She could not but admit to herself that she was bitterly disappointed in her home-coming. She had thought Robert's mother and sisters would meet her on the threshold with kisses and words of welcome. She had yet to learn the paucity of kisses and tender words in a Scotch household. The fact is general, but the causes for this familiar repression are various, and may be either good or evil. Theodora felt them in her case to be altogether unkind. What could she do about it? There was the perilous luxury of complaint to her husband and there was her father's lifelong advice: "Shut up a trouble in your heart, and you will soon sing over it." Which course should she take? She was waiting for a true instinct, a clear, lawful perception, when Robert entered the room.

She looked up with a smile that brought him swiftly to her side, and when he spoke kindly, all her fearing discontent slipped away. Very soon their conversation turned naturally to their apartments. Robert was proud of them, not so much for the money lavished on their adornment, as for the taste he thought himself to have shown. Going here and there in them, he happened to find, on a beautiful cabinet, an old curl paper and a couple of bent hairpins.

"Look here, Dora," he said, and his voice was so full of displeasure, that she rose hastily and went to him.

"What kind of maid have you hired? She ought to know better than to leave these things in your parlor."

"And you ought to know better, Robert," was the indignant answer, "than to suppose these things belong to me. Do I ever put my hair in newspaper twists? Do I ever fasten it with dirty, rusty, wire pins like these?"

"Then tell Ducie to keep her pins and curl papers in her own room."

"They are not Ducie's. She would not put such dreadful things in her pretty hair."

"How do they come here, then?"

"I suppose the people who have been occupying these rooms left them."

"No one has occupied these rooms since they were redecorated and refurnished."

"You are mistaken, Robert. They have been fully occupied for the last three weeks."

"Dora, what are you saying?"

"The truth! Call any of your servants, and they will tell you so."

Without further words he rang the bell, and Ducie appeared. "Ducie," he asked, "who told you there had been people staying in these rooms?"

"The kitchen, sir; that is, the men and women in the kitchen. I was taken all aback, for my lady had told me – "

"Do you know who the people were?"

"Mrs. and Miss Crawford, Mrs. Laird and her granddaughter, Miss Greenhill."

"Oh, they were relations, Dora," he said in a voice which indicated they had a right there, and that he was neither grieved nor astonished at their invasion of his apartments.

"If you please, sir," interposed Ducie, "my lady's trunks were all opened by Mrs. Crawford and the rest. It gave me such a turn!"

"The rest? Who do you mean?"

"Miss Crawford, Mrs. Laird, and Miss Greenhill."

"Then give the ladies their proper names."

"Yes, sir, Mrs. and Miss Crawford, Mrs. Laird, and Miss Greenhill have opened and ransacked all the four trunks belonging to my lady, which were sent on here directly after her marriage. She had given me the keys of them, and when I saw them open it fairly took my breath away. I am afraid many things are destroyed, and some things that cost no end of money stolen. Not liking to be blamed for the same, I wish the matter looked into."

"Stolen! You should be careful how you use such a word."

"Sir, excuse me, but people who open locked trunks, and use and destroy what is not theirs are just as likely as not to carry off what they want. My character is in danger, sir. I wish the trunks examined."

"I suppose you have been through them."

"No, indeed, sir. When my lady went to her dinner, I called in one of the kitchen girls. I wanted a witness that I had never touched them."

"How dare you make such charges, then?"

"Ask my lady."

"Dora, is there any truth in this girl's words?"

"I fear she speaks too truly, Robert. I have only looked cursorily through one trunk, but I found much fine clothing spoiled, and I fear some jewelry gone. The ruby and sapphire ring given me by my college history class as a wedding gift is not in the jewel case it was packed in, and my turquoise necklace was scattered among my neckwear. It ought to have been in the jewel box."

"Perhaps you forgot in the hurry of packing where you put it."

"I was not hurried. Those four trunks were all leisurely and carefully packed, and the day we left Kendal for Paris – "

"You mean our wedding-day?"

"Yes."

"Then why do you avoid saying so!"

"I do not, but on that same day these four trunks were forwarded here. If you remember, I only took one trunk on our – wedding journey. I supposed these four would be quite safe in this house. But look here, Robert," she continued, lifting a set of valuable ermine furs, "these were given me by Mrs. Priestley. They were of the most exquisite purity, but they look now as if they had been dipped in a light solution of Indian ink."

"The Glasgow rain," he answered carelessly. "Ducie, I do not think we shall blame you."

