Kitabı oku: «Playing With Fire», sayfa 8

"Blunder! Yes, if it be a blunder to take a man out of temptation and put him under the best of influences."

"You think college life the best of influences?"

"It is better than wandering about the country as a musician, however clever he is, must do."

"But Donald likes wandering. He wants to see the wide world over."

"A roving life, Jessy, leads to wavering principles. How can a man be religious who has no settled church? Already, Donald disbelieves in the creed his father preaches, and a man without a creed is a loose-at-ends Christian. General scepticism will succeed it, and scepticism poisons all the wells of life and undermines the foundations of morality."

"Donald is no sceptic. He is a God-loving, God-fearing lad. You'll be to excuse me now. I have a sore headache and I want to be alone."

So she went to her room and Dr. Macrae was much annoyed at her air of injury and sorrow.

"Your aunt is fretting about Donald," he said. "Donald has behaved very cruelly to me, Marion. I suppose you know how."

"About college, Father?"

"Yes. I begged him, for his own good, to go to St. Andrews, and he flatly refused, bid me farewell, and left his home."

"Did you not ask him where he was going?"

"No."

"I am so sorry."

"I knew you would be sorry for me. Never would Marion treat her father in a way so disrespectful and disobedient, eh, dear?"

"While I live I never will say farewell to you, my dear Father."

"You will always obey my wishes, I know."

"When I can, yes, when I can I will always gladly obey them."

"Do I not know what is best for you?"

"Not always, you might be wrong sometimes, Father – everybody is wrong sometimes – but, even so, I would obey you if I could."

"You mean that if you could not you would take your own way?"

"Not exactly."

"And say farewell to me and leave your home?"

"I would never say farewell to you. I do not think I would leave my home in any such way."

"What would you do?"

"Love you and die daily at your side. When you saw me suffering you would give me my desire, because it would be my life."

"I would not. If confident I was right I would not do wrong to please you. And it would be far better for you to die than to make yourself a wanderer in improper company and a prodigal daughter."

"Father, fear to say such words. I am God's daughter. I am your daughter and I do not forget I am a daughter of the honorable clan of Macrae. Such words are an insult to me, to yourself, and to every Macrae, living or dead." She rose as she spoke and with a white, angry look was leaving the room when her father laid his hand tenderly on her shoulder and said:

"Promise me you will not marry anyone without my consent."

"For nearly two years, Father, I could only make a runaway marriage, liable to be temporarily broken at your will."

"Why do you say temporarily?"

"Because, if I loved any man well enough to run away with him I should stay with him forever. You might sever us 'temporarily,' but I should go back to him as soon as I went twenty-one and marry him over again," and her face flushed crimson, and she lifted her brimming eyes to her father and added:

"But all the time I should love you. I should never say farewell to you. To the end of my life, throughout all eternity, I should be your daughter, and you would be my dear, dear Father. Is not that so? Yes, it is! It is!"

He looked at her with a swelling heart full of intense admiration and unbounded love. He could have struck and kissed her at the same moment, but he could find no words to answer her loving question. So he lifted his hand from her proud, indignant form and, with such a sob as may come from a breaking heart, he turned from her to go to his study. She could not bear it. When the parlor door shut, that piteous cry was still in her ears, and she hastened to the study after him. But just as she reached the door she heard the key turn in its lock.

Then she fled upstairs and found her aunt lying still in the semidarkness of her room. "Aunt! Aunt!" she cried in a passion of tears, "I cannot bear it! No, I cannot bear it! My poor Father! Someone ought to think of his feelings. Yes, indeed they ought."

"It seems to me, Marion, that you are busy enough in that way. What is the matter with the Minister now?"

Then Marion, with many tears and protestations, related her conversation with her father, and Mrs. Caird listened as one destitute of much sympathy, and, when she spoke, her words were not more comforting.

"You are a half-and-half creature, Marion; neither here nor there, neither this, that, nor what not. Why didn't you speak plainly to him as your brother did? Mind this! You can't move the Minister with tears and a mouthful of good words. Not you! He will keep up his threep like a gamecock till he dies with it in his last crow. I'm telling you – heed me or not – I am telling you the truth."

"No, he will not, Aunt."

"Such to-and-fro words as you gave him! He'll build his own way strong as Gibraltar upon them. See if he doesn't. Your fight is all to do over, but, as you have taken the matter in your own hands, you and him for it."

"O Aunt! I am so miserable."

"Well, then, I have seen lately that you are never happy unless you are miserable."

"I have not heard from Richard, either yesterday or to-day."

