell has been for once! To
think o' Flora McNab making a mock o' me. She told me he was her son."
"So he was, in a way. McNab suckled him, and mothered him, as well as
she could. She was the only mother he had."
"You lie, Robert Campbell. I was his mother."
"You ought to be proud of it."
"Is his wife alive or dead?"
"She is dead. He will marry again soon."
"Some of the Oliphant kin, I suppose?"
"No. She is not a Scotchwoman."
"I hope to goodness she isn't English."
"She is Spanish-American, a great beauty, and almost as rich as David
himself."
"_Humph!_ I am believing no such fairy-tale. Why would a rich beauty be
wanting David Campbell?"
"David is a very handsome man."
"Mrs. Oliphant seemed to think so!"
"Every one thinks so."
"I hope she is not a Methodist."
"She is a Roman Catholic."
"A Roman Catholic! A Campbell can get no further downward than that.
Your forefathers fought--and, thank God, mostly killed--a Roman Catholic
on sight. Ah weel, I suppose it is the money."
"Oh, no! David would not marry for money."
"He didn't anyhow. He married a poor, plain, beggarly sewing-girl."
"She was a minister's daughter, and he loved her."
"Weel, Robert Campbell, I hope you have emptied your creel o' bad news.
If you have any more tak' it back to where it came from. I'll not listen
to another word from you."
"I must ask you, what you wish about this house? If you desire to remain
here, I will not sell it."
"I'll not stop in it, any longer than it takes me to move out o' it. You
are no kin to me now, and thank God, I am not come to a dependence on a
Scotch turncoat, or even an American citizen!"
"Do you think Christina would like the use o' it?"
"Christina is doing better. Rathey is going to be man-of-law and private
secretary to Sir Thomas, and they are to have the Wynton Dower House to
live in, a handsome place in a big garden."
"Will you go with her, mother?"
"It is none of your business where I go. I would not ask a shelter from
you, if I were going to the poor-house. I am going where I'll be rid of
whimpering wives, and whining bairns, and fleeching, flattering folk,
who want siller for their fine words. I'm done with the old, unhappy
house. Sell it as soon as you like. It was an ill day when I stepped
o'er its threshold."
"Then good-bye, mother. Say a kind word to me. We may meet no more in
this world." He advanced towards her and put out his hand.
She rose and lifted her solitaire pack of cards--which was lying on the
table by which she stood--and began shuffling them in her hands. "You
ungrateful son of your mother Scotland and your mother Campbell!" she
cried. "You traitor to every obligation due your family! You slave to a
Methodist wife, go to your Papist-loving brother. California is a proper
home for you. _Dod!_ I am sick of the whole lot o' you--lads and lassies
baith--Isabel is o'er much 'my lady' for any sensible body to thole; and
Christina is aye sniffling and worrying about her bairns, or her silly,
fiddling husband. I am sick, tired--heart and soul tired--o' the serpent
brood o' you Campbells; and you may scatter yoursel's o'er the face o'
the whole earth, for aught I care," and with these words she flung the
cards in her hand far and wide, over the large room. She was in an
incredible passion, and Robert put his hand on her arms, crying in
terror and amazement:
"Mother! Mother! Mother! For God's sake I entreat----"
"Out o' my sight instanter!" she answered. "Scotland and Margaret
Campbell is weel rid o' the like o' you." She shook off his restraining
hands, and clasping her own behind her back, she went to a window and
stood there looking far over the dull, wet street to some vision
conjured up by her raging, scornful passion.
Robert again approached her. "I am going, mother," he said. "God forgive
us both! Farewell!" and he once more offered her a pleading hand. She
looked at it a moment, but kept her own resolutely clasped behind her,
and finally with an imperative motion uttered one fierce word:
"_Go!_"
She was still at the window when he reached the sidewalk, and he raised
his hat, and looked at her as he passed. But her gaze was intentionally
far off, and if she saw this last act of entreaty, she was beyond the
wish, or even the ability to notice it.
Robert was very miserable, so much so that he forgot to write to
Theodora, and when he awoke after a restless night and remembered the
omission he said with a sigh: "Theodora is right. It must be everything
or nothing. If I could get her to come back here, it would be the old
trouble over again--and worse."
That day he went to the Wyntons', and talked with Sir Thomas about the
sale of the works. He was in hopes that he could form a syndicate, buy
the works, and make himself president. And at first the baronet was
enthusiastic about the scheme, but day after day, and week after week
went on, and nothing definite was arrived at. Isabel had strong family
feeling, and she was sullenly silent about the sale of the furnaces, and
her brother's settlement in America. The works had done so well under
Robert's direction, that her income had been nearly doubled, and she
thought that he ought to continue his labor, where Providence had
enabled him to do so well for the family. Finally, Robert abandoned the
Wynton scheme, and went to Sheffield to see his old business friend
Priestley. The visit was destined and propitious, and in three weeks the
transfer of the Campbell Iron Works to a Yorkshire iron company was
completed, and Robert was ready to return home.
