"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 pa.s.sion 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 a.s.sailed 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 G.o.d 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, _G.o.d 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 pa.s.sengers 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 succ.u.mb.

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 a.s.sailed him. Then he forgot everything but the irreparable mistake that had ruined his life, and during the paroxysms whispered continually: "Oh, G.o.d! oh, G.o.d! that it were possible to undo things done!" a whisper that could hardly be heard by mortal ears, but which pa.s.sed 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 grat.i.tude. 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 s.p.a.ce 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 pa.s.sed 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 G.o.d_ 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 G.o.d, 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 a.s.sist her mother in preparing the evening meal. She found her standing by an open window, wringing her thin, small hands, and silently weeping.