CHAPTER IX

"Away, haunt thou not me,Thou vain Philosophy.Little hast thou bestead,Save to perplex the head,And leave the Spirit dead.Unto thy broken cisterns wherefore go?While from the secret treasure depths below,Wisdom and Peace and PowerAre welling forth incessantly.Why labor at the dull mechanic oarWhen the fresh breeze is blowing,And the strong current flowing,Right onward to the Eternal Shore?"

"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

"The souls of near two thousand yearsHave laid up here their toils and fears;And all the earnings of their pain.Ah, yet consider it again!"

"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:

"With its humiliations combiningExaltations sublime, and yet diviner abasements,Aspirations from something most shameful here upon earth, andIn our poor selves, to something most perfect above in the heavens."

"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

'All was sweet serenity,And life a long devotion.'

Then the contralto expressed her longing for such a land, her willingness to go to it at once, and asked, 'How am I to get there?' Upon which a young man in the room appointed to give the information sang out melodiously,

'Gostraightdown the crooked lane,Andall aroundthe Square?"

Then both laughed, and Marion said, "Well, Aunt, as no one could go straight down a crooked lane, or all around a square, no one can find that happy land of your girlhood. I will go and write to Richard now, and tell him about the song, and about Father going to London."

"And do not forget to name Donald's care of his stepmother from Paris to London."

"I will tell Richard that also. I had forgotten the circumstance."

"Everyone forgets Donald."

And Marion, tired of assuring her aunt that Donald was not forgotten, answered carelessly, "Yes, they seem to do so. I wonder why?"

"Because Donald is not requiring their thoughts. Donald can think for himself; he knows what he wants, and he takes what he wants, and so he is well served." She was leaving the room as she spoke, and she closed the door emphatically enough to enforce her opinion.

In the meantime Dr. Macrae was going southward. In spite of the philosophies with which he had saturated himself, he had yet in his nature primitive traits which ruled him—often foolish ones—but so natural and spontaneous that they were actually dear to him. And among these relics of ancient feeling was the pleasure of giving surprises. All the way to London he was telling himself: "How happy Ada will be! How surprised she will be to see me! I shall walk unexpectedly into her parlor, and see the love and joy and astonishment light up her beautiful face as I approach her! That moment will pay for all—for all!"

He lived in the consideration of that moment all the way to the great city; but it was dark when he arrived there, and he was tired and hungry, and quite eager for whatever comfort the old Charing Cross hostelry could give him. About eight o'clock, however, he was thoroughly refreshed, and he called a cab and was driven to Lady Cramer's residence. It was fairly well lighted, and he judged her, therefore, to be at home. So he dismissed the cab and then walked slowly up and down before the house for a few minutes. As he was thus steadying himself for his eagerly desired happiness a carriage drove up to the house, and immediately afterward Lady Cramer, attended by a tall, middle-aged gentleman, entered it; and they were driven rapidly away. Dr. Macrae was by no means a shy man, but love unnerves the bravest when its environments are strange and uncertain; and he actually allowed Lady Cramer and her companion to drive away without any effort to arrest attention. In fact, he realized that he had stepped backward, and this cowardice made him both angry and ashamed.

"Why did I not cry halt! Why did I not call her? Why did I let that man carry her off when I was not more than an arm's length from her?" And the inner man answered, "You could have stepped to her side, laid your hand upon her shoulder, and whispered, 'Ada!' in her ear. You had all the moments necessary. You were too cowardly to take your opportunity."

For nearly an hour he walked up and down before the house, letting the poor ape, jealousy, mingle with all his nobler love thoughts; then he noticed that the lights had been much lowered, and he rang the bell and asked for Lady Cramer.

"My Lady has gone to the play," was the answer.

"At what hour will she return?"

"It will be very late, sir. There is a supper and dance at Lady Saville's after the play, sir."

Then Dr. Macrae put a crown into the man's hand and asked to what theater Lady Cramer had gone, and, having received this information, he followed her there.

"Her Majesty's Theatre."

Was it conceivable that Dr. Ian Macrae had given such an order? A few months previously he had said to a large congregation in relation to the theater, "My feet have never crossed the unhallowed threshold." And he had made this declaration with what he considered a justifiable spiritual satisfaction. Would he now transgress a law of his whole life? Alas! at this hour life meant Lady Adalaide Cramer and to follow her, see her face, and consider her companion was an urgency he could not control—had indeed no desire to control.

He bought a ticket in the pit and looked around. Lady Cramer was not present, but several boxes were empty, and in a few minutes he saw her enter one of them. She was the center of a gay party and the most beautiful woman in it. His ticket, bought at random, had placed him in an excellent position for seeing the play he had come to see, and it was hardly likely Lady Cramer would let her eyes fall on anyone beneath the seats where the nobility sat.

Dr. Macrae looked at the lady of his hopes first. She had improved marvelously, she was radiantly beautiful and dressed in some magnificent manner beyond his power to itemize; yet he felt with a thrill of idolatrous passion the total effect of the combination. And he kept telling himself: "She is mine! And I will not suffer any other man to parade himself in her beauty! I will remain in London until we are married."

