Kitabı oku: «Playing With Fire», sayfa 5

"They are over-narrow for him."

"Nevertheless, he shall tread in them or make his own way. I have money to send him to St. Andrews and give him every advantage. He can go there next month – or he can go to the ends of the earth."

"Then he will go to the ends of the earth. But take heed to my words, Ian Macrae, you will not escape the sorrow of it. However you may try to comfort yourself, you will not be able to forget the loving, handsome lad who stands at your side to-day like a vision of your own youth."

"I had a very happy afternoon, and you have completely spoiled it, Jessy."

"You can have a happy afternoon to-morrow, and every day, if you wish it, but if you ruin your children's lives you can never, never undo that wrong. Have some pity on yourself, if you have none on them."

"I will not be bullied into doing what I know to be unwise, Jessy. I am considering the whole life of my children, not a few weeks or months of youth's illusory dreams and temptations. Donald, as a man, will have the privilege of making a choice; as for Marion, I shall insist on her accepting a marriage which will shelter her as far as possible from all the ills of life."

"Do you mean that you will make her marry that lying, sneaking, tale-telling cub, Allan Reid?"

"Certainly. His faults grew out of his jealousy of Donald's beauty and cleverness. He confessed his fault to me and I forgave him. All stands as it stood before that disagreeable evening. He said Donald was very scornful and provoking. I can believe it."

"I hope he was." Then she laughed, and added, with an air of satisfaction: "Donald has a way of his own. He can be very civil, and very unbearable. I have seen him – ," and she laughed again at the memory.

"I am going to my room, Jessy. I have said all I have to say on these subjects."

"Will you have some bread and milk first?"

"No. I had an excellent dinner. It was late also. You have made me wretched, Jessy."

"I am sorry, Ian. But, as it concerns the children, we are pulling at opposite ends of the rope."

"They are my children. You will kindly remember that fact, Mrs. Caird." He spoke with a haughty determination and left her without even his usual perfunctory "good night." She was troubled by his somewhat unusual show of temper, and the noble repose of the night had no note of comfort for her. The silence of the far-receding mountains, the murmur of the streams, the air of lonely pastoral melancholy, with a light like dreamland lying over all, did not help her wounded feelings. The Scot does not ask Nature for comfort in any heart sorrow; there is the Book, and the God of his Fathers. But Jessy Caird had not yet arrived at the point where she felt her exigencies beyond her own direction.

In a few minutes she saw Dr. Macrae light his room, and through its open window there came the odor of a fine cigar. "After the manner of men," she muttered. "They don't permit a woman to smoke – if she is worried or ill-tempered – it is not ladylike. And I'm wondering what improves its manners so as to make it gentleman-like. Men are selfish creatures, all of them, not one good, no, not one!"

Then she rose and rather noisily locked the door; she hoped that Dr. Macrae would hear her, and so come and attend to what he considered his duty when at home. But Dr. Macrae was lying on the sofa smoking and dreaming of Lady Cramer's beauty, and that night he did not care who locked the door. The huge key turned, the bolts slipped into their places, and she went upstairs, full of indignation at her brother-in-law. She could not understand his mood; for she remembered that in spite of the gravity of the subjects on which they had disagreed there was an air of yawning and boredom about him. It was evident to her that they were intruding on some subject much more interesting.

At that hour she was trying to find out what really filled her with forebodings. Little wondering, wandering thoughts about some change in her brother-in-law had flitted for two weeks in and out of her consciousness. But all his slight deviations from the natural and usual were as nothing in comparison with the change she perceived this night. Then, in the midst of her trifling suppositions, there was suddenly flashed across her mind a few words she never doubted: "He is in love with Lady Cramer! He intends to marry her!"

The clue had been given and she followed it out. She thought she now saw clearly why Macrae was so determined to marry Marion to Allan Reid. He was going to marry into the Cramer family himself, and it would be most disturbing and confusing if Marion did the same. It would be too much. Though there was no legal barrier, there was a positive social one, so vigilantly deterrent, indeed, that she was sure no such case had ever been brought to the Minister's notice; and then she speculated a while as to what would have been his action under the circumstances.

