"My love's in Germany,Send him hame! Send him hame!My love's in Germany,Fighting for loyalty,He may ne'er his Jeannie see,Send him hame! Send him hame!"
"My love's in Germany,Send him hame! Send him hame!My love's in Germany,Fighting for loyalty,He may ne'er his Jeannie see,Send him hame! Send him hame!"
The enthralling longing and sweetness of this melody doubtless echoed the dearest wish of both hearts; for, if Marion was watching for Richard Cramer, the Minister had an equal fervor of desire for his beautiful Ada.
For a week there appeared to be no change in affairs, but the slight feeling of separation or estrangement did not trouble Mrs. Caird. She knew that Donald was with his Uncle Hector, and would be there until Richard's return; then, it would be time enough for her to interfere, if interference was necessary. But during this interval, Donald had requested her to give no one any information as to his whereabouts. For, though his uncle had sheltered him readily and kindly, he had also said:
"Mind this, Donald. You are to keep a close mouth about Uncle Hector. I could not endure every woman in the Church of the Disciples clacking with their neighbor concerning the sin of my encouraging you in your disobedience against your father. You are freely welcome, laddie, but you must be quiet for a few days. I have written to Richard to hurry himself here, for reasons of my own, as well as yours. I see you are wondering at my writing to Lord Cramer."
"I did not know you were friendly—that is all."
"I knew the present Lord Cramer when you were in petticoats and ankle bands. The late Lord Cramer and I fished in Cromarty Bay, and hunted on Cromarty Hills together half a century ago. When he got the estate into trouble it was my care and skill saved it from roup and rent rack. Then he married his second wife, a butterfly of a woman who wasted and helped her stepson to waste, and I knew well things were going wrong long before the old lord died."
"Richard told me," said Donald, "that it was not so much the amount he was owing as the people to whom it was due that had made him resolve to retire for awhile and let the income of the estate have time to pay its debts."
"He is right. His stepmother is a large creditor and she bores him. The Jews come next and, sleeping or waking, they are robbing him. We are going to stop all such plundering; then, if he will be quiet a short time, he will be in comfortable circumstances. He tells me he is going to marry Marion, and I am bound to make things as pleasant as possible for my niece. Forbye I have a liking for the young man on his own account."
"You will then be uncle to a lord, if you are caring for such mere words."
"I am uncle tothe Macrae, that is honor enough. The Macraes are a far older and more honorable family than the Cramers; 'by our permission' they settled in Cromarty—well, well, this is old world talk, and means nothing to the matter in hand. You will stay quietly here till I have done with Richard."
"Will you require him long, Uncle?"
"A day will be sufficient. I only want his authority to use his name to papers necessary to carry out my plans for his relief." Then he laughed and, clapping his hands resoundingly, cried out, "Great Scot! How amazed he will be to learn of his good luck!"
"Oh, I hope he has some good luck! He is such a fine fellow!"
"Luck! Wonderful luck! Undreamed of good luck. But that is the way godsends come—steal round a corner of your life, and stand at your door, and never sign or whisper before them."
"If I have to stay a few days, Uncle, is there not something I can do to earn my bread while I wait?"
"Plenty of writing you can do; only, you'll not write a line to your sister. If you do, she will come with her own answer, all smiles and tears and compliments, things I can't stand against, and won't try to."
"I will not write to Marion at all. I must write to my aunt. She will tell no one. I will swear it for her."
"As far as I know, your aunt is a prudent, douce woman; but crooked and straight are all women, uncertain, Donald, uncertain as the law."
"Not so with aunt. Jessy Caird is straight all through and at all times."
"I'll take your word for her. It is only for an odd occasion; one promise at a time is as far as I durst trust myself with any woman."
So Mrs. Caird was not astonished when, one morning in the early part of the following week, Lord Cramer entered the Minister's parlor while the family were at breakfast. He held Marion's hand while he offered his other hand to Dr. Macrae; and Dr. Macrae took it, though Mrs. Caird noticed that he left the table while doing so, saying he had finished his breakfast and, when Lord Cramer had done likewise, he would be glad if he would come into his study for a little conversation. "And, pray," he added, "how was Lady Cramer when you left her?"