He was glad of it. His visit had been a painful and separating one. His
sisters had disappointed him. He was sure Isabel had prevented her
husband's desire to buy the works, and she had let him feel, in her
cold, silent way, that she disapproved of his selling them, and still
more disapproved of his settlement in America. And the selfish little
soul of Christina complained constantly of Robert leaving her money in
strange hands. She thought it was his duty to stay in Glasgow and manage
the works for his mother's and sisters' benefit; and when the sisters
talked of the matter together, they expressed themselves very plainly
about that "Englishwoman who had been so unfortunate to their house."
Robert went from Sheffield to Liverpool, and did not return to Glasgow.
He was glad and grateful to set his face westward and homeward. Nothing
of importance happened on the journey, and when he reached San Francisco
his brother David was waiting at the railway depot to welcome him. They
clasped hands and looked into each other's eyes, and everything was well
said that words would have said clumsily. It was then nearly dark, and
they went to the hotel for the night. Far into the midnight hours they
sat discussing their business future, and David was astonished at the
fortune which Robert had made out of the old works. And Robert was still
more astonished at the fortune which his brother had made out of his
relatively small capital, and his own business sagacity and native
industry and prudence.
In the early morning David wished his brother to go and look over the
new home which Theodora had been preparing, but Robert said he wanted to
see Theodora above all things, and would go at once out to the Newtons'.
"Very good," replied David, "then you will go alone, for I am to bring
Mercedes with me, and I cannot call for her before ten. It is a charming
thing, Robert, that Mercedes and Theodora love each other dearly. They
have worked together constantly over your new home, and made it a lovely
place. I suppose you will be married this afternoon."
"Married! Married! Does Theodora expect it?"
"I think all preparations are made for the little ceremony. I would not
disapprove, if I were you, Robert."
"Disapprove! What do you mean? I shall be the most joyful man in the
world."
Breakfast was scarcely over when Robert reached Newton Place; and
Theodora came running to meet him with a large apron over her pretty
white dress. But oh, how beautiful was her beaming, smiling face, how
tender her embrace, how sweet the loving words with which she welcomed
him. He was paid, and overpaid, for all he had suffered, and all he had
resigned.
"We shall be married this afternoon, eh darling?" he asked.
"All shall be as you wish, my love. I am ready," she answered.
Such a delightful morning! Such a happy hurry in the house! Such sweet
laughter, and pleasant calling of each other's names! Such enthusiasm
over Mercedes' beauty in her pink satin costume! Such an enjoyable
little lunch at one o'clock! Such a bewildering number of pleasant
events crowded into a few hours. If ever there was in any earthly home a
sense of heavenly love and joy, it was in the Newton house that day.
Angels might--and probably did--rest in the flower-scented atmosphere of
its spotless rooms, for if angels rejoice with the sinner forgiven and
accepted, surely still more will they rejoice in the fruition of tried
and accepted love, and in the unselfish affection of those who rejoice,
because others rejoice.
Just before three o'clock Mr. and Mrs. Newton went together to the
parlor and sat down by a small table covered with a white cloth, on
which there lay a Bible and a Book of Common Prayer. A few minutes later
David and Robert came in, and stood talking to them, until the door
opened and Theodora and Mercedes entered. Then Mr. Newton stood up, and
Robert and Theodora stood before him, and renewed their marriage vows in
the most solemn and simple manner. There were no decorations, no music,
no attendants, no company, nothing but a prayer, and the old, old ritual
of a thousand years. But after it Mr. Newton told them in a few
sentences, how supremely important love is to the soul.
"It perishes without love," he said. "To the soul love is blessing, love
is salvation, love is the guardian angel, and without love the
centrifugal law easily overpowers and sweeps it far out from its divine
source, towards the cold frontiers of the material and the manifold."
Then there was a tender and cheerful good-bye, and Robert and Theodora
went to their new home. They wandered hand in hand through all its
beautiful rooms, and through the scented walks of its fair garden, and
Robert said: "It is a palace in Paradise, darling."
"And I am so happy! So proud, and so happy, dear Robert!" she answered.
After a perfect dinner at their own table, Robert went to his wife's
parlor to smoke his cigar, and then he told her all about his last
unhappy visit to his family, and his native land.
It was the necessary minor note in their joyful wedding song, but it
soon returned to its triumphant dominant, since they must needs rejoice
in that loving Power which had so surely "tempered all things well,"
"_Had worked their pleasure out of pain,
And out of ruin golden gain._"
And as they talked in the splendid room, with its sweet odors and dim
light, their voices grew lower, and they were content to whisper each
other's names, and fall into sweet silences, thrilled with such soft
stir, as angels in their cloud-girt wayfarings know, when they "feel the
breath of kindred plumes." And thus,
"_The tumult of the time disconsolate,
To inarticulate murmurs died away._"
OTHER BOOKS BY MRS. BARR
JAN VEDDER'S WIFE
THE BOW OF ORANGE RIBBON
REMEMBER THE ALAMO
FRIEND OLIVIA
A ROSE OF A HUNDRED LEAVES
THE LION'S WHELP
THE BLACK SHILLING
THE BELLE OF BOWLING GREEN
CECILIA'S LOVERS
THE HEART OF JESSY LAURIE
THE STRAWBERRY HANDKERCHIEF
THE HANDS OF COMPULSION
THE HOUSE ON CHERRY STREET
ETC.