Playing With Fire

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

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

'Go straight down the crooked lane,And all around the Square?"

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

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

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

"Everyone forgets Donald."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"At what hour will she return?"

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

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

"Her Majesty's Theatre."

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

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

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

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

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

"Ada!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Then take me there."

"It will be five shillings more."

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

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

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

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

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

"Ian! Ian! What do you mean?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I shall live in your memory."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER IX

WHEN WILL THE NIGHT BE PAST?

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

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

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

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

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