"What is that! At your age I was very proud and satisfied with a love letter once in a fortnight. That's enough in all conscience."

"Two weeks! If Richard was so long silent it would kill me."

"Have you any more nonsense to talk?"

"Aunt, do not be cross with me. I thought you were as full of trouble as I am. Why else did you come here?"

"Partly to keep the doors of my lips shut, and partly to think. I am not full of trouble. I cannot do as I wish to do, but I have a Friend who does all things well. And, when it is my time to act, I shall be ready to act. Now go to your sleeping place and dream without care sitting on your heart; then in the morning you can rise with a clear, trusting soul, such as God loves."

CHAPTER VII
MARION DECIDES

 
"Love is indestructible,
Its holy flame forever burneth,
From heaven it came, to heaven returneth.
 
 
"Love is the secret sympathy,
The silver link, the silken tie,
Which heart to heart, and mind to mind,
In body and in soul can bind."
 

After Donald left his father he went straight to his aunt's room and, when she had finished making her pastry, she found him there, nursing his anger and sorrow with passionate tears and words of self-justification. He had kept a brave face to his father, but to his aunt-mother he wept out all his trouble, and he was comforted as one whom his mother comforteth. When Dr. Macrae asked her if she knew where Donald was she had truthfully answered, "No," but she instantly suspected, and shortened her work as much as possible in order to go to him.

They talked cautiously of his plans and prospects and, when dinner time arrived, she surreptitiously carried him a good meal upstairs; for she was not willing that the servants should discuss Donald's quarrel with his father – the Master being to them, first of all, an ecclesiastic with a suggestion of the surplice ever around him. She knew their sympathy would veer decidedly toward the Master, for Donald played the "wee sinfu' fiddle" too much, and, as he went through the halls and parlors, was always whistling some irreligious reel, or strathspey, forbye hardly keeping himself from dancing it.

He was in his aunt's sitting-room while Marion related to her the conversation she had just had with her father and, no doubt, Mrs. Caird's short and rather indifferent attention to her niece's trouble arose from the stress of his unacknowledged presence. For Donald had begged not to see Marion that evening. "She will ask me all kinds of questions about Richard," he said, "questions I cannot answer until I see him." So Marion felt as if she had been snubbed and sent off to bed with a little sermon just when she wanted to talk of Richard more than she had ever before done. Mrs. Caird explained the circumstances to her the following day, but she was more offended than satisfied by the explanation.

"You supposed, Aunt," she answered, "that I was so selfish as to be insensible to Donald's anxiety and trouble, and would put my own before his. You must have a poor opinion of me. It hurts me."

"You are too sensitive, Marion. Donald is going away from us."

"Where is he going to?"

"He does not know until he hears from Richard."

"Where is Richard? I have not had a letter from him in two days."

"I do not know – exactly."

"Nor do I. He told me that he was going to see Lady Cramer about the settlement of his debt to her. It is shameful in her to press it."

"Not at all. It is her right. He said that himself."

"I did not mind getting no letter yesterday, but here is another day nearly gone, and I do not expect to sleep a moment to-night. I am so anxious about him."

"Preserve us all! What are you talking about? It is fairly sinful of you to be making trouble where there is none. That is the way to worry love to death, if so be you want that result."

"You care for no one but Donald now, Aunt."

"You are not far wrong. Donald is in trouble."

"You love Donald best."

"I like Donald's way best. There is no shilly-shallying with Donald. I like a definite 'Yes' and 'No' in answer to important questions."

"Women cannot get into passions and say unladylike words, especially to their fathers. You taught me that yourself. 'Exceed in nothing. Be moderate in all things.' These were among your regular advices."

"All right. Moderation is a very respectable word. I wish you would apply it to the subject of letters."

"You are cross with me, Aunt, and without any reason."

"Reason enough when I see you worrying yourself – and me, also – about the coming of a letter from your lover; and caring nothing about the going away – perhaps forever – of your own brother. Kin is closer than all other ties – ever and always, blood is thicker than water."

Then Marion was angry. "I am glad I was respectful and moderate with Father," she said haughtily. "He is the best and greatest of men. He is the Minister of God. I cannot be too respectful. I intend – "

"To marry Allan Reid and send away Richard Cramer. Good girl! I wish you joy of your choice – such as it is."

For six days the partial estrangement lasted, but Marion and her father seemed to enjoy the interval. They were much together, and Mrs. Caird was frequently startled by the Minister's hearty laugh over some of Marion's observations, and once by his actually joining her in singing that tender little love song, "My Love's in Germany."

 
"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 to the 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?"