A Reconstructed Marriage Part 50

"How kind of him!" There was a little scorn in her voice, and she asked, "What about my piano, and my music?"

"Oh, Theodora, you must not feel hurt. Poor Robert! He was nearly broken-hearted. He never expected to see you. He had spent a fortune on detectives, who looked all over Europe for you. One night I sat with him, and I really thought he was insane. He acted like it."

"But he gave my piano and music away."

"I suppose he could not bear to see them--and you had left them, you know."

"Isabel, he gave me that piano as a birthday gift, one week before we were married; but then, of course, he took it back after the ceremony.

He told me once my wedding ring was his property, and that he could sell the very hair off my head if he chose to do so."

"He must have been in a vile temper to say such things. Legally, I suppose he was right, but no good man ever does such things."

"But if a woman has the ill-fortune to marry a bad man? and many women innocently do this, then----"

"Then what?"

"If she has any self-respect, she emanc.i.p.ates herself from such a condition of slavery."

"Are you still angry at Robert?"

"I never was angry at him. He was only the rock on which my love bark struck, and went down."

"How is David?"

"Come home with me, and see him. We shall be home for supper, and it is about time we were leaving."

"Both Sir Thomas and I will come with you gladly."

For nearly ten miles their road lay through a delightful country, and just at the darkening ended in a plateau among some foothills. A number of white houses were scattered over it, and towards one of these Theodora drove her carriage. They entered an inclosure studded with forest trees, and kept in fine order; and as they neared the dwelling, came into a lovely garden full of all kinds of flowers and fruits. The house was square and large, surrounded by deep piazzas, and covered to the chimney-tops with flowering vines, chiefly with jasmine and pa.s.sion flowers. On either side of the wide hall there were cool, large parlors, and from its centre rose the white stairway leading to the upper rooms--and everywhere there was an indefinable sense of peace and comfort.

"What a beautiful home! What a heavenly place!" cried Isabel, and Theodora answered:

"My father bought it when we first came. We have lived here ever since.

It is beautiful. The sun s.h.i.+nes on it, the winds blow through it, in every room there is happiness and peace. You were asking about David,"

she said in a tone of exultation, "here he comes!" and they went to the window and watched his approach. He was riding a fine, spirited horse, and riding like Jehu the son of Nims.h.i.+, who doubtless rode--as well as drove--furiously.

"How wonderfully he rides, Dora."

"David can do anything with a horse, or a rifle, and he is so strong, and tall, you would think him much older than he is. Come, we will go down and have supper, and let unpleasant memories die."

For two weeks the Wyntons stayed with Mr. Newton--two weeks of perfect delight to them. They visited various lovely towns along the coast, they hunted, and fished, and talked, the women of household things, and family affairs--the two men of their college days, and sports, and poetry; Sir Thomas quoting the Greek poets, and Mr. Newton the English, old and new. In the evenings, Theodora played and sang, and David recited stirring lines from "The Lady of the Lake" and other works.

Night and day followed each other so happily and so quickly, that the week promised became two weeks, without notice or protest.

No letter during this time had been sent to Robert. Theodora insisted on this point. "I do not like letters, Isabel," she said. "They say too much, or too little. When you see Robert, tell him what your eyes have seen, and your ears heard--just the plain truth--and leave him to act on it, as he wishes."

"Then remember, Dora, that we are not intending to hurry home. We shall remain a few days at Salt Lake City, Denver, St. Louis, Chicago, and of course visit Niagara. It may be a month before we reach New York. You must give us five or six weeks before we reach Liverpool, and so do not lay the blame of our loitering to Robert's indifference. Be patient."

"I have been four years without a word. You see that I am neither impatient nor unhappy."

"Tell me, Dora, who was that dark, handsome man you seemed so much at home with in the hotel? I am curious about him. He appeared to be so familiar with your father and yourself."

"He is a neighbor. His house is about two miles from ours. The two eldest girls you saw reading and singing with me are his daughters. I am educating them with the three younger girls, who are the only children of a neighbor in another direction."

"He seemed very fond of you--I mean the man at the hotel."

"He is a good friend. He spends much time with my father. When he bid us good-bye, he was going to his mining property. That is the reason you have not seen him. Had he been at home, he would have made your visit here much pleasanter."

"Then I think we should never have got away. What a book full I shall have to tell Robert? I wish I was home. It will be good to see the light come into his sad face, when I say, 'Robert, I have found Theodora!'"

"Say nothing to influence him, one way or the other. His own heart must urge him to seek me, or he will never find me. It is a long journey to take, for a disappointment."

"He will doubtless write to you at once."

"I should take no notice of a letter."

"Why?"

"I have learned that a woman who lets slip the slightest respect which is due her, invites, and perhaps deserves the contempt she gets."

"Sir Thomas is very respectful to me, Dora."

"And very kind and loving. And you must know that you are much handsomer than you were before your marriage. You converse better, your manner is dignified yet gracious, your dress is rich, and in fine taste, and the touch of gray in your abundant black hair is exceedingly becoming to you. You are a fortunate woman."

"But, Dora, remember how long I waited for good fortune. I am in real living only two years old; all the years before my marriage were blank and dreary. I am forty years of age according to my birth date, and I have lived two, out of the forty."

"Thank G.o.d for the two years!"

"I do. We both do. Sir Thomas is very religious."

At length the Wyntons departed, and when Theodora had made her last adieu, and watched their carriage out of sight, she turned to her mother, who stood pale and depressed at her side.

"I am glad the visit is over. It has been something of a trial to you, mother--and to me also."

"The last week I was a little weary. But father and David enjoyed it, so it does not matter."

"Yes, it does matter. The men in a house should not be made happy at the cost of the women's exhaustion."

"How soon do you expect your husband?"

"Not for eight weeks--it may be longer, and it may be never."

"Do you love him at all now?"

"I love the Robert who wooed and married me, as much as ever I did; the Robert of the last five or six years, I do not wish to see again. I have been away from him four years, and I cannot hope that his manner of life has improved him."

"How has he lived?"

"From what Isabel told me, I should say his family had full dominion over him for two years; the result being the tearing to pieces of the home he made for me, and the handing over to his sister everything that was mine. The last two years he has lived a solitary life at his club, no doubt self-indulgent, self-centred, and self-sufficient."