Then he looked at the man who was parading himself in her beauty, and had a swift, sharp pang of jealousy. He was about fifty years of age, one of those large, blond, well-groomed Englishmen who represent the imperial race at its best. There were two other ladies, a young naval officer and a well-known diplomat in the box, but Dr. Macrae took no note of them, though it interested him to see how cleverly Lady Cramer used them in order to exhibit the little airs and graces which diversified her gay or sentimental coquetries.

That Dr. Macrae should enter a theater was not the only wonder of that night. The play happened to be "Julius Cæsar," and he soon became enthralled with the large splendor of its old Roman life. He neither heard nor saw one thing that he could disapprove; and he said to himself, almost angrily, that it was wrong to prevent the happiness which hundreds of thousands might receive from such an entertainment if a mistaken public opinion did not prevent it. And, though this decision was only rendered mentally, he felt in its rendering all the ministerial intolerance of one who is decidingex cathedraa point of great moral importance. The end of the performance found him in the foyer, watching for Lady Cramer's appearance. He had not long to wait. She came forward, leaning on the arm of her escort, and looking, as Dr. Macrae thought, divinely beautiful. He went straight to her. His step was rapid, his manner erect, even haughty, and, touching her hand gently, he said, with ill-concealed emotion:

"Ada!"

She started and answered, "Why, Doctor Macrae! Is it possible? In a theater, too! Oh, it is incredible!"

"I came to see you, not the play."

"To-night I am going to a supper and dance at Lady Saville's. Come to breakfast with me—nine o'clock. See, we are delaying people behind us—excuse me——" And as she went hurriedly forward she called back with a smile, "Breakfast—nine o'clock."

He was so summarily dismissed that he could not answer; then the waiting crowd made him feel their impatience, and with a sense of humiliation he went rapidly into the gloomy street. What had happened to him? All his spirit, all his pride and enthusiasm had vanished. Ada also had vanished, the play was over, and he had been told to wait until morning.

He passed the night in a fever of passionate contradictions. He blamed Ada in words which he had never used in all his life before, he praised her in words equally extravagant and unusual, and he had pangs of such cruel suffering, and thrills of such exquisite love and longing, as made him understand that it is through the mind, and not the body, that the greatest misery and the most enthralling happiness are experienced.

But, joyful or sorrowful, he never thought of prayer. If he had, there was his visit to the theater to be explained, and at the bottom of his soul's crucible there was yet a residuum of doubt on that score. Besides, the theater was only a detail; the real trouble was the woman.

About four o'clock he fell into a sleep so deep that it was far below the tide of dreams, and when he awakened he had barely time to prepare himself for his early visit. However, the rest had refreshed him, and when he left his hotel for Lady Cramer's residence there was not in all London a man of greater physical beauty or more aristocratic bearing. He was aware of this fact, and he smiled faintly as he looked in the mirror, and thought a little contemptuously of any rival he might have.

Like a true lover, he outran the clock, and reached his tryst some minutes before the appointed hour. He found Lady Cramer waiting for him. With beaming face and extended hands she came to meet him, and he forgot in a moment every word of reproof he had prepared for her. A delicate breakfast was laid on a table drawn to the hearth of her private parlor, and when she took her place, and made him draw his chair close to her own, the cup of his happiness was brimmed. Never before had she seemed so beautiful and so desirable. Her hair was loosely dressed, and the open sleeves of her violet silk gown showed the perfection of her hands and arms without rings or ornaments of any kind but the threadlike band of gold on her marriage finger. That ring he meant to remove and replace with one bearing his own and Ada's initials, and, at any rate, it was but an empty symbol, a dead pledge.

He did not waste these happy hours in explanations, but spent every moment in wooing her with all the fervor and passion of his manhood, and in winning again those tender marks of her favor which had really made her fly from his influence before. He entreated her to marry him at once—to-morrow—to-day—and he declared he would not leave London unless she went with him.

At this point she made a firm stand. "Marriage is an impossibility just yet," she answered; and, when pressed for any reason making it so, replied, "I must see how the affair between Richard and Marion ends before I entangle myself;" and, while she was making this excuse, there was the sound of a man's deep, authoritative voice in the hall, and the next moment he entered the room, full of his own eager pleasure, or at least feigning to be so. He pretended not to see Dr. Macrae, but cried out hurriedly:

"Ada! Ada! The horses are at the door. It is such a lovely morning. Come for a gallop. Quick, my dear!"

"Duke, you do not see my friend. Let me introduce you to Dr. Ian Macrae, the most eminent of our Scotch ministers."

"Glad to meet you, Doctor. Glad to see Ada—Lady Cramer—has such a wise friend. Kindly advise her, sir, to take her morning gallop—her physician considers it imperative. I have left all my affairs to take care of her, and I hope you will advise her to obey orders. Run away and put on your habit, Ada. The animals are restive and Simpson is holding both."

