Playing With Fire

"These three smoked their pipes with me in the trenches at Redan; and we rode together down the red lanes of Inkerman. I was making friends for Donald then."

"But Donald will not stay in the city of New Orleans?"

"Would Donald stay in any city? As soon as he wishes it he will journey for that land of God called Texas. If I had been twenty years younger, I would have gone with him – just for a sight of the place. Glorious things are told of it – you would think it was the New Jerusalem itself."

"Once I heard Richard Cramer say that he was going there to stay with a friend. Why did you send him to the army?"

"Did I send him?"

"He told us you advised the army."

"Ay, but sending and advising are very different terms."

"In your mouth, Major, they would be the same."

Then the Major laughed again and answered: "You have a wonderful perception, Mrs. Caird. I dare say Cramer told you to what locality in Texas he was going? Donald is now going there for him."

"He spoke most of the immense ranch of Lord Thomas Carew. He said he had bought with his inheritance as a younger son a dukedom of the richest and loveliest land in the world – somewhere on the Guadaloupe River, not far from San Antonio. It was like listening to a fairy tale to hear him describe its beauties. And he said that last summer the ladies, Alice and Annie Carew, accompanied by their eldest brother, visited Lord Thomas; and that, after four months' stay in his handsome bungalow, when they had to return to England, Lady Alice refused to leave Texas. He thought she was still there."

"She is. I had a letter from her father a week ago, and he told me Lord Thomas and Lady Alice were yet living in Paradise. They are just 'Tom and Alice Carew' there. Their life is absolutely free, simple and happy. Titles would be too big a burden to carry, but they will be glad of Donald's company, and make much of him, doubtless."

"They will that. Oh, the dear, dear, joyful singing lad!" and, though Mrs. Caird's voice was low and soft, there was a caress in every word she spoke.

The Major looked at her with pleasure, and then asked, "How is Donald's sister? Is she as lovable and handsome as her brother?"

"Whiles – in a woman's way – yes. Her father's heart is set on her, and she is breaking her heart about Richard Cramer's going to India. What for, at all, did you send him?"

"Me send him?"

"Yes, you."

"Well, as you are a wise woman, and love all of the three youngsters, I'll tell you. I sent Richard Cramer out of my way. I sent him where he could not meddle or interfere with what I am doing to make him solvent and happy. And I wanted him to be under authority a little before I put him in full possession of a big estate, free of debt. He has had too much of his own way – he is obeying orders now – that's good for him."

"But when you set him free, what then?"

"He will marry Marion Macrae, and I count on a Macrae – man or woman – getting their full share of their own way in all things."

"Why did he not come and bid Marion good-bye last night? She is fairly ill this morning. Why did he not come?"

"Because, while the Minister and he were explaining themselves, a telegram came ordering him to join his ship without a moment's delay. She was going to sail Thursday, instead of Saturday. I had two men seeking him, and his valet had packed his valise, and he had twenty minutes to reach his train. He could not have written her, even a line, if someone had not been thoughtful enough to have paper and pencil ready to push into his hand."

"Then he did write to her?"

"Ay, he wrote to her. Poor lad, he was near to crying as he did so."

"She never got that letter."

"My certie! I forgot it! Will you take it?"

"Will I take it? It is what I came for. Goodness! Gracious! Only to think of you keeping what may be his last message to her! O man, how could you? It is a cruel-like thing to do. It was that."

"I am very sorry for it. I quite forgot. I am not used to sending love letters. I never was in love in my life."

"I am not believing you. No, sir! I am sure some good woman's love sweetened the dour, ill-tempered Macrae blood in your heart. Think backward a matter of forty years and you will maybe remember her name."

He looked at Mrs. Caird in amazement, and then lifted her hand, "You are right," he answered slowly. "I remember her, a dear, sweet girl, fresh and pure as the mountain bluebells she had in her hand when we first met. She died one morning – whispering my name as she went. I loved her! Yes, I loved her!"

"Good man! I am glad you told me. I know you now, and I am not feared for you any longer. Give me Marion's letter."

"Cannot you stay half an hour longer?"

"Not now."

"I want to talk to you about Ian."

"You had better talk to him. He is requiring some one to do so. He is spelling life now with a woman's name."

"Marion's?"

"No."

"The lovely widow Grant's?"

"No. You must look higher up."

"You don't – you can't mean Lady Cramer?"

"Just Lady Cramer."

"The mischief! Is it true?"

"True? I should say so. I am living at his side, and love and a cold can't be hid. Forbye, he is reading books he has no business to read, and writing letters he ought not to write – love letters."

"Why should he not write love letters if he wishes to do so?"

"Because I am sure my Lady Cramer is only making a fool of him."

"It would be most like her – though mind you, Mrs. Caird, she is playing with fire. Ian is a very fascinating man. She will likely get the heartache herself she is sorting out for him. I'll have a talk with the Minister. Think of him trusting that woman! the blind fool! the mortal idiot!"

"Not as bad as that."

"Ay, and worse, if I had the words I want for his folly. Here is Marion's letter. Tell her I am perfectly annoyed at myself for forgetting it. She must forgive me."

"Good-bye, Major. I am glad I came."

"Good-bye. You are welcome here. I hope you will come again – soon."

And oh, how welcome she was when she reached home. Marion was watching for her, and when Mrs. Caird, as she left the cab, held up the letter Marion was at the door to take it from her hand. Her eyes dilated with rapture when she saw Richard's writing, and, after kissing and thanking her aunt, she ran away with it to her room. There was no offense in that – Mrs. Caird both understood and sympathized with the movement. And when she went into the parlor, an hour afterward, she found Marion rocking gently in the firelight and, with closed eyes, singing softly to herself: