She expected no word from her parents for about four days, but a ray of hope had penetrated the gloom of her surroundings; and wrong and unkindness took on a transient character. They were now merely pa.s.sing annoyances, she would have gone beyond their power in a few weeks at the most. She resolved to make no more efforts to obtain justice, no more efforts to win a man whom neither love nor entreaties could prevent acting after his kind. She would now permit him to lay up grievances, with which to wound himself when he could no longer wound her. A sense of peace, coming from her acceptance of destiny, gave to her a singular calmness of manner and countenance, and a renewed alertness of mind, and mental lucidity.

In the morning Ducie, wearing her hat and cloak, served her late mistress and little David with their breakfast; then the three parted forever. David cried bitterly; the women had no tears left. In half-an-hour McNab came to remove the tray.

"I would leave your room as it is, ma'am," she said. "It will be seen to. Tak' my advice, and dinna lift a finger to it. Yoursel' and Master David will be getting your breakfast ten minutes earlier, for I am going to look after that bit business mysel'. You needna fret a moment anent the matter. It's settled."

"I do not intend to fret about anything, McNab."

"That's right. It is a lang lane that has no turning. You are coming to the turning, I think."

"I think so."

"But I wouldn't let on I saw it."

"Neither by look, nor word."

"That's right, too. If wanted, call McNab, but be sparing o'

calls--there is both watcher and listener. I'm telling you."

"I know."

Theodora smiled understandingly, and McNab left the room, but left behind her a strong sense of guardianship and love. Yet just then McNab was rather in the dark, for her foster-son had not had time to tell her of his journey to Yorkshire. But uncertainty did not dash McNab, she had one of those blessed dispositions that are always sure no news is good news; and who always expect the "something" that may have happened, to be something wonderfully auspicious.

"Perhaps my lad had a word with her yesterday," she thought, "and perhaps he is making a move--for he wouldn't move without her word. I dare say that is just what has happened." She satisfied herself with this belief, and to the hopeful and cheerful, good angels send their heart's desire.

So Theodora sat still and let the house go on. Not until she was dressing for dinner did a maid come to attend to her rooms, but she made no remark. A short time afterwards, the girl returned with a letter and the information, that it had been opened by Mrs. Campbell through mistake. It was from Theodora's publisher, and purported to contain a check for seventy pounds and fifteen shillings for royalties due her.

But the check was not in the letter. Her heart beat wildly, her cheeks burned, she rose as if to go and inquire for it; but on second thoughts she sat down and waited until Robert came into the room. Then she showed him the letter. He barely glanced at it, then threw it on the table.

"Will you ask your mother for my money, Robert? I want to buy David and myself some necessary clothing."

"I have the check."

"Give it to me, Robert. I need it so much."

"I put it in my pocket-book, because it is mine. I give it to you, because I choose to give it to you. Most husbands would not do so."

"You need not at every opportunity tell me that I have no rights, and no money, even if I myself have earned the money. One telling of such awful injustice is enough. I wish to know if my letters are also yours?"

"If I choose to claim them, they are mine."

"Are they also free to your mother?"

"If I choose to make them so."

"Then I will do without letters."

"You can please yourself."

She did not answer, and he went into the dining-room. In a short time she steadied herself sufficiently to follow him, but no one but Isabel took the slightest notice of her. Mrs. Campbell was in high spirits, and talked with her son in a jocular way about some event of which Theodora was ignorant. Jepson watched her plate and saw that she was attended to, and Isabel showed her disapproval of her mother's and brother's behavior by a sullen silence. For she was slow-minded, and could think of no way to express her sympathy with Theodora, except sulking at those who were annoying her. But she rose from the table when Theodora rose, and when Theodora said "Good-night, Isabel," she answered: "I should like to come into your parlor for a few minutes--if agreeable."

"You are very welcome, Isabel."

"Thank you. I only wanted to say, that I had nothing to do with the opening of your letter. I would no more open your letter, than I would pick your pocket."

"I am sure of that, Isabel. I wish you were my friend. I am very lonely since Christina went away. Have you heard from her?"

"Not one word. I am very lonely too. Good-night."

And Theodora thought until sleep came of the girl's sad face, and pitied her more than she pitied herself. For hope was building a new life in her heart, and she looked forward to a future, that in its freedom, beauty, and usefulness would atone for the present, and the past years of her married life; but, oh the sameness, and ennui, and moral and mental death of a life without aim or purpose, without love or expectations, or sensible work to do.

Early on the fourth day Mrs. Oliphant called, and brought Theodora a letter. She professedly came to ask Theodora to drive with her, and when her invitation was declined, did not remain many minutes. But Mrs.

Campbell watched her coming and going, and made plenty of sarcastic remarks about both the lady and her dress, her carriage and her horses and servants. Isabel was scarcely conscious of them. Since the loss of her sister she had become still more severe, intense, and reticent; besides which, though no one suspected the movement, Isabel was considering a break in social custom, undreamed of by the severely proper maidens of her set.

It related to Sir Thomas Wynton. She had had a letter from him describing his journey to Paris, and his present life in that city, and he had asked Isabel to write him "all the news she could gather about Wynton village, and their friends in Glasgow, and to add also anything social, political, or religious she thought would interest him." And this request had opened up a pleasant prospect of collecting and arranging all the news she could glean from people, or from newspapers, and then writing the result to Sir Thomas. It was a wild, a daring thing for Isabel Campbell to attempt, but she had resolved to ask no one's advice about the right or the wrong of it. She would decide the matter for herself, and she was trying to do so while her mother was mocking at Mrs. Oliphant's dress and general appearance.