"In the finest of health and spirits," was the answer. "Indeed, sir, you would vow she was but twenty years old. She is the gayest of the gay, and outdresses the Parisians."
Dr. Macrae bowed, but made no answer, and Mrs. Caird, who knew every phase and mood of the man's temper, was quite sure that no words could have translated that silence. It was like a black frost. For he had in his breast pocket a letter from Lady Cramer, received an hour previously, in which she described herself as really ill with longing for him, having no heart for the follies and gaieties of Paris and seldom going out. Further, she declared that nothing but the wretched climate of Scotland kept her from flying back to Cramer and to him; but her cough troubled her in damp weather, and she felt herself frail, and wished to get well and strong for his sake.
"And I have been believing and pitying this lying woman!" he said in an awful whisper, as he took the false message from his breast, and with a silent rage savagely placed his foot upon it. "I will never write another word to this shameless creature! I will never speak to her again! If she sought her pardon at my feet, I would spurn her from me," and to such passionate evil promises he trod the lying letter under his foot. Then he sat down, erect and motionless, with eyes fixed and arms folded across his breast. For, though trouble with the majority runs into motion, with Dr. Macrae it gathered itself together, and in a still, dumb intentness thought out how best to suffer or to do.
Fortunately Richard had so much to say to Marion that his breakfast occupied him nearly a couple of hours, and by that time Dr. Macrae had decided on his course. He was now more than ever determined to prevent his daughter's marriage to Lord Cramer. How could he permit her to come under the influence of a woman so wicked as Lady Cramer? She would either alienate his daughter from him or she would alienate her husband, and make his child a wronged and miserable wife. To prevent this marriage had suddenly become the most imperative duty of his life.
Really, from Dr. Macrae's point of view, there was nothing favorable for Marion in it. He held his uncle's ideas with regard to the superior nobility of the Macraes; he did not like Lord Cramer personally, and he believed him to be much poorer than he really was. With the pertinacity of his race he still clung to the Reid alliance. He told himself that circumstances have a kind of omnipotence, and that any day they might alter affairs so radically that Marion might come to see things as he did. "If Cramer would only go to the other side of the earth," he whispered, "it would leave a vacuum in Marion's life. Nature abhors a vacuum; she would hasten to fill it, and there is the possibility—yes, the likelihood—that Allan might slip into that other man's place, or the other man might be killed—or he might see someone he liked better than Marion—if Richard Cramer would only go away—if he would only go forever—yes, forever! It is no sin to wish a bad man to his deserts."
At this reflection Richard Cramer entered the room, and the first words he uttered seemed to promise a realization of Dr. Macrae's desire.
"Well, sir," he said, as he took the chair Dr. Macrae indicated, "well, sir, I am going with the Enniskillen Dragoons to India next week, but our route is far north, and so we shall doubtless escape the cholera."
"But not the warlike native tribes?"
"We are going to turn them into peaceable tribes."
"Not an easy task."
"It will be done."
"Yes—finally."
"Sir, you must know that I have loved your daughter ever since I first saw her. I ask your permission to make her my wife."
Dr. Macrae remained silent.
"I cannot bear the idea of waiting for nearly two years."
"You will be compelled to wait."
"Sir?"
"It is my will that you wait."
"Marion wishes to go with me."
"Have you asked her to go with you?"
"Not definitely, but——"
"Ah! I thought so."
"I will ask her to go with me now, and she will go."
"She will not. I forbid it. She will be her own mistress in twenty months. She can marry you then—if she wishes. But I advise you to give her up."
"Never! Until Marion gives me up I will never give Marion up. I swear it!"
"She is my daughter for twenty months longer. Time is sure to bring changes. Even now she would not leave me to go with you to India. You must be mad to imagine such a thing."
"I am in love. I trust her love by my own. She will do as I wish."