As she slowly undressed she continued her relentless examination of the supposed condition. "Why," she said to herself, "the silly jokes that would be made about the relationships following the double marriage would be just awful. Even his elders and deacons would hardly refrain themselves. They would give him some sly specimens of their wit – and serve him right, too; and I know well there are families in the Church of the Disciples who would not feel sure in their particular consciences whether such close marriages were quite right in the sight of God. They will think, anyway, that the Minister ought to have been more careful to avoid the appearance of evil, and they will be 'so sorry' and ask for explanations, and say it is 'really so confusing.' Yes, I can see and hear the great congregation of the Church of the Disciples all agog about the Minister's queer marriage. As for myself, I shall tell any unmarried man or woman who says what I don't like 'to look after their own marriages'; and, if they are married, I will tell them to 'mind their own business'; but this, or that, the clash and clatter will drive a proud man like Ian to distraction. True, he is proud enough to strike them dumb with a look. I'll never forget seeing him walk up to the pulpit that Sabbath after he was made a D.D., and I mind well how he was so dignified that pretty Martha Dean called him 'a procession of One.' The Church was down at his feet that day – and if he should marry my Lady! I'll go into no surmises – things will be as ordered."

Thus she followed her thoughts backward and forward until the night grew chilly; then she began again her preparations for sleep, saying softly to herself as she did so: "I am a wiser woman to-night than I was in the morn. I know now why my poor little Marion is to be made to marry Allan Reid, and, moreover, why her selfish father wants the marriage immediately. It is to prevent the joking about his own marriage, for if she got into the Cramer family first it would take a deal of courage to marry his daughter's mother-in-law. My goodness! What a lot of quiet fun and pawky jokes there would be passing round. I must talk it out with Marion in the morning. I am going to sleep now – sleeping must go on, whether marrying does – or not."

In some respects Mrs. Caird's theory was wrong. It was likely that Dr. Macrae had some nascent, unacknowledged admiration for Lady Cramer, but never until that day had he hoped to marry her. Marriage had been so long and so resolutely barred from his thoughts and feelings that it took the encouragement of Lady Cramer to bring it to recognition in his hopes and desires – so the selfishness Mrs. Caird presupposed had not been in any way as yet conscious to him. The situation was sure to present itself, but it had not yet done so. It was probable, also, that it would affect him precisely as it affected Mrs. Caird, but how he would meet or baffle it no one could say. A man in love cannot be measured by those perfectly sane and cool; besides, love has secret keys with which to meet difficulties.

Mrs. Caird had determined to sleep well, but she was restless and had disturbing dreams, for,

 
"No tight-shut doors, or close-drawn curtains keep
The swarming dreams out, when we sleep."
 

And the calm freshness and beauty of the morning almost irritated her. What did Nature care that she was unhappy, that she had painful puzzles to solve, and the very unpleasant inheritance from yesterday to dispose of? Still she was disposed to be reasonable, if others were. But Dr. Macrae was neither ready nor wishful to bring questions so important to a hurried and already inharmonious discussion. At that hour the affair between Lady Cramer and himself was more hopeful than settled, her affection being of a tentative rather than of an actual character. She was as yet experimenting with her own heart, and the Minister's heart was a necessary part of the trial, while his sublime confidence in her little coquetries amused her.

Breakfast was usually a very pleasant meal, but this morning all were reserved and silent. Dr. Macrae knew the value of a cool indifference, and he took refuge in that mood. Nothing interested him, he was lost in thought, he answered questions in monosyllables, and placed himself beyond conciliation in any form. Even Marion's remarks passed unheeded, though his heart failed him when she laid her small hand on his and asked softly,

"Are you sick, dear Father?"

"No," he answered, "I am in trouble."

"Can I help you, Father? What is it? Tell me, dear."

"I have brought up children, and they have rebelled against me." His voice was sad and low with the pathetic reproach, and he rose with the words and went to his study. Marion, with a troubled face, turned to her aunt.

"What is the matter?" she asked.

"Come with me to my room, dear, and I will tell you what he means."

"I think I know what he means," she replied as soon as they were alone. "He is cross because I will not marry Allan Reid."

"Can you not manage it, Marion? He has set his heart on that marriage."