Meantime Theodora watched her friend away, and then went into her parlor, locking the door after closing it. David was busy with his slate and pencil in the music room, and she locked the door of that room also.

Then she sat down with her letter in her hand, and after a moment's uplifting of her heart, she opened it and read the following words:

"MY DEAR THEODORA:--Your mother and I have thoroughly considered all your good brother-in-law has told us. I will not dwell on our surprise and sorrow. I will but say, that you ought to put an end at once to a life which is dwarfing you on every side, and must be fast ruining your husband's better nature. For the cruelty and injustice done at first reluctantly has evidently become to him a necessary alternative to the dreariness of his business life. As some men find amus.e.m.e.nt in badgering and baiting animals, he apparently satisfies the same brutal instinct by baiting a wife whom our cruel laws has placed in his absolute power. I counsel you to leave him before conditions are worse, and some tragedy results. Take David Campbell's advice as to the locality where you may dwell in peace and safety. I approve what he has proposed to us so entirely, that whenever you are ready to move, your mother and I will go with you, though it should be to the ends of the earth. Think a moment, and you will understand that you must go with us, and not with your brother-in-law. I shall write to the Chairman of Conference to-day and resign my pastorate, and you know a Methodist preacher and his wife can move almost at a day's notice. Our clothing is all we personally own. My future is prepared for. There is nothing to fear. The Great Companion will go with us. Wherever your new home is made, our home will be made, and we will pray together for the man you still love.

He will return to you "clothed and in his right mind." Do not doubt. Go away and rest your aching heart. Has the sun of your love set? Some blessing lies in the night; do not fear the darkness. Rest, and the sun of love will rise again. I append a few reasons why you should at this crisis leave your husband.

If you are fully satisfied in your own mind, you can neglect them.

"1st. Habit reconciles us to much suffering, but a miserable marriage is a trial no one has any business to have. It is without excuse, and therefore without comfort. Submission to evils G.o.d ordains is the height of energy and n.o.bility; submission to the mistakes we ourselves make is the climax of weakness and cowardice. If two cannot live together in peace, they had better separate than cause each other to sin every day.

"2d. If you know you are on a wrong road, leave it; a wrong road cannot lead you right.

"3d. If you are sick, and the surgeon's knife is necessary, do not waste time with drugs and sedatives. Accept the knife as restorative.

"4th. If you make a mistake of any kind, it is your manifest duty to rectify it, or to spring out of its shadow; and an unhappy marriage is the most pathetic of all mistakes. If, however, you have made an unhappy marriage, why should you give permanency to wrong, and finality to suffering? There are no elements of reformation in the irrevocable, it is a h.e.l.l without hope and without energy.

"5th. You must not judge your position near the twentieth century by the laws of Moses. The Church has gone back to them for authority to burn witches, and buy and sell slaves, and collect t.i.thes, etc. We are come unto Bethlehem, and are not under the laws of Sinai. The laws of England are cruel enough to wives; there is no need to go back to Leviticus.

"6th. Christ truly said, 'What G.o.d has joined together, let no man put asunder.' What _G.o.d_ joins together, no man can put asunder. Poverty, sorrow, care, shame, helplessness only draw the bond tighter. They go to the grave together, and with a n.o.ble constancy look across the grave to an immortal companionship.

"I dare say, my dear daughter, you have thought of all these things; think now of what good you can do each other by separation:

"1st. Robert is under wrong influences, while you are present to provoke them. Day by day he is learning to be more and more cruel. But when he has lost you, he will remember your sweetness and goodness, and long for you,

'_For we never know the worth of a thing, Until we have thrown it away._'

"2d. That evil old woman is growing constantly in all malice, cruelty, and sin. Be no longer an occasion for her wickedness.

"3d. You yourself are wasting your life in Doubting Castle.

Hopeful found the key of it in his breast. Do likewise. You ought to be in the very height and glory of your existence. You are doing nothing, learning nothing, losing everything. Make a change; you cannot make it too quickly. It will probably ploughshare and harrow your heart, as the farmer ploughshares and harrows the field; but after this preparation, you can sow the seeds of your future happiness. Now all seed sowing is a mystery, whether in the heart, or in the field, but sow in love and in faith, and the harvest will truly better all your expectations. Think well over your movements, but do not think till you cannot act. Begin at once to prepare for what must be done, keeping in mind the good motto of the Eighty-seventh Regiment: '_Clear the Way!_' sweep every fear and doubt out of it, all enc.u.mbrances of body or mind. Carry no old grudges or offences with you, no sad memories. Step out into the new way with a trusting, cheerful, childlike spirit, and be sure and take the Great Companion with you. Mother will write you to-morrow.

Your loving parents,

"JOHN AND MARY NEWTON."

This letter "cleared the way," for Theodora, and with the daring decision of fresh young faculties, she grasped the whole position confidently. She saw that she must, for the present, give up her husband--it was absolutely necessary and remedial. But she also saw a future with him that should redeem the whole unhappy past. She saw it, because from her long trial she had brought a three-edged spirit, tempered and polished by the fires of many afflictions; and an Inner Woman perfect--no member wanting, none sick or disabled, an Inner Woman full-grown, ready for any emergency, with time for everything human. She had also been much encouraged and strengthened by her father's prompt preparation, and she told herself, as she carefully destroyed the letter, that as the thing was to do, it were well to do it as soon as possible.