"She will keep faith with her father. You shall see that," and he rose, threw open the door of the room, and called imperatively,
"Marion!"
"Yes, Father," was the ready answer. "Do you want me?"
"Yes. Come quickly."
Lord Cramer had followed him into the hall, and when Dr. Macrae perceived this some innate, in-born sense of courtesy due the stranger within his gate caused him to return at once to his study. In two or three minutes Cramer followed. He had Marion's hand in his, and Mrs. Caird was but a few steps behind. She entered the room with them, and Dr. Macrae looked at her not very pleasantly.
"I did not call you, Jessy," he said.
"I am aware of that fact, Ian," she answered. "I called myself."
"We are not requiring your presence."
"I was never more needed. What for are you wanting Marion?"
"You can stay and hear, if you wish."
Then Dr. Macrae took the chair at his desk, and Marion and Lord Cramer stood before him. Their hands were still clasped, and unconsciously Marion leaned slightly toward her lover. The transfiguration of love suffused her face, and she stood smiling in all its glory. Dr. Macrae was struck afresh by a beauty he had hitherto regarded too little. He saw in her at this hour the noblest type of Celtic loveliness—its winning face, splendid form, rich coloring, all vivified by a well-cultivated intellect, and made charming and winsome by childlike confidence and simplicity. For a moment his heart swelled with pride as the sense of his fatherhood flashed over him.
"Marion," he said not unkindly, "Marion, Lord Cramer tells me you are willing to go to India with him. I cannot believe it."
"I have promised Richard to be his wife, so then, wherever he dwells, there my home will be. Is not that right, Father?"
"Yes, under proper conditions. But a promise made out of law and time is no promise. The law of your native land forbids you to make that promise, without my consent, until you are twenty-one years old."
"What right has the law of England to interfere with my marriage?" Then she laughed cheerfully, and said, "But it is no matter, dear Father, for you are above the law in this case. You have only to say, 'I do not want to delay or spoil your happiness, Marion; I am quite willing you should marry——'"
"Marion, it would be impossible for me to say such words. How can I be willing for you to go to a country so far off—a country full of deadly diseases and constant fighting—where the heat is intolerable and savage beasts, treacherous men and deadly serpents abound everywhere—yes, where even the insect life makes human existence a constant torture."
"Father, many delicately nurtured women brave all these things, for their husbands' sakes."
"Yes, and the majority die in doing so. That is, however, your side of the question. But I also have a definite right in this matter, a direct ethical right, which in the stress of this unhappy hour I feel fully justified in claiming. In my favor the law considers that for nineteen years I have had all the care, anxiety and expense of your feeding, clothing and education—that I have provided you with teachers and physicians, and looked after your religious instruction."
"I cannot see that there was any necessity for the law of the land to be looking after your rights in respect to the care and education of the children," said Mrs. Caird. "The interest of Marion's money paid both Marion's and Donald's expenses excepting——"
"I am stating the conditions and provisions of a law, Jessy, not any particular application of it."
"Then what for are you naming its application to yourself?"
Dr. Macrae ignored Mrs. Caird's question, and continued: "This law argues, and very justly, that a girl who has received nineteen years of unlimited love and attention of all kinds should remain until she is twenty-one to brighten her parents' home, learn how to estimate their affection and goodness to her, and get some ideas concerning the world into which she may finally go. It permits her parents, also, to bring proper lovers to her notice, and to point out the faults of those not worthy of her regard. It is a law that all girls with money of their own should rigorously observe;" and in making this last remark Dr. Macrae looked so pointedly at Lord Cramer that he was quite justified in defending himself.
"Minister Macrae," he said, "I have never supposed that Marion had any fortune; if she has, I want none of it. You ought to know that. Not a penny piece." And he raised his head proudly and drew Marion closer to his side, and whispered a word or two, which she answered by a bright, loving smile, and an emphatic, "No!"
"Marion has twenty thousand pounds from her mother," said Dr. Macrae. "She has a very wealthy uncle who will not forget her—and other relatives."