"I would rather die. You said you would stand by me."

"So I will."

"Why is Father so cruel to me?"

"Because he wants, I think, to marry Lady Cramer."

"Would you go away from Father in that case?"

"Would I not?"

"I should go with you, of course."

"That stands to reason."

"How do you know, Aunt? I mean, about Lady Cramer?"

"I had a sure word. I do not doubt it."

"Did my father tell you?"

"No. It is a new thing yet; only a mustard seed now, but it will grow to a great tree. It might have happened yesterday."

"Longer ago than that, Aunt, at least on Lady Cramer's side. When I was staying at the Hall she was cross because he did not come, and she wanted to send for him, but Richard would not let her."

"Why then?"

"Because he said the company they had would be an offense to the Minister, and the Minister would be unwelcome to the other guests. I must write and tell Richard your suspicion. It may affect his prospects."

"No doubt it will, but, if he could marry you at once, it might prevent the other marriage."

"I see not how nor why."

Then Mrs. Caird went pitilessly over the sensation the double marriage would make not only socially, but in the Church of the Disciples. She put into the mouths of its elders, deacons and members the foolish jibes and jokes they would be sure to make. The riddling and laughter and comedy sure to flow from the situation were vividly present to her own imagination, and she spared Marion none of the scorn and indignation they would evoke.

"Just think, Marion," she continued, "of your father having to thole all this vulgar tomfoolery – he, that never sees a flash of humor, however broad and plain it may be. Some men would just laugh, and let the jokes go by, but not so your father. They would be words in earnest to him, and every word would be a whip lash. He would fret and fume and worry himself into a brain fever, or he would fall into one of his miraculous passions with some laughing fool, and there would be tragedy and ruin to follow."

Marion did not speak, but she was white as the white dress she wore. Mrs. Caird looked at her and was not quite pleased with her attitude. She had expected tears or anger, and Marion gave way to neither, but her silence and pallor and a certain proud erectness of her figure spoke for her. At this hour she was startlingly like her father. She had put herself completely in his place, and was moved just as he would have been by her aunt's scornful picture of the Church of the Disciples in a jocular insurrection. So she looked like him. Quick as thought and feeling, the soul had photographed on the plastic body the very presentment of Ian Macrae. Her erect figure, her haughty manner, her scornful and indignant expression, and her large dark eyes, full of reproach, but quite tearless, were exactly the symptoms which he would have manifested if subjected to a like recital. For it is the expression of the human face, rather than its features, which makes its identity. The face enshrined in our hearts, which comes to us in dreams, when it has long moldered in the grave, is not the mechanical countenance of the loved one – it is its abstract idealization, its essence and life – it is the spirit of the face.

Mrs. Caird was astonished. It was a Marion she did not expect, but after a few moments' silence she said, "You can see your father's position, child?"

"Yes, I can see it and feel it, too. He would be distracted with the gossip and the disgrace of it."

"Well, then?"

"I must prevent it."

"Would you marry Allan Reid?"

"No."

"What will you do?"

"Stand by my father whatever befall, if he will let me."

"And Lord Cramer?"

"We can wait."

"But if you married at once, the onus of such a condition as I have pointed out would be on your father, and he would not face it for any living woman. That stands to reason."

"It is nineteen years since my mother died. He has given all those years to Donald and myself. He gave us you for a mother, but he never gave us a stepmother. He was good to us in that respect, and, though we may not have known it, he may have had many temptations to alter his life and he denied himself a wife for our sakes. I must stand by my father. If he wishes to marry Lady Cramer, I will only express satisfaction in his choice."

"But if he insists on your marrying Allan Reid first?"

"That I will not do. His hopes and desires are sacred to me. I shall expect him to give to mine the same regard. I am sure he will do so. Why do you not point out to him the results you have just made so plain to me?"

"Not I! I shall wash my hands of the whole affair. I wonder what kind of mortals you Macraes are! I was trying to prepare some plain road for you and your lover, and the thought of your father steps in between you and you make him a curtsey, and say, 'Your will be it, Father.'"

"Aunt, for a thousand years the father and the chief in my family have been one. He has had the affection and the loyalty due to both relations. My father is still to me the Macrae, and I owe him and give him the first and best homage of my heart."

