Playing With Fire

"Minister Macrae," he said, "I have never supposed that Marion had any fortune; if she has, I want none of it. You ought to know that. Not a penny piece." And he raised his head proudly and drew Marion closer to his side, and whispered a word or two, which she answered by a bright, loving smile, and an emphatic, "No!"

"Marion has twenty thousand pounds from her mother," said Dr. Macrae. "She has a very wealthy uncle who will not forget her – and other relatives."

"You need not count Jessy Caird among 'the other relatives,' Ian. My money is all going to Donald – every bawbee of it."

Dr. Macrae looked at her, and then continued: "My dear Marion, the case is now fully stated to you. You are your own judge. I am at your mercy"; and he stood up and regarded the poor girl with eyes from which his passionate soul radiated an influence that it was almost impossible to resist.

"O Father!" she cried, "what is it you wish?"

"That you should deal justly with me. If you have no love left for your father, at least give him justice."

"You mean that I must pay you the toll of two years' love service for my support and education?"

"Yes."

Then she turned to her lover and put her hands upon his shoulders. Her cheeks were flaming and her eyes brimming with tears. "Good-bye, Richard!" she cried. "Good-bye, dearest of all! I must pay this debt. My Father refuses to release me. I must free myself."

"This decision is what I expected from my daughter," said Dr. Macrae, and he rose and went to her side and took her hand.

"One moment, sir!" said Richard, with all the scorn imaginable; "and, Marion, my darling, remember in one year, seven months and eleven days I shall come for you. It is dreadful to leave you so long in the power of a man so cruel and so wickedly selfish, but – "

"Our interview is over, Lord Cramer, and I do not forget that abuse is the privilege of the defeated."

Richard was holding Marion's hands, looking into her dear face, listening to her short, quick words of devotion, and he never answered Dr. Macrae one word, but the look on Lord Cramer's face, his defiant attitude, and his marked and intentional silence were the most unbearable of repartees. He glanced then at Mrs. Caird, and, putting Marion's arm through his own, they passed out of the room together. Dr. Macrae was furious, but Mrs. Caird stepped between him and the lovers, and, while Richard was kissing and comforting his betrothed, and promising to come again that night for a last interview, there were some straight, never-to-be-forgotten words passing between the Minister and his sister-in-law.

No one that day wanted dinner. Mrs. Caird and Marion had a cup of tea in Mrs. Caird's parlor, and the Minister refused to open his door or answer anyone that spoke to him. But the maids in the kitchen, as they ate an unusually long and hearty meal, were sure the Minister was right and Mrs. Caird and Miss Marion wrong. In those days Scotchmen were always right in any domestic dispute, and the women always wrong. For six thousand years of strict wife culture had taught women not only to give three-fourths of the apple to man, but also to assume all the blame of their enjoyment of it.

What the Minister suffered and did in those lonely hours between morning and evening no one but God knew. There was not a movement in the room nor any sound of a human voice, either in prayer or complaint. Dr. Macrae was not a praying man – what Calvinist can be? If all this trouble had come of necessity, if it had been foreordained, how could he either reason with God or entreat Him for its removal? It was in some way or other necessary to the divine scheme of events; it would be a grave presumption to desire its removal.

Always questions of this kind had stood between God and Dr. Macrae, so that he considered private prayer a dangerous freedom with the purpose of the Eternal. Alas! he did not realize that we are members of that mysterious Presence of God in which we live and move and have our being; and that, as speech is the organ of human intercourse, so prayer is the organ of divine fellowship and divine training. He had long ceased to pray, and they who do not use a gift lose it; just as a man who does not use a limb loses power in it. Poor soul! How could he know that prayer prevails with God? How could he know?

Marion had, however, the promise of a farewell visit in the evening, and what had not been said in the morning's interview could then be remedied. For this visit she prepared herself with loving carefulness, putting on the pale blue silk, with pretty laces and fresh ribbons, which was Richard's favorite, and adding to its attractions a scarlet japonica in her black hair. She knew that she had never looked lovelier, and after her father had left the house she began to watch for her lover. Richard was aware that the Minister was due at his vestry at half-past seven, and Marion was sure that Richard would be with her by that time. He was not. At eight o'clock he had neither come nor sent any explanation of his broken tryst. By this time she could not speak and she could not sit still. At nine o'clock she whispered, "He is not coming. I am going to my room."

"Wait a little longer, dear," said Mrs. Caird.

"There is no use, Aunt. He is not coming. I can feel it."

And Marion's feelings were correct. Richard neither came nor sent any explanation of his absence, and the miserable girl was distracted by her own imaginations. In the morning she was so ill her aunt would not permit her to rise. Hour after hour they sat together, trying to evoke from their fears and feelings the reason for conduct so unlike Richard Cramer's usual kindness and respect.

"He has concluded to decline a marriage so offensive to my father," said Marion. "I have thought of his behavior all night long, Aunt, and this is the only reason he can possibly have."

By afternoon Mrs. Caird was weary of this never-ceasing iteration, and finally agreed with her niece. Then Marion had a pitiful storm of weeping, and, after she had been a little comforted, Mrs. Caird suddenly said, with a voice and expression of hope, "I know what to do. Why did I not think of it before?"

"What will you do, Aunt? What will you do?"

"I will go and see your uncle. He can clear up the mystery – if there is one. It is now two o'clock. I will go straight about the business. At the worst I can but fail, and I never do fail if there is any probability to work on. Wait hopefully for an hour or two, and I will be back with good news, no doubt."

Then she dressed herself with some care, and, calling a cab, drove to Major Macrae's house in Blytheswood Square. It was a handsome, self-contained dwelling with business offices at the back. There was no intimation of this purpose, but the visitors who went there on business knew the plain green door that admitted them to chambers about which there was an atmosphere of great concerns and aristocratic business – perhaps also of some mystery. The latter distinction suited Macrae; it was necessary to the class of clients with whom he did the most of his business.

It clung also to himself, almost as if it was a natural characteristic. No man of wealth and prominence was so little known and so much misunderstood, but he was amused, rather than annoyed, by the variety of opinions concerning him, holding himself always a little apart, so as to be in important matters a final judge or director. He had quite as much temper as his nephew, but it was better in kind and surer in control. His intellect was broad and clear, his love of literature knew no limitation, and in religious matters he trusted no living man. He was a master among his fellows, and he did not give women any opportunities to influence him. It was known that he had positively refused to attend to the business of ladies of high birth and great wealth, and even his house servants were all young men, noiseless, silent, thoroughly trained for the work they had to do.

All these real peculiarities, with many others not as real, were familiar to Mrs. Caird, and at a little earlier date she would never have thought of calling on him. But Donald's opinion of his uncle had entirely changed her own, and she looked forward with a pleasant curiosity to an opportunity to form her own estimate. She found him in a fortunate mood. He was taking his afternoon smoke when her card was given to him, and it roused instantly in his mind a curiosity to see whether Donald's love and lauding of Aunt Caird were worth anything. Also he liked to know the innermost coil of an untoward or unhappy circumstance, and he was not sure that either Donald or Richard had made a naked confession to him. In this family affair he felt sure Mrs. Caird might be the key to the situation.

So he rose with great cordiality to meet her, and a moment's glance at the pretty woman so handsomely dressed, so well poised, so smiling and good-mannered, thoroughly satisfied him. With the grace and courtesy of a man used to the best society, he placed a chair near his own for her, and during that act Mrs. Caird made a swift but correct estimate of the man she had to manage. Physically he had the great stature and dark beauty of his family. His hair was still black, his eyes large and gray, with a courageous twinkle in the iris, his figure erect, his walk soldierly, his manner commanding. He impressed a stranger as tough, unconquerable, fearless, like an ash tree, yielding very slowly, even to time.

"Now, Mrs. Caird," he said, as he seated himself beside her, "I know you have not come to call on me without a reason. Is it about the children?"

"Just that, Major, and thank you for coming to the point at once. I am very unhappy about Donald."

"Let me tell you Donald has taken the road of happiness to his own desires. To ware your sympathy on Donald is pure wastrie. The lad is happy."

"Where is he?"

"I could not tell you, unless I was at sea, and taking his latitude and longitude."

"Where is he going?"

"To New York – perhaps."

"America?"

"Ay, America is the second native land of all not satisfied with their first one."

"Have you any address through which a letter would reach him in New York?"

"Ay, I have."

"I want to send him one hundred pounds. Will you send it for me?"

"No, I will not. There will be three hundred pounds lying in the Bank of New York for him when he gets there, and he had sixty pounds with him. That is enough at present. He can make a spoon or spoil the horn with that."

"Is he going to stop in New York?"

"Not long. New Yorkers are very easy with their money. They'll give it away for a song that pleases them – or a lilt on the wee fiddle – or even a few steps of clever dancing."

"I know someone, not far from me, just as easy with their money – under the same circumstances."

Then the Major laughed. "You are right, Mrs. Caird," he said. "I declare you are right. Oh, but you are a quick woman!"

"Well, after he has done with New York, where is he then going?"

"Straight west as far as the Mississippi River. What he will do on the way to the river no one knows – but luck is waiting for him."

"Perhaps he will go to California."

"No. California gold does not tempt him. He is going down the Mississippi to New Orleans. A good many Scotch boys are there. I gave him letters to three whom I sent to New Orleans fourteen years ago. They are well-to-do cotton merchants now."

"You help a great many men, Major?"