"You need not count Jessy Caird among 'the other relatives,' Ian. My money is all going to Donald—every bawbee of it."
Dr. Macrae looked at her, and then continued: "My dear Marion, the case is now fully stated to you. You are your own judge. I am at your mercy"; and he stood up and regarded the poor girl with eyes from which his passionate soul radiated an influence that it was almost impossible to resist.
"O Father!" she cried, "what is it you wish?"
"That you should deal justly with me. If you have no love left for your father, at least give him justice."
"You mean that I must pay you the toll of two years' love service for my support and education?"
"Yes."
Then she turned to her lover and put her hands upon his shoulders. Her cheeks were flaming and her eyes brimming with tears. "Good-bye, Richard!" she cried. "Good-bye, dearest of all! I must pay this debt. My Father refuses to release me. I must free myself."
"This decision is what I expected from my daughter," said Dr. Macrae, and he rose and went to her side and took her hand.
"One moment, sir!" said Richard, with all the scorn imaginable; "and, Marion, my darling, remember in one year, seven months and eleven days I shall come for you. It is dreadful to leave you so long in the power of a man so cruel and so wickedly selfish, but——"
"Our interview is over, Lord Cramer, and I do not forget that abuse is the privilege of the defeated."
Richard was holding Marion's hands, looking into her dear face, listening to her short, quick words of devotion, and he never answered Dr. Macrae one word, but the look on Lord Cramer's face, his defiant attitude, and his marked and intentional silence were the most unbearable of repartees. He glanced then at Mrs. Caird, and, putting Marion's arm through his own, they passed out of the room together. Dr. Macrae was furious, but Mrs. Caird stepped between him and the lovers, and, while Richard was kissing and comforting his betrothed, and promising to come again that night for a last interview, there were some straight, never-to-be-forgotten words passing between the Minister and his sister-in-law.
No one that day wanted dinner. Mrs. Caird and Marion had a cup of tea in Mrs. Caird's parlor, and the Minister refused to open his door or answer anyone that spoke to him. But the maids in the kitchen, as they ate an unusually long and hearty meal, were sure the Minister was right and Mrs. Caird and Miss Marion wrong. In those days Scotchmen were always right in any domestic dispute, and the women always wrong. For six thousand years of strict wife culture had taught women not only to give three-fourths of the apple to man, but also to assume all the blame of their enjoyment of it.
What the Minister suffered and did in those lonely hours between morning and evening no one but God knew. There was not a movement in the room nor any sound of a human voice, either in prayer or complaint. Dr. Macrae was not a praying man—what Calvinist can be? If all this trouble had come of necessity, if it had been foreordained, how could he either reason with God or entreat Him for its removal? It was in some way or other necessary to the divine scheme of events; it would be a grave presumption to desire its removal.
Always questions of this kind had stood between God and Dr. Macrae, so that he considered private prayer a dangerous freedom with the purpose of the Eternal. Alas! he did not realize that we are members of that mysterious Presence of God in which we live and move and have our being; and that, as speech is the organ of human intercourse, so prayer is the organ of divine fellowship and divine training. He had long ceased to pray, and they who do not use a gift lose it; just as a man who does not use a limb loses power in it. Poor soul! How could he know that prayer prevails with God? How could he know?
Marion had, however, the promise of a farewell visit in the evening, and what had not been said in the morning's interview could then be remedied. For this visit she prepared herself with loving carefulness, putting on the pale blue silk, with pretty laces and fresh ribbons, which was Richard's favorite, and adding to its attractions a scarlet japonica in her black hair. She knew that she had never looked lovelier, and after her father had left the house she began to watch for her lover. Richard was aware that the Minister was due at his vestry at half-past seven, and Marion was sure that Richard would be with her by that time. He was not. At eight o'clock he had neither come nor sent any explanation of his broken tryst. By this time she could not speak and she could not sit still. At nine o'clock she whispered, "He is not coming. I am going to my room."
