Playing With Fire

CHAPTER VI

DONALD TAKES HIS OWN WAY

"Love is a sea for which no compass has been invented."

There are times which mark epochs in life; they cut it sharply asunder – the continuity of life is broken.

There was a sense of relief when the two divines were comfortably beyond the horizon of the Little House the next morning, and Mrs. Caird could begin her preparations for their own removal. "I was fain to come to this place, Marion," she said, "and mightily set up with it when I got here. But I have had lots of care in its pretty rooms and among its flowers. So I am just as fain to go back to the big, dull rooms in Bath Street. Paradise is fairly lost, dear. We may dream of it, but we never find it."

"O Aunt Jessy, some surely find it."

"They may think they do for awhile, but indeed,

She was tearing up some old cotton for dusters as she repeated the rhyme, and she emphasized "some domestic cross" by a rent of rather angry vigor; then she added, "Go to your father's study, you will be out of the way of the cleaners there, and I have no doubt whatever that you have an important letter to write."

"Aunt, when did you hear from Donald?"

"It is so long since, I have forgotten."

"Where were they then?"

"In the Shetland Islands. Whiles I fear they have been shut in there by early storms, or have gone out pleasuring in some cockle shell of a boat and got – "

"No, no, Aunt. I had a letter from Perth. They were on the mainland the seventh of September."

"Then they are all right. Some day soon they'll come traipsing in, wet and draggled, and tired and hungry."

"They will not come here, will they?"

"I hope not. It is little welcome I'll give them if they come after this house is in order. They would have to go to the kitchen itself."

"You would never do that, Aunt?"

"Would I not? If the occasion comes you will see."

The occasion came that afternoon. Mrs. Caird was standing before a large chest of fine napery, counting napkins, when Donald threw open the door of the room and, before she could speak, threw his arms around her neck and kissed her, and kissed her over and over again. "You dear Auntie! You dear Mammy!" he shouted, and she, between laughing and crying, gasped out: "Be done, you ranting, raving laddie! See you have made me drop the finger cloths, and my count is lost; and I shall have to go over them again."

"I'll count them for you, Mammy."

"You!" she ejaculated with horror. "Your hands are not fit to touch them."

"Oh yes, you are going to give me one when you give me my dinner."

"I will not. The tale of them is correct and just from the laundry, and I shall not have one of them soiled for anybody."

"Not even for Richard Cramer?"

"Where is he?"

"In the parlor with Marion."

"Humph!"

"And we are hungry, Auntie, and we are going to stay here to-night."

"No. Your rooms are now in the cleaning, you had better go to the Hall."

"Very well, we can do that."

"No, you can't. I won't have it, and Lady Cramer is in London."

"Jericho! What took her there? Richard will be astonished."

"So you will have to stay here. It's notably inconvenient, but whenever do men consider the conveniences? I'll give the two of you the guest-room, and we will just have to stay here a day longer, and make it decent-like after you."

"Auntie, we are hungry; nothing to eat since breakfast, and I am not in love. I can't live on kisses and sweet words like Richard."

"Surely not. Come with me and I will give you pot luck until six o'clock, then you'll get your dinner, and not a minute sooner. I have three extra women hired by the day and I can't slack my care of them."

"Come and see Richard. He wants to see you."

"Not he! He would have come up with you if he had wanted bad enough."

"He got stopped on the way. How could he pass Marion? She was watching for him."

"Did she know you were coming?"

"I think so – certainly, certainly she knew."

"And the little minx so innocently asked me if I knew!"

So Mrs. Caird went down to the lovers, pretended to scorn them, and sent Richard upstairs to wash and make himself like a gentleman. Then, with a beaming face, she turned to Marion and said: "My dear girl, we will have a few days' happiness, no matter what comes or goes. We can put the cleaning behind the dear lads."

"They can go to the kitchen, Aunt. They are quite used to it. From what Richard says, I think they have mostly lived in kitchens, and also thoroughly enjoyed kitchen hospitality."

"That would be like them. It takes gentlemen to understand the reality of kitchen hospitality. We will give them the best in our cupboard, and set them a fair table in the dining-room. It is not too often in life that true love comes to eat with you."

