Playing With Fire

"Richard is not what I would call a young man. He will be thirty-five years old."

"Oh, no! He is thirty, and he has never been married. I am his first love. He told me so, many times he told me so."

"That is no wonder. All men say such things. Their words stand for just what you take them at. When I was a girl we used to sing a duet in which the soprano declared she had heard of a land where every man was true, where the women issued all orders, and the men did as they were told to do, and

'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.