"Sir, I will take no blame, either about things spoiled, or stolen."

"There is no question of theft. If the ladies using these rooms for a day or two – "

"For three weeks, sir."

"Used also some clothing found in the rooms – "

"Not found, sir, I beg pardon, but locked trunks were opened for them, which the men in the kitchen say is clear burglary – perhaps wishing to frighten me, sir. But this way, or that way, sir, things have been ruined that cost no end of money, and when I saw my lady's spoiled gowns and furs, and broken jewelry, they fairly took my breath away! Yes, sir, they did."

"You may go now, Ducie."

"I cannot and will not be blamed, sir, and I want that fact clear."

"You may go, now. I have told you that once before. If I have to tell you again, you can leave the house altogether."

"Ducie," said Theodora, "I wish you would look after clean linen for the beds and dressing tables."

"What is the matter with the linen, Dora?"

"It is not clean. It looks as if it had been used for two or three weeks."

"Are you sure?"

"Look at it! I can do without many things, Robert, but I cannot do without clean linen."

"Of course not! It is awfully provoking. I tried so hard to have everything spotlessly clean and comfortable, but – " He turned away with an air of angry disappointment.

Dora went to his side and praised again all he had done. She said she would forget all that was spoiled, or broken, or stolen for his sake, and for sweet love's sake, and she emphasized all her tender words with kisses and endearing names.

And she found, as many women find, that the more she renounced her just displeasure and chagrin the harder it was to conciliate her husband's. Whether he enjoyed Dora's efforts to comfort him, or was really of that childish temper which gets more and more injured, as it is more and more consoled, it was at this stage of her married life impossible for Theodora to decide. However, in a little while he condescended to forgive Theodora for the annoyances others had caused him, and said: "It is later than I thought it. We have forgotten tea."

"I do not want any."

"I am going to speak to mother. Shall I send you a cup?"

"No, thank you. Do not stop long, Robert."

She went to the window and looked out into the dreary night. A heavy rain was falling, and not a star was visible in that muffled atmosphere. Sorrowful feelings pervaded all her thoughts, and she asked her soul eagerly for some password out of the tangle of small trials, which like brambles made her path difficult and painful. For the circumstances in which she so suddenly found herself, confounded and troubled her. Had Robert deceived her? Had she been deceived in Robert?

It was, however, a consciousness of having fallen below herself, which hurt her worst of all. She had made concessions, where concession was wrong; she had made apologies for her husband, whereas he ought to have made them to her.

"I have been weak," she whispered to her Inner Woman, and that truthful monitor replied:

"To be weak is to be wicked."

"I have resigned my just rights and my just anger."

"And so have encouraged others to be unjust and unkind, and to sin against you."

"And I have gained nothing by my cowardly self-sacrifice."

"Nothing but humiliation and suffering, which you deserve."

"What can I do?"

"Retrace your first wrong step, in order to take your first right step."

Ere this mental catechism was finished, Ducie entered the rooms with her arms full of clean linen, and Theodora said: "I see you have got the linen, Ducie. Make up my bed first."

"Got it! Yes, ma'am, after a fight for it. The chambermaid was willing enough, but madame held the keys, and madame said the beds had been changed four days ago, and she would not have them changed but once a week. I refused to go away, and the girl went back to her, and was ordered to leave the room. Then I went, and told her that whether she was willing or unwilling I had to have clean linen, as the beds had been stripped, and Mr. Campbell wanted to go to sleep, and Mrs. Campbell had a headache. Then she flew into a passion, and I do not think I durst have stayed in her presence longer, but Mr. Campbell was heard coming, so she flung the keys to one of the young ladies, and told her to 'see to it.' Then I had a fresh fight for pillow-cases, and covers for the dressing tables, and I was told to remember that I would get no more linen for a week. 'Fresh linen once a week is the rule in this house,' the young lady said, 'and no rules will be broken for Mrs. Robert. You can tell her Miss Campbell said so.'"

"Well, Ducie, we must look out for ourselves. I will buy linen to-morrow, and then we can change every day in the week, if we want to."

Robert had been requested not to stay long, but his interview with his mother proved to be both long and stormy. The old lady had felt the irritation of the dinner table, and though she herself was wholly to blame for its quarrelsome atmosphere, she was not influenced by a truth she chose to ignore. Ever since dinner she had been talking to her daughters of Theodora, and her smouldering dislike was now a flaming one. The application for clean linen had made her furious, and she was scolding about it when Robert entered the room. But he knew before he opened the door of his mother's parlor what he had to meet, and the dormant demon of his own temper roused itself for the encounter. He went into her presence with a face like a thundercloud, and asked angrily:

"Why did you let any one – I say any one – into my rooms, mother? I think their occupancy without my permission a scandalous piece of business."