"Wait a little longer, dear," said Mrs. Caird.
"There is no use, Aunt. He is not coming. I can feel it."
And Marion's feelings were correct. Richard neither came nor sent any explanation of his absence, and the miserable girl was distracted by her own imaginations. In the morning she was so ill her aunt would not permit her to rise. Hour after hour they sat together, trying to evoke from their fears and feelings the reason for conduct so unlike Richard Cramer's usual kindness and respect.
"He has concluded to decline a marriage so offensive to my father," said Marion. "I have thought of his behavior all night long, Aunt, and this is the only reason he can possibly have."
By afternoon Mrs. Caird was weary of this never-ceasing iteration, and finally agreed with her niece. Then Marion had a pitiful storm of weeping, and, after she had been a little comforted, Mrs. Caird suddenly said, with a voice and expression of hope, "I know what to do. Why did I not think of it before?"
"What will you do, Aunt? What will you do?"
"I will go and see your uncle. He can clear up the mystery—if there is one. It is now two o'clock. I will go straight about the business. At the worst I can but fail, and I never do fail if there is any probability to work on. Wait hopefully for an hour or two, and I will be back with good news, no doubt."
Then she dressed herself with some care, and, calling a cab, drove to Major Macrae's house in Blytheswood Square. It was a handsome, self-contained dwelling with business offices at the back. There was no intimation of this purpose, but the visitors who went there on business knew the plain green door that admitted them to chambers about which there was an atmosphere of great concerns and aristocratic business—perhaps also of some mystery. The latter distinction suited Macrae; it was necessary to the class of clients with whom he did the most of his business.
It clung also to himself, almost as if it was a natural characteristic. No man of wealth and prominence was so little known and so much misunderstood, but he was amused, rather than annoyed, by the variety of opinions concerning him, holding himself always a little apart, so as to be in important matters a final judge or director. He had quite as much temper as his nephew, but it was better in kind and surer in control. His intellect was broad and clear, his love of literature knew no limitation, and in religious matters he trusted no living man. He was a master among his fellows, and he did not give women any opportunities to influence him. It was known that he had positively refused to attend to the business of ladies of high birth and great wealth, and even his house servants were all young men, noiseless, silent, thoroughly trained for the work they had to do.
All these real peculiarities, with many others not as real, were familiar to Mrs. Caird, and at a little earlier date she would never have thought of calling on him. But Donald's opinion of his uncle had entirely changed her own, and she looked forward with a pleasant curiosity to an opportunity to form her own estimate. She found him in a fortunate mood. He was taking his afternoon smoke when her card was given to him, and it roused instantly in his mind a curiosity to see whether Donald's love and lauding of Aunt Caird were worth anything. Also he liked to know the innermost coil of an untoward or unhappy circumstance, and he was not sure that either Donald or Richard had made a naked confession to him. In this family affair he felt sure Mrs. Caird might be the key to the situation.
So he rose with great cordiality to meet her, and a moment's glance at the pretty woman so handsomely dressed, so well poised, so smiling and good-mannered, thoroughly satisfied him. With the grace and courtesy of a man used to the best society, he placed a chair near his own for her, and during that act Mrs. Caird made a swift but correct estimate of the man she had to manage. Physically he had the great stature and dark beauty of his family. His hair was still black, his eyes large and gray, with a courageous twinkle in the iris, his figure erect, his walk soldierly, his manner commanding. He impressed a stranger as tough, unconquerable, fearless, like an ash tree, yielding very slowly, even to time.
"Now, Mrs. Caird," he said, as he seated himself beside her, "I know you have not come to call on me without a reason. Is it about the children?"
"Just that, Major, and thank you for coming to the point at once. I am very unhappy about Donald."
"Let me tell you Donald has taken the road of happiness to his own desires. To ware your sympathy on Donald is pure wastrie. The lad is happy."
"Where is he?"
"I could not tell you, unless I was at sea, and taking his latitude and longitude."
"Where is he going?"
"To New York—perhaps."
"America?"
"Ay, America is the second native land of all not satisfied with their first one."
"Have you any address through which a letter would reach him in New York?"
"Ay, I have."
"I want to send him one hundred pounds. Will you send it for me?"
"No, I will not. There will be three hundred pounds lying in the Bank of New York for him when he gets there, and he had sixty pounds with him. That is enough at present. He can make a spoon or spoil the horn with that."
"Is he going to stop in New York?"
"Not long. New Yorkers are very easy with their money. They'll give it away for a song that pleases them—or a lilt on the wee fiddle—or even a few steps of clever dancing."
"I know someone, not far from me, just as easy with their money—under the same circumstances."
Then the Major laughed. "You are right, Mrs. Caird," he said. "I declare you are right. Oh, but you are a quick woman!"
"Well, after he has done with New York, where is he then going?"
"Straight west as far as the Mississippi River. What he will do on the way to the river no one knows—but luck is waiting for him."
"Perhaps he will go to California."
"No. California gold does not tempt him. He is going down the Mississippi to New Orleans. A good many Scotch boys are there. I gave him letters to three whom I sent to New Orleans fourteen years ago. They are well-to-do cotton merchants now."
"You help a great many men, Major?"
"These three smoked their pipes with me in the trenches at Redan; and we rode together down the red lanes of Inkerman. I was making friends for Donald then."
"But Donald will not stay in the city of New Orleans?"
"Would Donald stay in any city? As soon as he wishes it he will journey for that land of God called Texas. If I had been twenty years younger, I would have gone with him—just for a sight of the place. Glorious things are told of it—you would think it was the New Jerusalem itself."
"Once I heard Richard Cramer say that he was going there to stay with a friend. Why did you send him to the army?"
"Did I send him?"
"He told us you advised the army."
"Ay, butsendingandadvisingare very different terms."
"In your mouth, Major, they would be the same."
Then the Major laughed again and answered: "You have a wonderful perception, Mrs. Caird. I dare say Cramer told you to what locality in Texas he was going? Donald is now going there for him."
"He spoke most of the immense ranch of Lord Thomas Carew. He said he had bought with his inheritance as a younger son a dukedom of the richest and loveliest land in the world—somewhere on the Guadaloupe River, not far from San Antonio. It was like listening to a fairy tale to hear him describe its beauties. And he said that last summer the ladies, Alice and Annie Carew, accompanied by their eldest brother, visited Lord Thomas; and that, after four months' stay in his handsome bungalow, when they had to return to England, Lady Alice refused to leave Texas. He thought she was still there."
"She is. I had a letter from her father a week ago, and he told me Lord Thomas and Lady Alice were yet living in Paradise. They are just 'Tom and Alice Carew' there. Their life is absolutely free, simple and happy. Titles would be too big a burden to carry, but they will be glad of Donald's company, and make much of him, doubtless."
"They will that. Oh, the dear, dear, joyful singing lad!" and, though Mrs. Caird's voice was low and soft, there was a caress in every word she spoke.
The Major looked at her with pleasure, and then asked, "How is Donald's sister? Is she as lovable and handsome as her brother?"
"Whiles—in a woman's way—yes. Her father's heart is set on her, and she is breaking her heart about Richard Cramer's going to India. What for, at all, did you send him?"
"Me send him?"
"Yes, you."
"Well, as you are a wise woman, and love all of the three youngsters, I'll tell you. I sent Richard Cramer out of my way. I sent him where he could not meddle or interfere with what I am doing to make him solvent and happy. And I wanted him to be under authority a little before I put him in full possession of a big estate, free of debt. He has had too much of his own way—he is obeying orders now—that's good for him."
"But when you set him free, what then?"
"He will marry Marion Macrae, and I count on a Macrae—man or woman—getting their full share of their own way in all things."
"Why did he not come and bid Marion good-bye last night? She is fairly ill this morning. Why did he not come?"
