Playing With Fire

CHAPTER VIII

MACRAE LEARNS A HARD LESSON

Joyful or sorrowful, the days go by. With what passes in the soul and heart the hours meddle not, but over our physical life they are relentless masters. No matter how full of trouble the heart is, we must enter common life, must have dry eyes and take part in conversation; for the moment we differ from everyone else everyone is surprised. The meals are to be cooked, the parlor swept, callers are to be received, and calls are to be made, and we must dress the body decorously for dinner, though the heart and soul be sitting in sackcloth. Such experiences are very costly; we pay for them with wearisome days and wakeful nights, with wasted energies and lost illusions.

Mrs. Caird lifted the life emptied of Donald with the serenity and cheerfulness of her fine nature. She thought of him, and talked of him, and watched for the letters that were sure to come to her, constantly reminding herself how interesting they were certain to be and how glad she was that her boy was having the dew of his youth.

Marion felt the wrench of events more keenly. To the young everything that comes to an end is the end of the world. No one can be so hopeless as the young. It is the middle-aged and the old that have the power of hoping on through everything, for they have come to the knowledge that the soul survives all its disappointments and all its calamities. This is the good wine God keeps for our latter days. Marion rallied as soon as she received Richard's first letter from his ship; for it is the sorrow not sure which we feel to be unbearable. That letter enabled her to locate her lover, and, though the halo of distance and the mystery of night travel were around him, her soul sought him out and found in the romance of the situation some balm for her anxiety not without value. For the young like to believe that their trials are not common trials, and Marion knew of no girl whose lover had been torn from her side and sent off to India for nearly two years without notice or preparation for such an exile. The lovers of all her friends had been acceptable to their parents, but her lover's proposal had been met by almost insolent refusal and threat. And he was of ancient and noble lineage, and she was certain none of the girls in the Church of the Disciples had ever had a lord for a lover. She felt then that her grief was a very romantic one, and when grief can consider its romantic features it is not far from comfort.

Indeed, in a month the home affairs of the Minister's house had their settled regular observance. There had been happy letters from both Richard and Donald, and there was the promise of a regular continuance of this new element in their lives – an element of constant change and of unusual events – conversations about letters received and sent – and the looking forward to those journeying to them by day and night. These things gave to their lives a sense of romance and of far-off happenings; for our thoughts and conversation do affect our surroundings, just as rain affects the atmosphere.

It was not as well with the Minister as with his daughter and sister-in-law. To him the world had become a bewildering maze of sorrow and perplexity. Until his son had gone he had not realized how dear Donald was to him. Now his empty place at the table was a constant shock, his voice haunted the house, and he was sometimes so positive that he heard him going upstairs, whistling "Listen to the Mocking Bird," that he silently opened his study door to look and listen. And though Marion had quickly gone back with all her heart to his fatherly love, though she sat with him and read to him and sang to him, he missed his boy. Oh, how he missed him!

Not often did he receive any comfort from Lady Cramer. Sometimes she ignored his complaints, sometimes made light of them, generally she told him that her love ought to more than balance all his other love losses. But nothing that she said had a tone of reality, nothing was positive – she was going to stay all winter in Paris, she was coming to London at Christmas time, she was too sick to go out in one letter, and the next letter was perhaps only a list of invitations to a variety of houses and amusements received, but which she had neither accepted nor declined.

Yet he loved her with a passionate affection, a love full grown in that one wonderful hour when she made manifest to his suddenly awakened heart her own love for him. It is said that when love flames before it burns it dies quickly; but Ian's love, flaming in a moment, had stood within the past three months all the tests that a capricious, absent woman could give it. As Christmas approached he was in a fever of expectation, and he told himself that she would now return to London and redeem all her promises to him.

He had made no confidant of his love affair with Lady Cramer, and passion lived long in him, just as fire that is covered lives long. But Mrs. Caird read his story as clearly as if he had put it into words. And she was sorry for him, for the man's life had been broken to pieces, and nothing that had once seemed of great importance to him was now cared for. One morning near Christmas he packed, with angry haste, all the papers and books left to him by the late Lord Cramer, and sent them to the care of the steward at Cramer Hall. Mrs. Caird watched the proceeding, but she made no remark, and when the carrier came to take them away she was equally silent. She heard Ian give him a few short, sharp directions, after which he put some money into his hand and then went directly to his study.

It was a wretched day, the heavy fog shrouded all things and fused the melancholy noises of the street into a dull rumble, while a soft drizzling rain added to the general depression. Through the misty windows Mrs. Caird watched the man carrying the box to the cart which would convey it to the railroad station. It was a plain wood box, much longer than it was wide, and in the dim gray light it looked very like a coffin. At any rate, it reminded Mrs. Caird of one, and she said to herself: "It is really a coffin. What wrecked Faith and dead Hopes! What memories of a life that can never come back it carries away!"

It left the feeling of a funeral with her, and the feeling haunted her all the day long. Late in the afternoon she went to her room to rest a while, and she fell asleep and dreamed that the long white box was full of slain souls, and it cost her a strong physical effort – an effort like that of removing her clothes – to throw off her mind the uncanny influence it had established.

Then she remembered that Marion was going to a dinner and dance at Deacon Lockerby's, and she hastened to her room to see if she was preparing for the event. She found Marion fully dressed, and the girl rose, smiling, shook out her pink tarlatan gown, and asked, "Am I pretty enough to-night, Aunt?"

"Quite," was the answer. "I wish Richard could see you. Where did you get that exquisite lace bertha?"

"Father went to Campbell's and bought it for me this morning. I told him last night that I wanted a bertha, but disliked to go out in the fog to buy one, and Father said, 'I will go for you,' and I was so astonished and pleased I let him do it."

"You did right, but you know it is just like a man's purchase. I can see your father walk up to a clerk and say, 'I want a bertha, so many inches, good and pretty as you have' – no mention of its price."

"It is very pretty."

"Yes, and no doubt it cost ten times as much as a girl's bertha should cost – but it was a good spending, and I dare say he had a lighter heart as well as a lighter purse after it."

"I know I was charmed by his goodness, and I told him so in half a dozen ways, and, Aunt, at last – I kissed him. Yes, I really did. And Father looked at me with tears in his eyes, and at that moment I could have done anything he asked me to do."

"I'll warrant you. Your father ought then to have – "

"Please, Aunt, do not say the words on your lips. Nothing in life could separate me from Richard, and you know it."

"Well, well. Go and show yourself to your father, and be in a hurry. I hear a carriage at the door. Will you have a cup of tea before you go?"

"Aileen brought me one here. I want no more."

They went to the door together, and as the vehicle drove away a youth stepped through the fog, whistling merrily,

He made Mrs. Caird think of Donald, and she blessed him as he passed. "I am not superstitious," she whispered, "not at all, but when a good word comes to me I am going to take it and be glad of its message." "A good time coming" – to these words singing in her heart she went into the parlor and tinkled the little silver bell, which was answered by Kitty bringing in the teapot under its satin cozy. A few minutes afterward the Minister entered. The table had been set for him and Mrs. Caird by the parlor hearth, and he took his chair silently. Then they were alone, and, as he lifted his cup, he casually lifted his eyes and met the love and sorrow in Mrs. Caird's eyes, and there was a moment's swift understanding between them. Dr. Macrae stretched out his long, lean hand, and she clasped it and said, "Cheer up, Ian; things are never as bad as you think they are."

He smiled faintly and asked, "Where is Marion going?"

"I thought she told you."

"She did. I had forgotten. To James Lockerby's, I think she said."

"Yes, his daughter is engaged to David Grant. It is her betrothal party."

There was a moment's pause, then she continued: "I met Thomas Reid to-day on Buchanan Street. He told me that the city intended nominating him for Parliament."

"Him!"

"Yes. He said it was a great prospect, requiring extra diligence in business and very punctual observance of church ordinances."

"Had the city of Glasgow no better man to send to Parliament than Thomas Reid – although Reid is a clever man – unquestionably so."

"He has at least survived, and that is the cleverness, according to Darwin. He sent Marion a message, but I have not given it to her."

"What had he to say to Marion?"

"He asked me to remind her of the opportunities she had thrown away. He said if he was sent to Parliament he should take all his family to London for the season, and that then Marion might have stepped into a circle above her own – the very best society, of course, being open to a woman with a father in Parliament."

"What answer did you make, Jessy?"

"My words were ready. I was intensely angry at his inclusion of Marion in 'his family,' and still more angry at his appropriation of the title of 'father' in any shape to my niece, and I answered haughtily: 'Sir, on her twenty-first birthday Miss Macrae will become the wife of Lord Richard Cramer. He was in Her Majesty's Household before his father's death, and on his return from India will probably resume his duties at St. James's Palace. That will give Miss Macrae entrance into the royal circle. There is no higher one.'"

"You said well, Jessy. And I am glad you were able to give the cocksure insolence of the purse-proud creature such a perfect rebuff. Did he say anything further?"

"For a moment he was astonished and mortified, but he quickly rallied, and said, with a queer little laugh, 'That is a great exaltation for the young lady. Just keep her head level by reminding her that there's many a slip between the cup and the lip.' Then I said, 'Good morning, sir.'"

After a few moments' silence Mrs. Caird continued in a tentative manner, as if reminding herself of the circumstance, "There was a long letter from Donald this morning."

A sudden interest came into Dr. Macrae's face, though his listless voice did not show it; however, Mrs. Caird was watching his face, not his voice, and she was not astonished when he asked:

"Where is he? Has he reached America?"

"Oh, no! He is in London at present. He escorted Lady Cramer from Paris to London two days ago."

"Lady Cramer?"

"She requested him to do so."

"What was Donald doing in Paris?"

"When he first left Glasgow he went to Paris to see his friend, Matthew Ballantyne. Matthew had gone to Rome, and he followed him there, and he has been studying with Matthew's Roman master until Christmas drew near. Then he resolved to spend his Christmas in England and leave for New York at the beginning and not at the end of the year. In Paris he met Lady Cramer in the foyer of the Grand Opera House, and she induced him to stay with her, and to finally convey her to the Cramer House in London. It looks like kindness in Lady Cramer, but Donald is an extraordinarily handsome man, and women like her want such in their train."

"Like her! What do you mean, Jessy?"

"Oh, gay, flirting women, who count men's broken hearts and hopes very ornamental to themselves. As like as not she will be making eyes at Donald. I wish he was out of her seductions and safe on the Atlantic."

"If my advice had been taken, he would now be safe in the hallowed halls of St. Andrews. How can he afford such carryings on? They cost money."

"Donald will never want money while I live; forbye, the violin in his hand is a sure fortune."

"Was it not Izaak Walton who said that God had given to some men intelligence and to others the art of playing on the fiddle?"

"Let me tell you, Ian, a man could not play the fiddle without intelligence. My goodness! he requires brains to his fingers' ends to play as Donald plays. But Izaak Walton is right in one thing – Donald's gift is the gift of God, and every gift of God is good if used for innocent purpose. For myself, I am real glad that Donald's gift was music. There will be music in heaven, but there is no mention of preaching there; no matter how many play and sing in a household, if they do it well, there are never too many; but one preacher is enough in any family."

"Do not be angry, Jessy. It was but a passing remark – blame Izaak Walton for it – if it was he."

"I have no doubt it was he. The remark is just what you would expect from a man who could spend day after day and year after year putting hooks through the throats of fishes only weighing a pound or two. I think he would need few brains for that vocation. The silly body with his fishing rod! I wonder at sensible people quoting anything he says."

Dr. Macrae laughed a little, silent laugh which did not brighten his sad face, and then asked, "What time will Marion be home?"

"After midnight; you would do right if you went for her."

"Then I will go. You need have no fear, Jessy. I will be at Lockerby's before midnight."

"Marion will be pleased, and the Lockerbys will take it as a great honor. Speak kindly to the young people; you will make them your friends forever."