Ada looked at Ian and smiled, and what could Ian do? He was not a good rider. He had never escorted a lady on horseback in a public park; he knew nothing of the rites and regulations of that duty. It was better to give place than to render himself ridiculous. So he bowed gravely, and, turning to Ada, said:

"I advise you to take your morning ride, Lady Cramer. I can see you afterward."

"Come in to dinner, then, Doctor, and let us have our talk out about my stepson."

"It will not be convenient," and with these words he retired.

"A remarkably handsome, aristocratic man," said the Duke. "Make some haste, Ada, or we may miss the sunshine."

And as Lady Cramer ascended to her dressing-room she sighed sorrowfully, "I have missed it."

During this scene the Minister had preserved a noble and rather indifferent manner, and he left the room while she was hesitating about her ride. But oh, what a storm of slighted and disappointed love raged within him! Through the busy streets, forlorn and utterly miserable, he wandered slowly, careless of the crowd and the cold, and only thinking of the pitiless strait he had been compelled to face. He knew no one in London but Lady Cramer, and he felt as deserted and abandoned as a wandering bird cast out of a nest.

There is no waste land of the heart so dreary as that left by love which has deserted us. This is the vacant place we water with the bitterest tears, and, even in the cold, crowded London streets, his melancholy eyes and miserable face attracted attention. Men who had trod the same sorrowful road knew instinctively that some troubler of the other sex had been the maker of it.

He went back to his hotel and wondered what he should do with himself. He had intended to spend the hours not spent with Lady Cramer in the British Museum. He could not now do so. He preferred to sit still in his room and try to discover the truth concerning the position in which he so unexpectedly found himself. He had firmly believed in the love of Lady Cramer, he had regarded her only one hour previously as his own, and talked with her of their marriage. And she had apparently been as happy as himself in that prospect.

Yet the mere advent of Rotherham had changed her attitude, and he had felt at once that his presence was an inconvenience. More than this, in some way too subtle to analyze he had been intensely mortified by her changed manner, and by her reference to Richard and Marion, as if their love affair accounted for his presence in her household—the more so as they had not spoken of the young people at all that morning. He did not feel that it was at all necessary to invent an excuse for asking him to dine with her.

So it was in an intense sense of mortification that his wounded feelings expressed themselves, and it was an entirely new experience to him. Throughout all the years of his manhood he had been praised and honored, served with the greatest consideration, and almost implicitly obeyed. He had never been in any society he considered more noble or more distinguished than his own. Yet undoubtedly Lady Cramer had been ashamed of his presence. He recalled the expressions on her face, the tones of real or pretended boredom in her voice, all the pretty coquetries of her eyes and hands, and all her graceful efforts to bewitch the Duke, and with a scornful laugh muttered, "She thought I did not understand her double game. She thought me a fool, and made a plaything of my love." And then he uttered some words which a minister should not use, and which a woman does not care to write.

Now, mortified feeling becomes hatred in passionate natures, and ridicule or scorn in cold natures. It tended to hatred with Ian. He had been so long accustomed to adulation and reverence that he could not endure the memory of the covert slights he had felt compelled to ignore. And it was not long ere he became furious at himself for not boldly taking his position as Lady Cramer's future husband. He told himself that, even if there had been a scene there and then, a man would have been present, and to him he could have made explanations, but now what could he do but suffer?

For hours he tormented and humiliated himself with the certainty that Lady Cramer was ashamed of condescending to his love, and that she had represented their acquaintance as arising from a necessary interference between her stepson and the minister's daughter. He knew exactly how she would represent the subject; he could tell almost the words she would use, and this mean, underhanded denial of himself hurt every nerve of his consciousness like a physical wound. Indeed, the suffering was greater, for a man may forgive a thrust from a sword, but a slap in the face! No! And Lady Cramer's treatment of her betrothed lover had been a decided slap in the face. He told himself passionately that he would never forgive it.

With this mortifying experience he sat until daylight waned, then he went to the office and asked if there were any letters for him. There was one from Marion, which he laid aside; there was none from Lady Cramer. Then his aching disappointment revealed to him that, in spite of his anger, he had been expecting a propitiating note, and perhaps a renewal of her invitation to dinner. For in this early stage of his wrath all his despairing thoughts were peopled with the phantoms of his love and his desires.

But there was no letter, and when he had dined alone he had arrived at that point of impatience which can no longer be satisfied with hoping or believing—he insisted on seeing. So he went to Lady Cramer's house and found it in semidarkness; consequently she was out. The obliging porter informed him, in return for a crown piece, that his lady had gone to the theater with the Duke of Rotherham, and Ian quickly followed her there. The play was in progress, but the man who had seated him previously came smilingly to take his ticket.

"Never mind the location," said Ian; "put me where I can see Lady Cramer and not be seen."

"A box on a higher tier would be the best."

"Then take me there."

"It will be five shillings more."

"Here is a sovereign. Give me a good location and keep the change."