"Richard must go away to-morrow. When he heard Lady Cramer was in London it worried him. He said he must go and see what she was doing."

"Well, then, give the day to him. When he has left to-morrow, Donald can do a deal to help. I taught him everything about the house, as you know. He'll not need to marry any girl that she may make the pot or kettle boil, or sew a button on. And he'll help us with carpets and curtains, and the like, and enjoy it. We will have one good day when we can get it. You may look up Ecclesiasticus 14:14 for permission. So come with me and we will spread in the dining-room a comfortable 'pick-up' for hungry men, and you must serve and entertain them, for there is too much fine linen lying loose, and too many strange hands around, who may be clever at finding things – not lost."

The dinner and the evening were all that Mrs. Caird intended. She left the lovers very much to themselves and, wherever she was, Donald was with her. Never had she been so proud and so fond of him. "He is the handsomest lad in Scotland," she said, "and the best, and I care not who says 'no' to that truth – it will stand."

Still the visit delayed them a day, and it was Tuesday when they again reached the Bath Street home and, for a few days, Mrs. Caird was always finding out some advantage in it hitherto unnoticed. She was glad to live under high ceilings once more; the Bath Street water made far better tea. She had had enough of lamps and candlesticks forever – even if they were made of silver – just give her a common gas burner and she would never inquire what it was made of. Thank goodness there was a market now to go to! You had to take what meat and poultry you could get in the country; the fleshers in Glasgow knew they must give you the very best, that and that only; and, above all, she could order a street car to wait on her, or a noddy to call for her whenever she wanted to step to church or call on a friend, and that suited her feelings far better than any lady's Victoria.

Dr. Macrae was not pleased at such remarks. "Gratitude is a late plant," he said; "it grows at the very gate of heaven. A human being hardly ever receives it. I am sure, Jessy, if you had had to pay rent for the house and all its favors and advantages, it would have cost you a large sum of money."

"If you are sure, Ian, that a kindness is true kindness, it is easy to be pleased and grateful; but, if you come to see there has been a selfish foundation for it, why should you be grateful?"

"There was no selfish motive in Lady Cramer's kindness, Jessy."

"I am glad to be informed of that. I thought it was very like the thousand pounds left you as a token of Lord Cramer's friendship. What weary reading and writing you have given for it, not to speak of the mental and spiritual danger and trouble, I call that thousand pounds the worst money you ever put in your purse. I don't think you owe Lord Cramer a pennyweight of gratitude for it. When did you get rid of the Reverend Dr. Scott?"

"He went home early on Monday morning. He asked a queer favor of me on the Sabbath morning."

"What was it?"

"'Macrae,' he said, as we ate our breakfast, 'I ask you not to come to the Church of the Disciples to-day. I could not preach if you were present. I should be dumb.' I wondered at it."

"I think it was a most natural request. Men are just like women. That last wet day made you say things to each other you were soon sorry for."

"That may be so. Where is Donald? Did he not return with you?"

"He came to the very doorstep with us. Then he had to hurry away to the Buchanan Street Station to see Lord Cramer, who is off to London."

"Why?"

"I never asked him. Donald will be here anon; he said he would not miss eating with us the first meal of our home-coming. He seemed particular about it. I thought he might be thinking of going away himself, perhaps – "

"He is going to St. Andrews."

"You are reckoning without your host, Ian. Donald has not one intention about St. Andrews."

"Nevertheless, he is going to St. Andrews."

"Just so – according to Ian Macrae. Donald Macrae is to hear from."

"Every Scotchman, Jessy, considers it a great privilege to go to St. Andrews. St. Andrew was a good and a great man."

"He was a very prudent, forecasting Saint – the only one of the Disciples who, at the great Preaching, knew where the bread and the fishes were. But, though I will not preach for your Saint, I will say nothing against him. If he can get Donald he may have him. But we will have our meal at six o'clock, Ian, and I hope there will be only good words with it to-night. It would be real unlucky to have a quarrel over our first meal."

Certainly Mrs. Caird did all she could to prevent it. It was a pleasure to go into the firelit, gaslit room, and see the pretty plenteous table; and to hear the pleasant laughter of Donald and Marion, who were standing together on the hearthrug. Dr. Macrae took in the charming picture at a glance, but his attention was specially drawn to Donald. His holiday had improved him. He was so manly and so handsome that his father quite involuntarily addressed him as sir. "Well, sir," he said, "I hope you have had a good holiday."

"A grand one! I do not see how I could have had a better one in every way."

"That is good. Your aunt is waiting. Let us sit down. Where did you go first?"

"Lord Cramer was with me and we went first to Skye, and spent nearly four days at Dunvegan Castle with Macleod of Macleod. He remembered my grandfather and spoke bravely of him, and, if I had not been a Scotchman to the last drop of my blood, Dunvegan would have made me one."

"It is the oldest inhabited castle in Scotland," said Dr. Macrae, "and in my grandfather's day it was only accessible from the sea by a boat and a subterranean staircase."

"It is now approached by a modern bridge crossing the chasm."

"Is the old castle intact?"

"Yes, and there are many good modern additions. On the whole it is very picturesque. We were nobly entertained. We saw all to be seen in the neighborhood. The castle has some rare relics, also. The Macleod himself put into our hands for a few minutes a wooden cup beautifully carved and mounted in silver, which belonged to Catherine O'Neill in 1493. We also saw the fairy banner which controls the destiny of the Macleods, and the claymore and horn of Rory More, or Sir Roderick Macleod. It was a very memorable visit, sir."

"I am glad you have been there. You saw a grand Scotch noble. Where did you go next?"

"To Oban, where we spent a couple of days on the mountains with John Stuart Blackie. Such a lunch as we had with him on the hills – curds and rich cream – cold salmon – cold lamb – roasted duck – veal pie – ham – peas and, of course, hard-boiled eggs. I was told Blackie does not think any meal perfect without them. With these things we had plenty of milk, beer, and claret with a fine rich bouquet. Blackie said claret without it was no better than colored cold water."

"Did Blackie talk much?"

"Did he ever cease talking? But every word was good. You would not have missed one of them."

"On what subjects did he speak?"

"While eating he told us that every meal should have three courses, adding, 'Three is a sacred number. Aristotle settled that. Three is the first number that has a beginning, a middle, and an end, and this gives the perfect idea of a whole. Every dinner ought to have three courses, every song three verses, every novel three volumes, every sermon three heads.'"

Dr. Macrae really laughed as he asked, "What were your three courses, Donald?"

"Curds and cream first, salmon and roast duck second, and, for the third, cheddar cheese, beautifully browned oat cakes and a glass of old port that Blackie said 'fell like the dew of Hermon' upon the oat cakes."

"That was like Blackie. His similes often have a Biblical flavor."

"He talked wisely and cleverly about eating, said the Englishman was an aristocratic animal, and his eating large, royal and rich, and that the man who fed in his style would do nothing in a meager style. The French thought we did not understand how to eat – that we eat without science, had only one sauce, that we made of flour and water, and called melted butter. He quoted Novalis for the Germans, who said, 'Eating is an accentuated living.' I think, Father, Novalis is right, for everything is always best when well accentuated. A student from Edinburgh joined us while we were eating, a tall, thin man who was living on the hills to recruit after the severe drill of last winter at the University."

"Yes, the drill is severe," said Dr. Macrae, "unless you have a grand purpose for it."

"Blackie said he knew him well, that he met him near Glencoe two years ago, and at that time he could only speak a few words in broken English. Two years afterward he won the bronze medal in the Greek class at Edinburgh, and that all had been done upon oatmeal, cheese, salt herrings, and fifteen pounds sterling."

"That is by no means a singular instance," said Dr. Macrae. "All things are possible to a Scotch Celt in love with learning and seeing a pulpit in the distance. No doubt his medal paid for all his privations."

"I was very sorry for the man. That bronze medal would not have paid me for two years' hard study and meager living."

"I am sorry to hear you say that, Donald," and Dr. Macrae's face suddenly shadowed, and he asked for no further stories of his son's holiday. On the contrary he remembered some letters that must be written, and rose, saying:

"Donald, after breakfast to-morrow morning, I should like to speak to you. Come to my study."

"Yes, Father. I will certainly come."