"Goodness! Gracious! I am very sorry, Miss Macrae, I have presumed to meddle in your affairs. I am only a poor Lowland Scot, ignorant of your famous clansmen. I have seen some of them, of course, in the Glasgow and Edinburgh barracks, but we called them 'kilties,' just plain kilties! Good soldiers, I believe, but – "

"Dear Aunt, you are making yourself angry for nothing at all. If you think over what I have said, you will allow I am right."

"I have something else to think over now, and I'll meddle no more with other people's love affairs. There now – go away and let me alone – I want no kissing and fleeching. You have cast me clean off – after nineteen years – " and the rest of her complaint was lost in passionate sobs and tears.

Then Marion was on her knees, crying with her, and the upcome and outcome was kisses and fond words and forgiveness. But do we forgive? We agree to put aside the fault and forget it; the real thing is, we agree to forget.

After this common family rite Mrs. Caird washed her face and went down to look after dinner, and as she did so she felt a little hardly toward Marion, and her thoughts were grieving and reminiscent. "Oh, the sleepless nights and anxious days I have spent for that dear lassie!" she sighed; "and, now she is a woman, her lover and her father fill her heart. I am just a nobody. Well, thank the Father of all, I gave my love freely. I did not sell it, I gave it, and the gift is my reward. It is more blessed to give than to receive."

Marion, at her sewing, had thoughts not much more satisfactory. "Aunt makes so much of things," she said to herself. "She is so romantic and simple-minded, and she goes over the score on both sides; everything is the very worst or the very best. I wish she would not talk so much about Richard, and be always planning this and that for us. Oh, I ought to be ashamed of such thoughts, and I am ashamed! Aunt Jessy has been my mother, God bless her!" She had a few moments of repentant reflection and resolutions, and then she continued them in a different way, saying almost audibly: "My father! Oh, Aunt knows my father is different. His blood flows through my heart. I am his child from head to feet. Aunt has often told me so. She ought, then, to know I would stand by my father, whomever he married."

They had forgiven each other – but had they forgotten?

CHAPTER V
THE MINISTER IN LOVE

 
"The sun and the bees,
And the face of her love through the green,
The shades of the trees,
And the poppy heads glowing between:
His heart asked no more,
'Twas full as the hawthorn in May,
And Life lay before,
As the hours of a long summer day."
 

For a week there was no change in the usual course and tenor of life at the Little House. Dr. Macrae read or wrote all morning, and after his lunch he dressed with care and rode over to the Hall, took a late dinner with Lady Cramer, and returned home about ten o'clock. He usually took a manuscript with him, and often spoke of reading it to Lady Cramer. Sometimes, also, he alluded to other company who were present, most frequently to the elderly Earl Travers, whom he described as an ultramontane Presbyterian. "He sits in a Free Church," he would say, with a slight tone of anger, "but his place is in one of the churches yet subject to Cæsar, not in a Free Church, which is a Law unto itself; its title deeds being only in the Registry above." Marion was proud of his enthusiasm, but Mrs. Caird told herself, privately, that Earl Travers had no doubt stimulated its character. For it was evident he disliked Travers on grounds more personal than the government of the Church.

Travers had been a close friend of the late Lord Cramer, and he took his place quietly but authoritatively at the side of his widow; indeed it appeared to Dr. Macrae that, on the very first night he met him at the Hall, Lady Cramer referred questions to the Earl that might have been left to his judgment. Even then, Dr. Macrae had an incipient jealousy of the Earl, who had just returned from a twelve months' cruise, rich in charming anecdotes of entertaining persons and events.

Really, Travers was much interested by the Minister and, hearing that he was going to preach in Cramer Church on the following Sabbath, he made an engagement at once with Lady Cramer to go with her to the service. She was delighted with the proposal and, with an intimate look at Dr. Macrae and a private handclasp as she passed him, vowed it would be the greatest pleasure the Earl could offer her. "I have always longed," she continued, "to hear one of those famous sermons that are said to thrill the largest congregations in Glasgow."

Certainly Dr. Macrae was flattered and much pleased. He had no fear of falling below any standard set up for him, yet he kept closely to himself all the previous Saturday, for he was gathering together his personality, so largely diffused by his late happiness, and flooding the sermon he was to deliver with streams of his own feeling and intellect. And, oh, how good he felt this exercise to be! For some hours he rose like a tower far above the restless sea of his passions. He put every doubt under his feet, he made himself forget he ever had a doubt.

The next morning was in itself sacramental, a Sabbath morning filled the soul with peace, and everywhere there was a sense of rest. Even the cart horses knew it was Sunday, and were standing at the field gates, idle and happy. In the pale sunlight the moor stretched away to the mountains, and silent and serious little groups of people were crossing it from every side, but all making for one point – Cramer Church.

 
"so cool, so calm, so bright;
The bridal of the earth and sky,"
 

Dr. Macrae had been driven there very early and, during the hour before service, he was in the small vestry at the entrance of the church, and was, as he desired, left quite alone. In that hour he rose to the grandest altitude of his nature and, when the cessation of footsteps told him the congregation was gathered, he opened the vestry door. Then a very aged elder set wide the pulpit door, and Dr. Macrae – tall, stately, long-gowned and white-banded – walked with a serious deliberation unto that High Place from which he was to break the Bread of Life to the waiting worshipers before him. There was an irresistible power, both in him and going forth from him, that drew everyone present to himself. His burning, vehement spirit found its way in full force to his face, and it infected, nay, it went like a dart, to souls sleepy and careless in Zion.

To the Episcopalian the prayers are everything; to the Presbyterian it is the sermon; and there was a sigh of satisfaction when Dr. Macrae read with clear, powerful enunciation the last four verses of the sixth chapter of Hebrews, and boldly announced that he would speak "first of God the Chooser, then of God the Slain, then of God the Comforter."

From these great seminal truths he reasoned of righteousness and judgment to come with a penetrative, judicial power; but he quickly passed this stage and entered into their enforcement with an overwhelming insistence. Something was to be donerather than explained. The sermon was almost fiercely theological, but through it all there was that wonderfully inspired look, that diviner mind, that "little more" which declares the Superman to be in control.

Two remarks showed something of the personal struggle that he was going through. Speaking of the doubting spirit prevalent in the whole religious world, he said: "You will find in the words of my text the remedy: that, by two immutable things in which it was impossible for God to lie, we might have a strong consolation who have fled for refuge to lay hold upon the hope set before us." And, again, very pointedly, he asked: "When we have done wrong, how shall we remedy the wrong? I will tell you. We must work day and night, as men work on a railway when the bridge is broken down. For all traffic between our souls and heaven will be interrupted until we get this ruin – this reason for God's withdrawal – out of the way."

The last sentences of his sermon were given to defending the creed of his country, and the Minister who does this clasps the heart of his people to him. He preached an hour and the time was as ten minutes. No one moved until he closed the Book and, with a glowing face and a joyful voice, gave the benediction.

He looked ten years younger than he did when entering the pulpit. He appeared to be much taller and of a larger bulk, and his face shone and his eyes glowed with more than mortal light. For, at that hour of superman control, the virtue of the spiritual erected and informed the physical. The congregation longed to speak to him and to touch his hand, but he walked through the gazing throng with uplifted face and towering form, silent and enwrapt with his own power and eloquence, and, going into the little vestry to unrobe, remained there until the Earl and Lady Cramer had departed, and only a few humble and fervent worshipers lingered thoughtfully among the graves in the churchyard. To these he spoke, and they looked into his gracious, handsome face, touched almost reverently the hand he offered and to their dying day talked of him as of a man inspired and miraculous, a true Preacher of His Word.

At his own door Marion met him with a kiss, a thing so unusual that it had a kind of solemnity in it. "My good, wonderful father!" she whispered, "there is no man can preach like you!" His heart beat pleasantly to her love and admiration, and, though Mrs. Caird only looked at him as he took his place at the table, he was as well satisfied as he had been with Marion's greeting. He could see that she had been weeping. The light of prayer was on her face, and from the whole household he heard the silent psalm of thanksgiving.