He got all he desired, and for two hours fed the fire in his heart through the sad, tearless avenues of his eyes. Only the Duke was with her. He was in full dress, with all his ribboned orders on his breast; she was robed in pale amber satin and glittering with diamonds. The house was very full, the entertainment mirth-provoking, and there was a great deal of sweet, sensuous music. He did not hear anything either sung or spoken, for all his life was in his eyes, and what they saw burned the wordunattainableon all his hopes. He left the theater before the performance was finished; he did not wish to meet his false mistress until he was quite sure of his decision. When he thought he was so he lifted his valise and packed it. He had resolved to see her once more and then return to Glasgow. His manner was then haughty and quiet, and his face looked as if carven out of steel, so cold and clear-cut were its features, so hard and implacable the resolve written on them.

In the morning he went to Lady Cramer's house, and was readily admitted. She was rather glad of his visit, for she by no means realized her offense nor her lover's indignation at it. Indeed, when he entered the parlor she rose with a little cry of pleasure, and, with both hands extended, hurried to meet him.

"O Ian! Ian! How glad I am to see you!" she cried. "I have just written to you—why did you not come again yesterday?"

He had advanced to about the middle of the room, and he stood there, stern and inflexible, until she was near to him. Then he raised his hands, palms outward, and said: "Stand where you are, Ada. I do not wish you to touch me. You are the most false of all women. I have come to give you back your worthless promise. I do not value it any longer."

"Ian! Ian! What do you mean?"

"I mean that I know you are going to marry that old Duke—going to sell yourself once more."

"Oh, indeed," she answered, "if my marriage is a sale, I prefer to be sold for a dukedom than a Free Kirk pulpit. And, if you have come here to be insolent, understand that I do not care for anything you say."

"Care a little for my farewell. I will never trouble you again. I give you back your promise."

"Thank you! If you had been brave enough to insist on my keeping it, I might have done so. You are a very indifferent lover. Twice over Duke Rotherham drove you away, just because he was a duke."

"You are mistaken. I set you free because you are utterly deceitful. I hate deceit. I love you no longer."

"You are deceiving yourself. You can never cease to love me."

"I love you not. I have ceased already."

"Indeed, sir, in the matter of love you leave off loving when you can, not when you wish."

"A burnt-out fire cannot be rekindled; you are dead to me."

"I shall live in your memory."

"I have buried you below memory, and, for the graves of the heart, there is no resurrection."

"Do not quarrel with me, Ian. I did love you! I did intend to marry you!"

"You are a beautiful woman, but you are only a face without a heart. It would have been a good thing for you to have become my wife. I should have taught you how to love."

With a little mocking laugh she answered: "It might have been a good thing to be your wife, but oh, what happiness it is not to be your wife! You have much learning, sir, but you do not know the way to a woman's heart." Then she slipped from her finger the ring he had given her and let it fall to her feet.

"I take back my promise, Ian. Take back your ring. Farewell!" and, with head proudly lifted, she passed him. At the door she turned, and he was just lifting the ring. "Ah!" she cried, "the diamonds are pure enough for you to touch, I see," and with a contemptuous laugh she closed the door behind her.

Her eyes were tearless, and there was a dubious smile around her mouth, but her heart grew so still she thought something must have died there. "Farewell, Ian!" she whispered, as she sank wearily on her bed. "Farewell! You wanted too much. You made the great blunder of confounding love-making with love. You took every trifle too seriously. I thought I loved you, but what is love? I might have married you, if I had not wanted to be a duchess. You might have spoiled that dream, and I am glad you are gone.Hi! Ho!I think I have managed very well."

Really it was her gift of blindness to anyone's pleasure but her own that at this time had kept her ignorant of danger until she had drifted past it. If Ian had been more persistent, the end of the affair would have been very different.

"Alas! God Christ—along the weary lands,What lone invisible Calvaries are set,What drooping brows with dews of anguish wet,What faint outspreading of unwilling hands,Bound to a viewless cross with viewless bands.While at the darkest hour what ghosts are metOf ancient pain and bitter fond regret,Till the new-risen spirit understands."

Doctor Macrae left London immediately after this interview, but he did not at once return to Glasgow. He spent two days at Oxford and nearly a week in the manufacturing towns of Yorkshire, the rest of his leisure in the historic city of Newcastle. He was interested in what he saw, but not comforted by it. For he was well aware that all his hopes had been stripped to the nakedness of a dream. The week days trailed on the ground and the Sabbaths made no effort to rise to the height of their birth. For the spiritual center of his being had never yet been in touch with the spiritual center in the universe, and all philosophies and all creeds must come back to this sympathetic understanding between the Comforter and the Comforted, or they come to nothing.

Many years ago he had analyzed prayer by his creed, and felt that it had nothing to do with troubles so personal and selfish as his love or his hatred. For some wise purpose this discipline of wasted love had been given him, and his duty was to bear his loss as manfully as he could. There had once been a time when he would even have rejoiced to give up any personal happiness if he thought that by doing so he was learning a God-sent lesson. He could not do that now. He had been too long lookingintothe Deity instead of lookingupto Him. He had compelled himself to question and to qualify until he knew not how to believe nor yet what to believe. Poor soul! He thought prayer could be reasoned about! Prayer, which is an unrevealed transaction, beyond the region of the stars!

