Playing With Fire

"She is married."

Jessy nodded slightly, and said: "I know. My dear Ian, you were but a little child in the hands of Adalaide Cramer. Very likely she thought she loved you."

"I think she did love me."

"Whom has she married?"

"The Duke of Rotherham."

"She had a great temptation, but no doubt she suffered in giving you up, even for a dukedom."

"She ought to suffer. I wish her to suffer."

"Then you no longer love her?"

"Loving is now out of the question, but I had, I thought, a great love for her."

"Had!"

"Yes. I loved Ada until she contemplated making me a partner with her in the sin of deceiving the man who was then – almost – her husband. After that I had no hesitation in resigning her. I would not remain in London – she was very lovable – I might – I think not – but I might – "

"You acted as an honorable man must have done. Danger is an unknown quantity until you meet it face to face, and in this danger you were like a swimmer that only tips the tangles and does not know the depth of the water below them. I am glad you had the courage to leave her. Let her be dismissed even from your thoughts."

"How should I dare to think of her after those London papers? The Decalogue and Christ's words concerning its seventh law still stand with me as a finality. I no longer love her. I am not even angry with her. She was just the reef on which my life went down. An hour ago I buried her."

"Your life has not gone down. It ought to be more rich and buoyant for this very experience. It will be."

"Perhaps. Yet all life's pleasant things have suffered the same change that Autumn works on the flowery braes of Spring, and I feel,

'My days are as the grass,
Swiftly my seasons pass,
And like the flower of the field I fade.'"

Jessy waited a moment or two, and then replied, "I think, Ian, you might be just and honorable to the poet. Why do you cut the verse in two? I will give you the other three lines, as you seem to have forgotten them:

'O Soul, dost thou not see
The Wise have likened thee
To the most living creature that is made?'"

"Living creature?"

"Yes, in the Spring does the grass tarry for any man's help? It comes up without tool, or seed, or labor. In the garden, the field, the roadside, it comes, fresh and strong and heavenly green. Its withered blades have a new life. Likewise certain portions of our lives change or pass away, but something better for our coming years is given us."

"My dear Jessy, how good are your words. Is there any poetry you do not know?"

"Men and women who have souls meet each other in good poetry. I have met many a sweet soul there."

"I must tell you, Jessy, that it is not the Duchess of Rotherham but the Church of the Disciples that is now troubling me. I dread every Sabbath Day before me. I feel as if I could not – could not preach."

"Do you think a woman's 'no' should change your life and your life's work?"

"It might do so."

"It cannot. If there is no place open to a man but a pulpit, it is clear God means him to preach – whether he wants to or not. I think little of the men who are feared for the day they never saw. Bode good and you will get good. That's a fact, Ian.

"Jessy, I seem to have lost everything in one bad year – my love, my children, my work, my friends. All are changed or gone. I feel poor. Once I was rich, and knew it not."

"You are not poor, Ian. The poor are those who have never lost anything. You are not doing badly even now, and you are learning on very easy terms the grand habit of doing without."

"I am very miserable, Jessy, I know that."

"You are deserving misery badly, or you would hardly punish yourself. God is giving you blessings on every hand, and you do not even thank Him for them."

"Jessy Caird!"

"I'm right, quite right. He took the great temptation of a heartless beautiful woman out of your way. You could have thrown love and honor and your very soul on that water, and got nothing back – through all the years of your life – but sorrow and shame. Well, well, it is little gratitude we give either God or angel for the escapes they help us to make. How often have we been in the net of some adverse circumstances, and suddenly and quietly the net is broken and we escape. Then we are as likely to grumble as to rejoice."

"If it wasn't for the preaching – "

"Ay, it is always 'something' if it is not 'somebody' that is to blame. Not ourselves, of course! What do you think of making the best of what you have, Ian? There was a wonderful letter from Donald yesterday. Ask Marion about it."

"I will take a walk as far as the cathedral. There is a painted window in the crypt that is always delightful to me."

"A painted window?"

"Yes – representing Christ as a youth reading the Book of the Law."

"You are a queer man, Ian Macrae. Your ideal of Christ has a papistical leaning."

"Nothing of the kind, Jessy. Nothing!"

"The Roman idea is to represent the Redeemer of the World just a baby in the Virgin's arms, or he is the victim on the Cross, or the dead God being prepared for burial. How many paintings do you know representing Christ as the Lord of Life and Death – the co-equal of the God Everlasting? Indeed, if you do happen to find a painting of Christ as a man among men, he is sure to be the least handsome and godlike of all those surrounding him. And you can find comfort in the figure of a boy reading the Book of the Law!"

"Do you know the window?"

"I do. The last time I saw it, Donald was with me. He liked it well. There was a long letter from Donald yesterday."

"I will now dress and take a walk."

"It is raining hard."

"Then I will only go as far as Blackie's, and look over his new books. That is always interesting."

"Don't go out, Ian. Sit with Marion. She has a letter she wants to read to you."

"Jessy, I am seeking the Truth. The search impels me – I cannot rest – I can do nothing else but seek it – not for my life!"

"Do you expect to find it in Blackie's bookshop?"