"Because, while the Minister and he were explaining themselves, a telegram came ordering him to join his ship without a moment's delay. She was going to sail Thursday, instead of Saturday. I had two men seeking him, and his valet had packed his valise, and he had twenty minutes to reach his train. He could not have written her, even a line, if someone had not been thoughtful enough to have paper and pencil ready to push into his hand."
"Then he did write to her?"
"Ay, he wrote to her. Poor lad, he was near to crying as he did so."
"She never got that letter."
"My certie! I forgot it! Will you take it?"
"Will I take it? It is what I came for. Goodness! Gracious! Only to think of you keeping what may be his last message to her! O man, how could you? It is a cruel-like thing to do. It was that."
"I am very sorry for it. I quite forgot. I am not used to sending love letters. I never was in love in my life."
"I am not believing you. No, sir! I am sure some good woman's love sweetened the dour, ill-tempered Macrae blood in your heart. Think backward a matter of forty years and you will maybe remember her name."
He looked at Mrs. Caird in amazement, and then lifted her hand, "You are right," he answered slowly. "I remember her, a dear, sweet girl, fresh and pure as the mountain bluebells she had in her hand when we first met. She died one morning—whispering my name as she went. I loved her! Yes, I loved her!"
"Good man! I am glad you told me. I know you now, and I am not feared for you any longer. Give me Marion's letter."
"Cannot you stay half an hour longer?"
"Not now."
"I want to talk to you about Ian."
"You had better talk to him. He is requiring some one to do so. He is spelling life now with a woman's name."
"Marion's?"
"No."
"The lovely widow Grant's?"
"No. You must look higher up."
"You don't—you can't mean Lady Cramer?"
"Just Lady Cramer."
"The mischief! Is it true?"
"True? I should say so. I am living at his side, and love and a cold can't be hid. Forbye, he is reading books he has no business to read, and writing letters he ought not to write—love letters."
"Why should he not write love letters if he wishes to do so?"
"Because I am sure my Lady Cramer is only making a fool of him."
"It would be most like her—though mind you, Mrs. Caird, she is playing with fire. Ian is a very fascinating man. She will likely get the heartache herself she is sorting out for him. I'll have a talk with the Minister. Think of him trusting that woman! the blind fool! the mortal idiot!"
"Not as bad as that."
"Ay, and worse, if I had the words I want for his folly. Here is Marion's letter. Tell her I am perfectly annoyed at myself for forgetting it. She must forgive me."
"Good-bye, Major. I am glad I came."
"Good-bye. You are welcome here. I hope you will come again—soon."
And oh, how welcome she was when she reached home. Marion was watching for her, and when Mrs. Caird, as she left the cab, held up the letter Marion was at the door to take it from her hand. Her eyes dilated with rapture when she saw Richard's writing, and, after kissing and thanking her aunt, she ran away with it to her room. There was no offense in that—Mrs. Caird both understood and sympathized with the movement. And when she went into the parlor, an hour afterward, she found Marion rocking gently in the firelight and, with closed eyes, singing softly to herself:
"My heart is like a singing bird,Whose nest is in a watered shoot;My heart is like an apple-tree,Whose boughs are bent with sweetest fruit;My heart is like a rainbow shell,That paddles in a halcyon sea;My heart is gladder than all these,Because my love has come to me."
"My heart is like a singing bird,Whose nest is in a watered shoot;My heart is like an apple-tree,Whose boughs are bent with sweetest fruit;My heart is like a rainbow shell,That paddles in a halcyon sea;My heart is gladder than all these,Because my love has come to me."
"What though it be the last time we shall meet,Raise your white brow and wreath of golden hair,And fill with music sweet the summer air,Not this again shall draw me to your feet,Peace, let me go."
"What though it be the last time we shall meet,Raise your white brow and wreath of golden hair,And fill with music sweet the summer air,Not this again shall draw me to your feet,Peace, let me go."
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,
"There's a good time coming, boys,Wait a little longer."
"There's a good time coming, boys,Wait a little longer."
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 leastsurvived, and that isthecleverness, 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: