Playing With Fire

"They may think they do for awhile, but indeed,

'There's none exempt from worldly cares,
And few from some domestic cross;
All whiles are in, and whiles are out,
For grief and joy come time about.'"

She was tearing up some old cotton for dusters as she repeated the rhyme, and she emphasized "some domestic cross" by a rent of rather angry vigor; then she added, "Go to your father's study, you will be out of the way of the cleaners there, and I have no doubt whatever that you have an important letter to write."

"Aunt, when did you hear from Donald?"

"It is so long since, I have forgotten."

"Where were they then?"

"In the Shetland Islands. Whiles I fear they have been shut in there by early storms, or have gone out pleasuring in some cockle shell of a boat and got – "

"No, no, Aunt. I had a letter from Perth. They were on the mainland the seventh of September."

"Then they are all right. Some day soon they'll come traipsing in, wet and draggled, and tired and hungry."

"They will not come here, will they?"

"I hope not. It is little welcome I'll give them if they come after this house is in order. They would have to go to the kitchen itself."

"You would never do that, Aunt?"

"Would I not? If the occasion comes you will see."

The occasion came that afternoon. Mrs. Caird was standing before a large chest of fine napery, counting napkins, when Donald threw open the door of the room and, before she could speak, threw his arms around her neck and kissed her, and kissed her over and over again. "You dear Auntie! You dear Mammy!" he shouted, and she, between laughing and crying, gasped out: "Be done, you ranting, raving laddie! See you have made me drop the finger cloths, and my count is lost; and I shall have to go over them again."

"I'll count them for you, Mammy."

"You!" she ejaculated with horror. "Your hands are not fit to touch them."

"Oh yes, you are going to give me one when you give me my dinner."

"I will not. The tale of them is correct and just from the laundry, and I shall not have one of them soiled for anybody."

"Not even for Richard Cramer?"

"Where is he?"

"In the parlor with Marion."

"Humph!"

"And we are hungry, Auntie, and we are going to stay here to-night."

"No. Your rooms are now in the cleaning, you had better go to the Hall."

"Very well, we can do that."

"No, you can't. I won't have it, and Lady Cramer is in London."

"Jericho! What took her there? Richard will be astonished."

"So you will have to stay here. It's notably inconvenient, but whenever do men consider the conveniences? I'll give the two of you the guest-room, and we will just have to stay here a day longer, and make it decent-like after you."

"Auntie, we are hungry; nothing to eat since breakfast, and I am not in love. I can't live on kisses and sweet words like Richard."

"Surely not. Come with me and I will give you pot luck until six o'clock, then you'll get your dinner, and not a minute sooner. I have three extra women hired by the day and I can't slack my care of them."

"Come and see Richard. He wants to see you."

"Not he! He would have come up with you if he had wanted bad enough."

"He got stopped on the way. How could he pass Marion? She was watching for him."

"Did she know you were coming?"

"I think so – certainly, certainly she knew."

"And the little minx so innocently asked me if I knew!"

So Mrs. Caird went down to the lovers, pretended to scorn them, and sent Richard upstairs to wash and make himself like a gentleman. Then, with a beaming face, she turned to Marion and said: "My dear girl, we will have a few days' happiness, no matter what comes or goes. We can put the cleaning behind the dear lads."

"They can go to the kitchen, Aunt. They are quite used to it. From what Richard says, I think they have mostly lived in kitchens, and also thoroughly enjoyed kitchen hospitality."

"That would be like them. It takes gentlemen to understand the reality of kitchen hospitality. We will give them the best in our cupboard, and set them a fair table in the dining-room. It is not too often in life that true love comes to eat with you."

"Richard must go away to-morrow. When he heard Lady Cramer was in London it worried him. He said he must go and see what she was doing."

"Well, then, give the day to him. When he has left to-morrow, Donald can do a deal to help. I taught him everything about the house, as you know. He'll not need to marry any girl that she may make the pot or kettle boil, or sew a button on. And he'll help us with carpets and curtains, and the like, and enjoy it. We will have one good day when we can get it. You may look up Ecclesiasticus 14:14 for permission. So come with me and we will spread in the dining-room a comfortable 'pick-up' for hungry men, and you must serve and entertain them, for there is too much fine linen lying loose, and too many strange hands around, who may be clever at finding things – not lost."

The dinner and the evening were all that Mrs. Caird intended. She left the lovers very much to themselves and, wherever she was, Donald was with her. Never had she been so proud and so fond of him. "He is the handsomest lad in Scotland," she said, "and the best, and I care not who says 'no' to that truth – it will stand."

Still the visit delayed them a day, and it was Tuesday when they again reached the Bath Street home and, for a few days, Mrs. Caird was always finding out some advantage in it hitherto unnoticed. She was glad to live under high ceilings once more; the Bath Street water made far better tea. She had had enough of lamps and candlesticks forever – even if they were made of silver – just give her a common gas burner and she would never inquire what it was made of. Thank goodness there was a market now to go to! You had to take what meat and poultry you could get in the country; the fleshers in Glasgow knew they must give you the very best, that and that only; and, above all, she could order a street car to wait on her, or a noddy to call for her whenever she wanted to step to church or call on a friend, and that suited her feelings far better than any lady's Victoria.

Dr. Macrae was not pleased at such remarks. "Gratitude is a late plant," he said; "it grows at the very gate of heaven. A human being hardly ever receives it. I am sure, Jessy, if you had had to pay rent for the house and all its favors and advantages, it would have cost you a large sum of money."

"If you are sure, Ian, that a kindness is true kindness, it is easy to be pleased and grateful; but, if you come to see there has been a selfish foundation for it, why should you be grateful?"

"There was no selfish motive in Lady Cramer's kindness, Jessy."

"I am glad to be informed of that. I thought it was very like the thousand pounds left you as a token of Lord Cramer's friendship. What weary reading and writing you have given for it, not to speak of the mental and spiritual danger and trouble, I call that thousand pounds the worst money you ever put in your purse. I don't think you owe Lord Cramer a pennyweight of gratitude for it. When did you get rid of the Reverend Dr. Scott?"

"He went home early on Monday morning. He asked a queer favor of me on the Sabbath morning."