"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 tearsEternal 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."