At length, the time of his absence from duty being completed, he took a train for Glasgow, arriving there early in the evening. It was raining hard, it was dark, and the points of gas light only rendered the darkness visible. The streets were crowded with men and women in dripping coats, jostling each other with dripping umbrellas as they hurried home after their day's work.

In the quiet space of Bath Street the driver of his cab dropped his whip and stopped in order to regain it; and in those moments Dr. Macrae noticed a wretched looking man trying to get a few pennies by singing "The Land of Our Birth." His voice was full of pain and tears, and Macrae called him and put a shilling in his hand. The beggar's look of amazement and gratitude was wonderful. He raised the coin as he took it, and cried out, "O God!" and the look and the words fell on Macrae's heart like a soft shower on a parched land. They called up one of those tender smiles quite possible, and even natural, to his face, though far too seldom seen there. In the light of this smile he reached his home, and the next moment the door opened and Marion and Mrs. Caird stood waiting with outstretched hands to greet him.

He fell readily into their happy mood, and sat down between them to the excellent tea waiting for him. And the blessing of the shilling was on him, and he talked cheerfully of all that he had seen, but added as he took his large easy-chair on the hearthrug,

"East or West, Home is Best."

Alas! this blessed mood did not last. In a few days he was again brooding in a hell of his own making. He could not rest his heart on any affection. Lady Cramer had deceived him, Donald had deserted him, Marion was restlessly waiting for her lover's return. Then she also would go. And Jessy Caird's heart was with Donald. He thought of these things until he felt himself to be a very lonely, desolate man; for the heart is like a vine, it withers and dies if it has nothing to embrace.

In a deep and overwhelming sense he knew that to obey or to disobey duty was to say "yes" or "no" to God, but what was his duty? He told himself that if he could only see the way of duty clear he would take it, however unpleasant or difficult it might be. Yes, he was sure of that. But what was his duty? He tried to find out by every logical method known to him, and every method pointed out some flaw in every other method.

One morning, at the end of January, Dr. Macrae received a batch of London newspapers. They were brought to the breakfast table, and he looked at their number and wondered. He did not seem to understand what they portended, but Mrs. Caird did. Some womanly instinct told her what information they brought, and when Macrae did not come to the dinner table she said softly to Marion, "Lady Cramer is married. I wonder how he will bear it."

In the middle of the afternoon she took some coffee into the Minister's study, and at his request sat down beside him. "Stay an hour with me, Jessy," he said. "I am in trouble."

"I know, Ian."

"She is married."

Jessy nodded slightly, and said: "I know. My dear Ian, you were but a little child in the hands of Adalaide Cramer. Very likely she thought she loved you."

"I think she did love me."

"Whom has she married?"

"The Duke of Rotherham."

"She had a great temptation, but no doubt she suffered in giving you up, even for a dukedom."

"She ought to suffer. I wish her to suffer."

"Then you no longer love her?"

"Loving is now out of the question, but I had, I thought, a great love for her."

"Had!"

"Yes. I loved Ada until she contemplated making me a partner with her in the sin of deceiving the man who was then—almost—her husband. After that I had no hesitation in resigning her. I would not remain in London—she was very lovable—I might—I think not—but I might——"

"You acted as an honorable man must have done. Danger is an unknown quantity until you meet it face to face, and in this danger you were like a swimmer that only tips the tangles and does not know the depth of the water below them. I am glad you had the courage to leave her. Let her be dismissed even from your thoughts."

"How should I dare to think of her after those London papers? The Decalogue and Christ's words concerning its seventh law still stand with me as a finality. I no longer love her. I am not even angry with her. She was just the reef on which my life went down. An hour ago I buried her."

"Your life has not gone down. It ought to be more rich and buoyant for this very experience. It will be."

"Perhaps. Yet all life's pleasant things have suffered the same change that Autumn works on the flowery braes of Spring, and I feel,

'My days are as the grass,Swiftly my seasons pass,And like the flower of the field I fade.'"

Jessy waited a moment or two, and then replied, "I think, Ian, you might be just and honorable to the poet. Why do you cut the verse in two? I will give you the other three lines, as you seem to have forgotten them:

'O Soul, dost thou not seeThe Wise have likened theeTo the most living creature that is made?'"

"Living creature?"

"Yes, in the Spring does the grass tarry for any man's help? It comes up without tool, or seed, or labor. In the garden, the field, the roadside, it comes, fresh and strong and heavenly green. Its withered blades have a new life. Likewise certain portions of our lives change or pass away, but something better for our coming years is given us."

"My dear Jessy, how good are your words. Is there any poetry you do not know?"

"Men and women who have souls meet each other in good poetry. I have met many a sweet soul there."

"I must tell you, Jessy, that it is not theDuchess of Rotherhambut the Church of the Disciples that is now troubling me. I dread every Sabbath Day before me. I feel as if I could not—could not preach."

"Do you think a woman's 'no' should change your life and your life's work?"

"It might do so."

"It cannot. If there is no place open to a man but a pulpit, it is clear God means him to preach—whether he wants to or not. I think little of the men who are feared for the day they never saw. Bode good and you will get good. That's a fact, Ian.