That day he remained at home, and on Monday he did the same. He thought he was honestly "working day and night as men work on a railway when the bridge is broken." Something had gone wrong between God and his soul. The Power with the multitude which had been given him he still retained, but that wonderful faculty within us which feels after and finds the Divinity did not respond to his call. Yet he knew well that we have our being in God, that God's ear lies close to our lips, that it is always listening, that we sigh into it, even as we sleep and dream. Why did not God give him again the personal joy of His salvation? He walked hour after hour all Monday up and down his study, examining and defending himself; for this attitude is almost certainly our first one when we come penitently to God. Yet Dr. Macrae knew well that only with blinding tears and breaking heart can the sinner go to His Maker and plead: "Cast me not away from Thy Presence, take not thy Holy Spirit from me. Restore unto me the joy of Thy Salvation."

Tuesday he was physically weary and when he opened the book he was considering, Hugh Miller's "Red Stone," he could not read it. The words passed before his eyes, but his mind refused to notice them, and he threw down the volume and resigned himself to religious reverie. His eyes were on his closed Bible, and he was recalling in a regretful mood the power and splendor of its promises and assurances. He was "feeling after God, if haply he might find Him," trying to call up arguments for his existence, his personality, His loving and constant interflow into the affairs of men. But he had lost the habit of Faith, and was continually finding himself face to face with the incomprehensible problems which Science may propound but can never answer: Whence come we? Whither do we go? Why was man created? Why does he continue to exist? What has become of the vast multitudes of the dead? What will become of the vaster multitudes that may yet tread the earth?

But ever when he reached the outermost rim of this useless thought, these awful and sacred questions still called to his soul for an answer. Indeed, he felt acutely that he had not gained from Science any intelligible religious system; nor yet any belief which he could profess, or which he could defend from an assailant. He could find in it nothing that a man could have recourse to in the hour of trouble, or the day of death; and, when Mrs. Caird came into his study about the noon hour, he felt compelled to speak to her. With a quick, nervous motion he laid his hand upon some books at his side and complained wearily:

"All they say about God is so terribly inadequate, Jessy."

"Of course it is inadequate," she answered. "When men know nothing, how can they teach, especially about Him,

 
… 'Who, though vast and strange
When with intellect we gaze,
Yet close to the heart steals in
In a thousand tender ways.'"
 

"O my dear sister, I am so miserable!"

"My dear Ian, when we withdraw ourselves from that circle within which the Bible is a definite authority, we must be miserable."

"Why?"

"We have then only a negative religion, and pray what is there between us and the next lower down negation? And I assure you it would become easy to repeat this descending movement again and again. Indeed, there could be no reason for making a stand at any point, until – "

"Until?"

"The end!"

"Then?"

"There might come the dread of sliding away toward the brink – and over the brink – of the precipice."

"Then what help is there for a man who has taken this road ignorantly and innocently?"

And Jessy, with the light and joy of perfect assurance on her face, answered, "There is the breadth, the depth, the boundless length, the inaccessible height of Christ's love, which is the love of God."

Ian did not answer immediately and, Mrs. Caird, walking to the window, saw the Cramer carriage at the gate.

"Lady Cramer is coming," she said. "I will go and meet her."

Then Ian saw Lady Cramer fluttering up the garden walk, a lovely vision in pink muslin and white lace, carrying a dainty basket of ripe apricots in her hand. He thought he had not been looking for her visit, but Mrs. Caird could have told him a different story. She knew by the care bestowed on his morning toilet that he was expecting her, but she was a considerate woman and made an excuse to leave them alone a few minutes.

"I have come for Marion," she said. "I am going to do a little shopping, and she has such good taste – and I thought you would like the apricots – I expected you yesterday – I looked for you even Sunday. You did not come – I was unhappy at your neglect."

He stood gravely in front of her, looking down at her pretty, pleading face, her beautiful hair, her garments of rose and white. He did not speak. He was trying to recall the words he had resolved to say to her, but, when she lifted her eyes, they hastened out of his memory; and when she had laid her hand on his and asked, "Have I grieved you, my dear Ian? Have you forgotten that you loved me?"

"My God, Ada!" he cried in a low, passionate voice, "My God! I love you better than my own soul."

"You will dine with me this evening?"

"This evening, yes, yes, I will come."