No one cared to dispute Isabel's explanation and the conversation drifted to the sermon from the same psalm. "It was a good sermon," said Mrs. Campbell, "but people will forget it in the song."

"The song was the sermon to-day," said Isabel.

"The sermon was water, the song was wine," said Robert.

"I wish you would get the music, Dora. I am sure you could learn to sing it very well," said Christina; and Theodora smiled and answered, "I will try and get the music, if you wish, Christina."

"No, no!" cried Mrs. Campbell. "I would not have the memory of this morning's song spoiled for a great deal."

"Nor I, mother," added Isabel. "Would you, Robert?"

The better man had possession of Robert at that hour and he replied with a strong fervor:

"No, not for anything. It is one memory I shall hope to keep green as long as I live." He looked at Theodora, and if any there had had eyes to see, they might have read the secret in their beaming faces.

In their own parlor Robert was more enthusiastic than Theodora had seen him for a long time. "You have often gone to my heart, Dora," he said, "but this morning you touched my soul." And they were very happy together. This was the man Theodora loved. This was the man to whom she had given her heart and hand. Oh, how was she to keep this Robert Campbell always to the fore?

To do any great thing with the heart of another, you must vivisect your own, and this truth Theodora had to practise continually. Her life was one of such painful self-denial as left all its little pleasant places bare and barren; but she knew that in this way only could peace be bought, and she paid the price, excepting always, when it struck at her self-respect or violated her conscience. For she had constant opportunities of seeing that the spirit of submission carried too far was responsible for most of the misery and wrongs of the household; since despotism is never the sin of one, but comes from the servility of those around the despot. And as Robert was not always indifferent, but had frequent visitings from his better self, she made the most of these happy times, and took the envy and hatred of the rest as she took wet weather, or wind, or snow, or any other exhibition of the Higher Powers. For if training and education had made Theodora self-respectful, it had also made her avoid everything like self-indulgence.

"_To her there never came the thought, That this her life was meant to be A pleasure house, where peace unbought Should minister to pride and glee._

"_Sublimely she endured each ill As a plain fact, whose right or wrong She questioned not; confiding still That it would last--not over long._

"_Willing from first to last to take The mysteries of her life as given, Leaving her time-worn soul to slake Its thirst, in an undoubted heaven._"

So the weeks pa.s.sed on in a kind of armed truce with short intervals of satisfying happiness, whenever Robert chose to make her happy. She still took her breakfast alone, and now and then Robert, allured by the pretty appetizing table on the cheerful hearth, drank his coffee and ate a rasher of bacon beside her. Then how gay and delighted she was, and as on such occasions he gave up his porridge and salt herring, McNab, in order to pleasure the mistress whom she loved, always found him some dainty to atone for his deprivation. And the meal was so good and cheerful, that it was a wonderful thing he did not join his wife constantly.

It was now getting near to Christmas, but none of the family had yet ventured to tell Mrs. Campbell the truth concerning the singing in the church although she frequently spoke of it. In fact, ever since that Sabbath she had made a point of sending a note to Theodora whenever she heard the piano. "I know practising from music," she said in every note, "and I do not like practising." Only Christina being present at the practising interfered with the message, and many times it had been sent when it was the caller who was doing the practising. The order was always obeyed, lest it should be more offensively repeated, and to no one but Mrs. Oliphant did Theodora confide her reason for closing the instrument so promptly. The message elicited from Mrs. Oliphant scornful laughter, and the three women listening for the manner of its reception were not surprised.

"They are laughing at my order," said Mrs. Campbell, "what dreadful manners Americans do have!"

"Dora's manners are equally bad. She had no business to show her the note," said Isabel.

"Dora is English; what can you expect?"

"Dora ought to send for me when she has company," said Christina, "then she would be allowed to practise, would she not, mother?"

"Christina, I am always willing to sacrifice myself for my children, and you profess to learn something from her playing."

"I do, and I love to hear her play and sing. Dora has been kind to me, she isn't half bad."

"Well, Christina, in all proper things I consult my children's pleasure, rather than my own comfort."

Isabel said nothing, and yet Theodora had made many whist parties for her pleasure, persuading Robert to invite to them such unmarried men as would be suitable partners for his sisters in life, as well as at the whist table. These parties had always terminated with supper and music, Christina being the princ.i.p.al, and generally the only performer. She had taken both of the sisters out with her, dressed them for entertainments, shown them how to dress themselves, and taught them those little tricks of the toilet, which are to women at once so innocent and so indispensable. Many times these services had been rendered cheerfully when she was sick or depressed, but neither of the girls had any conception of a kindness, except as it related to themselves--how it benefited their looks or their feelings, and what results would accrue to them from it. Never once had they expressed a sense of obligation for any favor done them. They took every kindness as their right, for they heard their mother constantly a.s.sert: "Dora could never do enough for them."

