"Then I will do without letters."
"You can please yourself."
She did not answer, and he went into the dining-room. In a short time she steadied herself sufficiently to follow him, but no one but Isabel took the slightest notice of her. Mrs. Campbell was in high spirits, and talked with her son in a jocular way about some event of which Theodora was ignorant. Jepson watched her plate and saw that she was attended to, and Isabel showed her disapproval of her mother's and brother's behavior by a sullen silence. For she was slow-minded, and could think of no way to express her sympathy with Theodora, except sulking at those who were annoying her. But she rose from the table when Theodora rose, and when Theodora said "Good-night, Isabel," she answered: "I should like to come into your parlor for a few minutes—if agreeable."
"You are very welcome, Isabel."
"Thank you. I only wanted to say, that I had nothing to do with the opening of your letter. I would no more open your letter, than I would pick your pocket."
"I am sure of that, Isabel. I wish you were my friend. I am very lonely since Christina went away. Have you heard from her?"
"Not one word. I am very lonely too. Good-night."
And Theodora thought until sleep came of the girl's sad face, and pitied her more than she pitied herself. For hope was building a new life in her heart, and she looked forward to a future, that in its freedom, beauty, and usefulness would atone for the present, and the past years of her married life; but, oh the sameness, and ennui, and moral and mental death of a life without aim or purpose, without love or expectations, or sensible work to do.
Early on the fourth day Mrs. Oliphant called, and brought Theodora a letter. She professedly came to ask Theodora to drive with her, and when her invitation was declined, did not remain many minutes. But Mrs. Campbell watched her coming and going, and made plenty of sarcastic remarks about both the lady and her dress, her carriage and her horses and servants. Isabel was scarcely conscious of them. Since the loss of her sister she had become still more severe, intense, and reticent; besides which, though no one suspected the movement, Isabel was considering a break in social custom, undreamed of by the severely proper maidens of her set.
It related to Sir Thomas Wynton. She had had a letter from him describing his journey to Paris, and his present life in that city, and he had asked Isabel to write him "all the news she could gather about Wynton village, and their friends in Glasgow, and to add also anything social, political, or religious she thought would interest him." And this request had opened up a pleasant prospect of collecting and arranging all the news she could glean from people, or from newspapers, and then writing the result to Sir Thomas. It was a wild, a daring thing for Isabel Campbell to attempt, but she had resolved to ask no one's advice about the right or the wrong of it. She would decide the matter for herself, and she was trying to do so while her mother was mocking at Mrs. Oliphant's dress and general appearance.