"Keep your temper, Robert Campbell, for your wife. She will need it, I warrant."

"Answer my question, if you please!"

"Well, then, if it is scandalous to entertain your kindred, it would have been much more scandalous to have turned them out of the house."

"Kindred! It is a far cry to call kindred with that Crawford and Laird crowd. I will not have them here! Take notice of that."

"They will come here when they come to Glasgow."

"Then I shall turn them out."

"Then I shall go out with them."

"My rooms – "

"Preserve us! No harm has been done to your rooms."

"They have been defiled in every way – old curl papers, dirty hairpins, stains on the carpets and covers. I burn with shame when I think of my wife seeing their vulgar remains."

"Your wife? Your wife, indeed! She is – "

"I don't want your opinion of my wife."

"You born idiot! What do you want?"

"I want you to write to the women who opened my wife's trunks, and ruined her clothing, and stole her jewelry, or I – "

"Don't you dare to throw 'or' at me. I can say 'or' as big as you. What before earth and heaven are you saying!"

"That my rooms have been entered, my wife's trunks broken open – "

"You have said that once already! I had the Dalkeiths in my spare rooms. Was I to turn the Crawfords and the Lairds on to the sidewalk because your rooms had been refurnished for Dora Newton?"

"Campbell is my wife's name."

"I thank God your kindred had the first use of your rooms! You ought to be glad of the circumstance. And pray, what harm is there in opening a bride's trunks?"

"Only burglary."

"Don't be a tenfold fool. A bride's costumes are always examined by her women kin and friends. My trunks were all opened by the Campbells before your father brought me home. Every Scotch bride expects it, and if you have married a poor, silly English girl, who knows nothing of the ways and manners of your native country, I am not to blame."

"Let me tell you – "

"Let me finish, sir. I wish to say there was nothing in Dora Newton's trunks worth looking at – home-made gowns, and the like."

"Yet two of them have been worn and ruined."

"Jean Crawford and Bell Greenhill wore them a few times. They wanted to go to the theatre or somewhere, and had not brought evening gowns with them. I told them to wear some of Dora's things. Why not? She is in the family now, more's the pity."

"They had no right to touch them."

"I'm sure I wish they had not worn them. Jean and Bell are stylish-looking girls in their own gowns. Dora's made them look dowdy and common. I was fairly sorry for them."

"Which of them wore Theodora's ring? That ring must come back —must, I say. Understand me, mother, it must come back."

"If it is lost – "

"It will be a case for the police – sure as death!"

The oath frightened her. "You have lost your senses, Robert," she cried; "you are fairly bewitched. And oh, what a miserable woman I am! Both my lads!" and she covered her face with her handkerchief, and began to sigh and sob bitterly.

Then Isabel went to her mother's side, and as she did so said with scornful anger:

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Robert Campbell. You have nearly broken your mother's heart by your disgraceful marriage. Can you not make Dora behave decently, and not turn the old home and our poor simple lives upside down, with all she requires?"

"Isabel, do you think it was right to put people in the rooms I had spent so much time and money in furnishing?"

"Quite right, seeing the people were our own kindred. It was not right to spend all the time and money you spent on those rooms for a stranger. You ought to be glad some of your own family got a little pleasure in them first of all."

"They did not know how to use them. Both the Crawfords and Lairds are vulgar, common, and uneducated women. They know nothing of the decencies of life."

"That may be true, but they are mother's kin, and blood is thicker than water. The Crawfords and Lairds are blood-kin; Dora is only water."

"Theodora is my wife. I see that mother will no longer listen to me. Try and convince her that I am in earnest. My rooms are my rooms, and no one comes into them unless they are invited by Theodora or myself. My wife's clothing and ornaments of all kinds belong to my wife, and not to the whole family. Write to Jean Crawford, and Bell Greenhill, and tell them to return all they have taken, or I shall make them do so."

"I suppose, Robert, they have only borrowed whatever they have. They often borrow my rings and brooches and even my dresses."

"Isabel, when people borrow even a ring, without the knowledge and consent of the owner, the law calls it stealing; and the person who has so borrowed it, the law calls a thief. I hope you understand me."