"She has forced herself into our family without our desire or permission," she would say, "and if she could only understand it she is a great wrong and annoyance to us. If she _does_ teach Christina music and singing and French, and entertain you both now and then, it is her bounden duty to do that, and more. She is a born schoolmistress anyway, and no doubt feels quite at home teaching you any little thing she can."

This was not a happy life for Theodora, but she had chosen it, and our choices are our destiny. It was now her duty to make the best of it, and if Robert was only a little loving and just, her fine spirits and hopeful temper made her gay as a bird in spring. Her enthusiasms were incomprehensible to the three women, they were even repulsive; for neither the selfish, ill-tempered mother, nor the selfish, servile daughters, could understand that joy, which, coming from the inner life, is illimitably glad and hopeful, "something afar from the sphere of our sorrow."

But even Robert was now ashamed of his enthusiasms as a lover, as a married man he considered them quite out of place. They had served their purpose and ought to be retired from the sensible atmosphere of daily life. So he allowed the n.o.blest and tenderest symbols of love to die of cruel neglect, and his occasional breakfasts with Theodora were the only remnant of his once pa.s.sionate personal love. He was quite willing to consider Dora as belonging to the whole family, and he smiled grimly if he remembered the days in which he was intensely jealous even of her own father and mother's claim on her affection.

One great reason for Theodora's life being so troubled by dislike and unrest was doubtless because her angel was not, and could not, be friends with the angels of her new connections. They had no business to be in the same house. They got in each other's way and provoked friction. And though physical crowding is bad, spiritual crowding is much worse. Theodora had been well aware of the antagonism of her angel to her marriage with Robert Campbell. By intuitions, presentiments, omens, dreams, and even by clairaudient words, she had been warned of matrimonial troubles.

But she had an invincible faith in her influence over her intended husband, and as for a fight with others, or with circ.u.mstances, of neither was she afraid. She had always won her way triumphantly. She believed in G.o.d, she believed in herself, and she believed in humanity.

The calibre of a Scotch family composed of three-fourths women, was a combination she had never seen, never heard of, never read of, and could not possibly imagine.

Yes, she had been abundantly counselled, and she remembered especially the last warning that she received before her marriage. She was at the Salutation Hotel on Lake Windermere, standing at the window of her room looking over the lovely scene. All Nature was calm as a resting wheel, the sky full of stars; all the mystery and majesty of earth, the lake, the woods, the mountains encompa.s.sed her. And as she stood there musing on the past, and on the future as connected with Robert Campbell, the voice she knew so well pleaded with her for the last time.

"_Are you able?_" it asked.

"Yes," she answered softly but audibly.

"_The fight will be hard._"

"I shall win it."

"_Though as by fire!_"

Then she was alone, and she felt strangely desolate and afraid.

For though one come from the dead, the soul self-centred and confident in its own wisdom will not believe. Then it can only learn its life's lesson by those cruel experiences from which its good angel would so gladly have saved it.

"_Though as by fire! Though as by fire!_" Often she had thought of that prophecy since her marriage, when she had been forced day after day to say with David:

"They have spoken against me with a lying tongue.

"They compa.s.sed me about with words of hatred, and fought against me without cause.

"For my love they are my adversaries, and they have rewarded me evil for good, and hatred for my love."

She was sitting alone one afternoon, and very weary and disconsolate after a morning of petty slights, and unkind words, when Robert entered.

He was earlier than usual and more responsive to her smile of welcome.

"I am so glad to see you, Robert, so glad! I did not expect you for an hour."

"The minister called on me this afternoon, and I returned to the city with him. He wants you to sing, Dora, at the New Year's service. He is going to preach from the first verse of the fourteenth of Job: 'Man that is born of a woman is of few days and full of trouble.' He says the sermon will necessarily be solemn and warning, so he wishes you to sing something that lifts up the heart and looks hopefully forward."

"Are you willing that I should sing, Robert?"

"Yes, I should like you to do so."

"Then what could be better than Job's triumphant confession, '_I know that my Redeemer liveth_'?"

"That is the very thing! You sung it once in Sheffield. I have never forgotten it."

"Has your mother been told about my singing, '_O that I had wings like a dove_'?"

"No. I have never found a good opportunity to tell her. I knew she would feel it much. As soon as you have settled the matter with the doctor, I will tell her of both together."