Then, with a slight reluctance, Dr. Macrae went away, but long afterward he could hear, if he listened, sounds of happy talk and laughter at the pleasant table he had deserted. And he had several longings to go back to the cheerful parlor; his heart was not satisfied, and he could offer it no excuse for its deprivation that it would accept.

"I am sorry Father has gone away, Donald," said Marion. "I had a feeling you were coming to something very interesting."

"Then it is just as well his father did not stay to hear it," replied Mrs. Caird. "I never saw two men whose ideas of what was interesting were further apart than those of Ian and Donald Macrae."

"Well," continued Donald, "our next move was a doubtful one, and it might perhaps have seriously offended Father. I told Professor Blackie I had a little lecture ready about the private history of our favorite Scotch songs – the men or women who wrote them, the circumstances that produced them, the places in which they were written, and so on. And I said I would like to deliver it in Oban. He was greatly delighted, offered to be my chairman, and arranged the program, adding also to my facts many interesting anecdotes. Both Lord Cramer and I illustrated the songs with our violins and voices, and Blackie provided the enthusiasm for the crowds that came to hear the stories and the singing and to see the dancing. The enthusiasm was beyond belief. Indeed, at our battle song of Lochiel's men charging the French at Waterloo, most of the audience stood up, and from all parts of the hall came the Sa! Sa! Sa! Sa! of a Highland regiment charging an enemy. Well, when all expenses were paid, we had cleared one hundred and four pounds, which was very acceptable, as we were both out of money. At Perth we raised the sum of eighty pounds, and then at Wick we took a boat for Shetland, and had a glorious time with the fishermen on Brassey Sound – out on the ocean with them, all through the long, light nights, while the sunset lingered in the west and the dawn was tremulous in the east, and the moonlight silvered everything on earth and sea, and the aurora, with rosy javelins, charged the zenith. Such wonderful nights! Such quiet, grave, purposeful men! Such nets full of quivering fish, in the silver lights between sea and deck! We got away with the strange fishers after the foy or feast and, stopping at St. Andrews, tramped through all the queer little coast towns of the ancient kingdom of Fife and so to Edinburgh, with three times as much money as we started with, and all the health and happiness of the trip added to it."

"I am glad you called at St. Andrews. What did you think of the place?" asked Marion.

"It is pretty enough, but the very atmosphere is learned as well as religious, and you catch the spirit of the place whether you like or not. Walking the streets you appear to imbibe knowledge. I could think only of divinity, science, and philosophy. One of the professors asked me to give my lecture, and said he would sanction the meeting – but I could not sing there."

"Why?"

"Well, Marion, it is a psychical problem. The atmosphere had infected me, and the scientific or philosophical man is never a singing man. Now, Aunt, you see there was nothing wrong in our way of raising the wind, but it is very uncertain how Father would look at it."

"I do not think it would have his approval and, if you take my advice, you will tell him nothing about it."

The following morning, however, Dr. Macrae reverted over and over to Donald's adventures, and would have been really glad if Donald had taken up the subject again, but he did not care to ask the favor – partly because he was a proud man with his children, and partly because it was not a suitable preface for the serious conversation he intended to have with him. He left the table before Donald and spent the interval in steadying his mind and purpose with regard to his boy's future. Never had he been so dear to his heart, never had he been so proud of his beauty, his fine presence and mental alertness. He told himself the world would be full of temptations to such a youth, so charming, and that it was his manifest duty "to bind him, even with cords, to the horns of the altar." There only he would be safe from the lures of the world, the flesh, and the devil. Many things he was not sure about, but this thing he regarded as a duty from which he could not righteously relieve himself.

In the midst of such a positive decision Donald, handsome and happy, entered the room. His father met him with the respect and kindness due from one man to another, whatever their relationship, for Dr. Macrae had fully recognized the preceding evening the manhood of his son, and had resolved in the future to acknowledge it in all his dealings with him.

"Sit down, my dear Donald," he said, "I want to talk with you about your future. Your holiday has been a long and delightful one. You have got rid of the commercial life you disliked so much – though, by-the-by, Mr. Reid says you would have made a good business man – now, then, I should like you to start for St. Andrews at once, so as to go in with the entering classes – it is always best. You will find St. Andrews a delightful little city."