"Jessy, something has come between me and my people, something that dashes and interferes. It has grown up lately."

"It is yourself, Ian. You are different. Your countenance used to be steadfast and hopeful, your voice strong and sincere, your simple presence encouraging. Your face is now troubled, your voice indifferent, your presence has lost much of that sympathy which binds one heart to another."

"My congregation, Jessy, is too material to be moved by anything but spoken words or positive actions."

"Unconsciously your face – so dark and pathetic – moves them. The immortal Dweller, in molding its home, uses only the material you give it. So the sense of desolation, which has been stirred in you by the writings of Darwin, Schopenhauer, Comte and others, is visible on your countenance; and your people look on you and catch your spirit, even as we look over an infected country and catch its malaria."

Dr. Macrae shook his head in desponding denial, and Mrs. Caird continued: "What has Kant's 'Thing in Itself,' or Hegel's 'Absolute,' or Pascal's 'Abysom,' or Renan's 'Scepticism,' or Spencer's 'Agnosticism' given you? O Ian, what are they but words empty of help or meaning to souls who have lost their faith in God. Listen to this," she cried, as, moving swiftly to a small hanging bookcase, she took from it a slim volume, "a man like yourself, Ian, fighting his doubts and fears and sad forecastings, wrote them;" and her eager face and intense sympathy made him bend his head in acquiescence. They were standing together in the center of the parlor floor, and Dr. Macrae was anxious to be alone and consider the news he had just received about Lady Cramer and his son, but he found something promising in his sister-in-law's words, and he stood expectantly watching her strong, sweet face as she spoke, or God in her spoke, these lines:

"Whosoever wrote those lines, Jessy, had lain with me in the dungeons of Doubting Castle."

"Arthur Hugh Clough, an English clergyman, wrote them. His feet well-nigh slipped, but he constantly struggled to hold fast the skirts of Faith, and bid himself remember that in the Christ creed

"Let me have the book, Jessy," and he stood a few minutes looking at it. What Mrs. Caird was saying he heard not, his eyes had fallen upon a few lines describing the Christ creed:

"I do not care for poetry, Jessy, but this book appears to reveal a soul. I will take it to my room; it may have something to say to me."

But Dr. Macrae did not read any book that night. To sit still with closed eyes and consider what this sudden association of Lady Cramer and his son might mean was the most urgent of his desires. Until near midnight he thought over the circumstance in every possible way, coming finally to the conclusion that Lady Cramer's attentions to Donald were a most delicate revelation of her love for himself; and this conviction brought instantly an acute longing for her presence. He felt that he must reach London as soon as it was possible. For some weeks he had anticipated this visit and made the necessary preparations for it. The finest clothing was ready to put into his valise, and there was little to do except to secure a minister to supply his pulpit for one Sabbath. This was easily accomplished, and on a fine, bright Monday morning he took a very early train southward.

"I am sure," said Marion, "Father has taken this journey purposely to see Donald again. It is so good of him, and I do hope Donald will treat him properly."

"Nonsense!" answered Mrs. Caird. "Your father has gone to London to see Lady Cramer."

"Aunt, he told me he hoped Donald would be in London; he said he wished to see him."

"Then why did he not start for London at once?"

"He thought Donald would be delayed and detained by Lady Cramer. I thought so also. She liked to have young men waiting upon her. She always found them plenty to do. Father wanted to see Donald again."

"If your father wants anything, it is not his way to wait three or four days for it."

"Anyway, I do not believe my father and Lady Cramer are in love with each other. It is not likely."

"Do you think Richard and yourself have captured all the love in the world? Your father is a very handsome man and Lady Cramer is a beautiful woman. Why should they not be in love with each other?"

"They are so old, Aunt."

"Richard is not what I would call a young man. He will be thirty-five years old."

"Oh, no! He is thirty, and he has never been married. I am his first love. He told me so, many times he told me so."

"That is no wonder. All men say such things. Their words stand for just what you take them at. When I was a girl we used to sing a duet in which the soprano declared she had heard of a land where every man was true, where the women issued all orders, and the men did as they were told to do, and