"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 cla.s.ses 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 pa.s.sing." 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 pa.s.sed crying joyously, "Uncle David! Papa! Papa!"

"My G.o.d!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed 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 j.a.panese 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 a.s.sisted 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 cla.s.sroom, 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 s.p.a.cious 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."