"Jessy, I seem to have lost everything in one bad year—my love, my children, my work, my friends. All are changed or gone. I feel poor. Once I was rich, and knew it not."

"You are not poor, Ian. The poor are those who have never lost anything. You are not doing badly even now, and you are learning on very easy terms the grand habit of doing without."

"I am very miserable, Jessy, I know that."

"You are deserving misery badly, or you would hardly punish yourself. God is giving you blessings on every hand, and you do not even thank Him for them."

"Jessy Caird!"

"I'm right, quite right. He took the great temptation of a heartless beautiful woman out of your way. You could have thrown love and honor and your very soul on that water, and got nothing back—through all the years of your life—but sorrow and shame. Well, well, it is little gratitude we give either God or angel for theescapesthey help us to make. How often have we been in the net of some adverse circumstances, and suddenly and quietly the net is broken and we escape. Then we are as likely to grumble as to rejoice."

"If it wasn't for the preaching——"

"Ay, it is always 'something' if it is not 'somebody' that is to blame. Not ourselves, of course! What do you think of making the best of what you have, Ian? There was a wonderful letter from Donald yesterday. Ask Marion about it."

"I will take a walk as far as the cathedral. There is a painted window in the crypt that is always delightful to me."

"A painted window?"

"Yes—representing Christ as a youth reading the Book of the Law."

"You are a queer man, Ian Macrae. Your ideal of Christ has a papistical leaning."

"Nothing of the kind, Jessy. Nothing!"

"The Roman idea is to represent the Redeemer of the World just a baby in the Virgin's arms, or he is the victim on the Cross, or the dead God being prepared for burial. How many paintings do you know representing Christ as the Lord of Life and Death—the co-equal of the God Everlasting? Indeed, if you do happen to find a painting of Christ as a man among men, he is sure to be the least handsome and godlike of all those surrounding him. And you can find comfort in the figure of a boy reading the Book of the Law!"

"Do you know the window?"

"I do. The last time I saw it, Donald was with me. He liked it well. There was a long letter from Donald yesterday."

"I will now dress and take a walk."

"It is raining hard."

"Then I will only go as far as Blackie's, and look over his new books. That is always interesting."

"Don't go out, Ian. Sit with Marion. She has a letter she wants to read to you."

"Jessy, I am seeking the Truth. The search impels me—I cannot rest—I can do nothing else but seek it—not for my life!"

"Do you expect to find it in Blackie's bookshop?"

"I know not where to find it."

"It is lying there—at your right hand."

He glanced down at his right hand, and saw the familiar old Bible of his college days. The place-keeping ribbon was lying outside its pages, and he lifted the Book and replaced the ribbon; then, with a feeling of sorrowful tenderness, laid it, on a shelf of his bookcase. "My father put it in my hands the morning I went first to St. Andrews," he said softly, and then turned to Jessy, but she had left the room.

With a strange smile of satisfaction he touched the inner breast pocket of his long black vest, for in that pocket there lay a letter from Donald which was all his own. It had come to him by the same mail which brought Marion's, but some curious Scotch twist in his nature prompted him to conceal the fact. The root of this secrecy was undoubtedly selfishness. He did not want anyone else to see, or touch, or handle it—it was all his own, as long as it lay unspoken of in his breast wallet. There were things in it he could not bear to discuss—things that appeared to actually deny all the results he had declared would be the natural and certain consequences of Donald's disobedience and irreligious tendencies.

So he kept the letter in his breast and said nothing about it, and he went to Blackie's bookshop and brought home in his hand a volume by Mills with which he passed the long evening. Now and then he vouchsafed a few remarks on passing events, but upon the whole he had reason to congratulate himself upon his reticence and its success.

Nevertheless, it had been less successful than he imagined, for, after he had retired with Mr. Mills to the solitude of his study, Marion said, with a sigh, "He never named Donald, Aunt;" and Mrs. Caird answered sharply, "I am thinking, Marion, he knows all about Donald. He has had a letter his own self. The man is far too curious to have kept whist if he had not known what we were meaning by Donald's good fortune. No doubt Donald wrote to him. I would hardly believe your father if he said different."

After this event the gloomy winter of snow and rain and thick fog settled over the busy city, and people with firm-set lips and gloomy faces went doggedly about their business and tried not to mind the weather. But Dr. Macrae was acutely sensible to atmospheric conditions, and the nearly constant gloom and drizzle was but the outward sign of his mental and spiritual darkness and doubt. Day followed day in a monotonous despairing search for what he could not find, and life lost all its savor and searching all its hope and zest.

Finally his health began to suffer. He found out what it meant to be nervous and inadequate for duty. He became unreasonable or dourly despondent, and every change was marked by moods and tempers that affected the whole household. For the mind has malignant contagious diseases, as well as the body, and the black silent sulk or the fretful complaining in the study passed readily into every room of the gloomy household.

