"No. The 'visiting' is past—but it will come again."
"It must not! It must not! Deny it every time! Oh, Isabel—if anything should happen to put off the marriage, whatever should we do?"
"Bear it."
"The talk of it! The wonder of it! The mortification of it!"
"Mother, why are you fearing such a misfortune? Robert says all is right. You have always believed Robert's word."
"Yes, yes! Robert knows, Robert feels, when he is in the right mood, but to-night he is in a bad mood—cross and evil as Satan."
Dismally they talked together for another hour, and then Robert joined them. He had caught fear from some source, and he asked for a list of such places as Christina was likely to visit. Then he called a cab and went first to Glover's Theatre. He was just in time to see the exit of the Box crowd, but Christina was not among them. Suddenly the consequences of a delayed marriage struck him like a buffet in his face. The loss of money—the loss of prestige—the talk—the newspapers! Oh, the thing was impossible, and he tried to put the apprehension of it away with a stamp of his foot. He was equally unsuccessful wherever he called. No one had seen Christina that day, and he finally went home puzzled, and even anxious, but sure that her unaccountable absence was the result of some misunderstanding that would be cleared up when morning came. He insisted on the family retiring, but told Jepson to leave the gas burning, and be ready to open the door if called upon to do so. Then he also went upstairs, but sleep was far from him. Theodora appeared to be asleep, but though her eyes were closed, her heart was waking. One kind word would have brought him all the comfort love could give. He was touched, however, by the sweetness and peace that brooded over her, and by the calm and restful atmosphere pervading her room. He stood a moment at the side of the apparently sleeping woman, but was reluctant—perhaps ashamed—to awaken her. David slept in her dressing-room and he went to the child's cot and looked at the beautiful boy. When he was asleep, the likeness to his father was very evident, and Robert noticed it.
"I was once as innocent and as fair as he is. I must have looked just like him," and sitting down by a table he held his head in his hands, and thought of them, and of Christina's delay, listening always for the carriage, the step, the ring at the door, that never came.
The next morning the whole family were late and unrested. Jepson was sorting the mail as Isabel came downstairs, and she asked anxiously, "What time is it, Jepson?"
"Nine o'clock, miss. Here is a letter for you, miss."