There are doubts that traverse the soul like a flash of lightning, burning their way through it; there are others that come slowly, insinuating themselves through a few careless words that somebody said because they had a clever ring. Doubt came to Ian like a mailed warrior, and met him, asApollyonmetChristian, with defiant words and straddling all over the way. What if there was no God? he asked boldly—if blind forces, beyond his comprehension, controlled the world? If life was only a semblance and mankind dreamers in it? What if the heavens were empty? If there was no one to answer prayer? If Christ had never risen? If the Word of God wasnotthe Word of God?

Such questions are only of casual importance to the material man, but to Ian they were the breath of his nostrils. He lived only to solve them, and to pluck the Very Truth from the assertions and contradictions in which it lay buried. By night and by day he was in the thick of this storm, and was often so weary that he fell into long sleepy stupors. For great griefs and anxieties have these respites from suffering, and it was likely this very lethargy which overtook the Disciples in the sorrowful Garden of Olives. And this spiritual warfare was not a thing to be decided in a few days, or even weeks. Slowly, as the weary months went on, it disintegrated the Higher Life, leaving the man acutely intellectual, but without spiritual hope or comfort. It was mainly by Mrs. Caird's pleadings and reasonings that he had even been kept at his post in the Church of the Disciples.

"What do you expect to gain by leaving your work, Ian?" she asked. "If God should send a word to comfort you, it would doubtless come as it came to the good men and prophets of old—when they were on the threshing-floor, or among the flocks, or about their daily duties. You can at least do as Dr. Scott does—keep faithfully your obligation to the Presbytery, and, as a matter of professional honesty, preach good Calvinistic sermons to those who desire them. It might be that while you were helping and encouraging others the Divine Whisper would reach your heart. At any rate, it is more likely to come to you in the stress and duty of life than when you are thinking yourself into a stupor in that haunted study of yours."

"Haunted!"

"Yes, Ian, haunted by doubts that gather strength by habit—and by fears, that, like the needle, verge to the pole till they tremble and tremble into certainty."

And, though Ian had declared that he never could or would preach as a mere professional duty, he found himself obliged to do so. It was necessary to have a reason for his sermons, for without a reason he could neither write nor preach them; and he found in the faithful fulfillment of his ministerial vows the only substitute for that fervent zeal which had once touched his lips as with a live coal from the altar.

Indeed, many of the oldest sitters in the Church of the Disciples said that he had never before preached such powerful and unanswerable Calvinistic sermons—sermons that "crumpled up sinners spiritually" until the business obligations of Monday morning restored their elasticity. And though Mrs. Caird knew well that the passion and fiery denunciation of these sermons came out of the misery and the ill-conditioned temperament of the preacher, she approved his eloquence. With a sort of satisfaction she said to herself, "If these people like the God John Calvin made, I am glad that Ian shows Him to them—'predestinating from all eternity, one part of mankind to everlasting happiness and another to endless misery, and led to make this distinction by no other motive than his own good pleasure and free will.'"

To Ian she said, "Your people can make no mistake about the kind of God they have to meet, and I am glad that lately you have been bringing your sermons to the counter and the hearthstone. You began your sermon to-day, as I think Christ must often have done, 'What man among you.' Men like to be appealed to, even if they have to admit they are wrong."

"I thought I might be too severe—when I consider it was a sinner correcting sin. But, Jessy, it is such blind, weary work, preaching what I do not believe."

"You do believe it. You know well it is the only Scripture for the dour, proud, self-reliant souls who have accepted it. I wonder, indeed, if they would respect a God who forgave his enemies, and who thought rich men would hardly win their way into the kingdom of heaven. As for hell, it is the necessary place for all who do not think as they do, or who in any other way offend them."

"Oh, that I knew where to find him!" cried Ian, and the passionate sorrow and entreaty in the lifted eyes and hands filled Mrs. Caird with a great pity, and she answered softly:

"When you seek for God with all your heart and with all your soul, Ian, you will find him."

"Do I not seek for Him with all my heart? I do! I do!"

Thus, in constantly soothing and strengthening the unhappy man, the weary months passed slowly away. And during them Ian was deteriorating both spiritually and physically, so much so that Mrs. Caird began to wonder if he ought not to be relieved from the strain of living so difficult a double life. Was there any necessity which would justify it?

"And he ought to be so happy," she said one day to herself, with a sob of something between anger and pity, "he ought to be constantly thanking God about his children, and he can think of nothing but what he himself wants, and that want a spiritual gift that few obtain. If he cannot believe Christ and the multitudes who have done so and found it sufficient, in whom, then, can he believe? There will be no special dispensation for Ian Macrae, and he need not be looking for it."

This fretful soliloquy took place nearly two years after the coming of those miserable books of Lord Cramer's into Dr. Macrae's life. He read others constantly which he hoped would nullify their power, but every fresh scientific or theological writer had only made his doubts and perplexities more and more confused and distressing; and it seemed at last, even to Jessy Caird, that he ought to be released from playing a part, which, however much good it did to others, was killing in its personal effects.

It was at this crisis he was walking one lovely Spring morning up Buchanan Street, and met Major Macrae. They clasped hands with an understanding smile, and the Major said, "I want an hour's talk with you, Ian. It is important. Come home with me." So they went together to Blytheswood Square, and into the little office at the back of the house, and the Major said:

"Ian, I am ready to recall Lord Cramer, and you will be glad to know that his estate is now money-making and in good condition; and, as my application for unlimited parole is not likely to be refused, there is no reason for delaying my niece's marriage."

"You must have great power with the War Office?"

"I am the power behind the power. Also, it is the desire of the Government that all noblemen should be on their estates. I have no doubt Lord Cramer will receive what he desires."

"He owed a large sum of money. Have you performed a miracle?"

"No. I have only made available a much larger sum. Many years ago, while riding with the late Lord, I noticed a peculiar appearance of the sea among the little bays that wash the northern part of the estate. I thought to myself, 'There is an oyster bed there,' but I said nothing, for the late Lord was only too speculative, and I needed all his money and all his interest at that time to get the property out of trouble. When Lord Richard was in the same trouble I remembered my suspicions, and sent half a dozen old oyster fishers to examine the situation. They found immense beds of oysters, and now there is an oyster fishery village there, and just one mile of railroad connects it with the line to Edinburgh. And, man! there's your market all waiting and ready. There never was such wonderful luck!"

"But the village and the necessary materials, the boats and cottages, the railroad and other requirements, must have cost a lot of money."

"To be sure they have. I have put a lot into the development myself. Why not? It will pay splendidly. Your future son-in-law will not only have a steady flow of gold from his oyster beds, they will also supply him with something to do and to look after. I have thought of that. I know it is good for men to come constantly in contact with facts. It helps them to keep their moral health. Tell Marion her lover may be home in three months, and I hope, Ian, you will no longer oppose their marriage."

"Marion can marry when she is twenty-one. Not until."

"You cannot prevent the young from marrying. They will do it. Donald tells me he is to be married on the fifth of December. I suppose you know whom to?"

"I know nothing about Donald, excepting that on the steamer to New York he met a Scotchman called Macbeth, and that somehow they struck up a friendship, and Donald was going with him to a place called Los Angeles. He appears to be much older than Donald. I do not understand such friendships, and, as I did not answer Donald's letter, he did not write again—and I have heard nothing further."

"I will tell you further, though you are not deserving the news—the why and wherefore of the friendship between Donald and Mr. Macbeth was, first of all, that they both played the violin and both loved it, and on the voyage they turned the smoking-room into a concert room, for the Captain played likewise, and he brought his violin there when he could. The second thing was that everyone—men and women—were loving Donald, and when they reached New York Macbeth would not part with the lad, and they went together to Los Angeles, and then to his handsome home a few miles from the city. There he had great vineyards and farms of figs and lemons, and wonderful peaches and pears, and Donald has taken gladly and happily to helping him in the making of wines and raisins and the drying of fruit. The work is all out of doors in a climate like Paradise. In the evenings they play their violins and sing Scotch songs, and are as near heaven as they can be on earth."

"You can't sing Scotch songs anywhere but in Scotland. They won't bear transplanting any better than bell-heather. Fancy bell-heather in a London park!"

"Scotchmen are singing them all overthisworld, and, for all I know, all overotherworlds; but we are getting away from our subject, which was my nephew, Donald Macrae. This Mr. Macbeth has a daughter, a beautiful girl, not eighteen until the fifth of December. Then he will give her to Donald with half a million dollars, which Donald will invest in Macbeth's business, and so become his partner. The girl is lovely as an angel. I have a picture of her. Do you want to see it?"

"No."

"And she has a beautiful name, and I'll just put it into your memory, Ian. She is called Mercedes."

"Spanish! Is she a Spaniard?"

"Her mother was a California Spaniard of old and wealthy lineage."

"A Roman Catholic, doubtless."

"Of course. That goes without saying. It does not matter if she loves God."

"It matters anyway and everyway. It takes all the good out of the circumstance. The girl was the devil's bait for the poor lad's soul."

"Nonsense, Ian! One creed is as good as another. Creeds, indeed! Religion has nothing to do with such outside details. God save us! What kind of a head must a man have who could think so? I can tell you, Ian, the belief in any creed stands in these days on the edge of a razor."

"Then what have we left?"

"We have Faith, man. Faith goes below creeds, straight to the impassioned human hopes out of which creeds have grown. Faith in spiritual matters is just what courage is in material life.My word, Ian!if you had only Faith, you would see some good in every creed."

"Well, then, all creeds claim to come from the Bible."

"There is no such thing as a creed or a system of Divinity in the Book—nothing in it but human relations touched by the Spirit of God."

"I am glad, however, to hear of Donald's good fortune."

"It is wonderful. Every good gift of life put into his hand unsought. A beautiful and wealthy wife, who loved him from the moment they met, and a father-in-law who treats him already as a dearly beloved son."

"Donald is not his son, however, and never can be. I am forever and ever Donald Macrae's father."

"A splendid home, a large and prosperous business, and the finest climate outside of the Kingdom of Heaven. It is like a fairy tale," continued the Major enthusiastically.

Ian smiled, and said slowly, as if he could hardly remember the words he wished to say, "You are right,

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