Playing With Fire Part 29

"Then take me there."

"It will be five s.h.i.+llings more."

"Here is a sovereign. Give me a good location and keep the change."

He got all he desired, and for two hours fed the fire in his heart through the sad, tearless avenues of his eyes. Only the Duke was with her. He was in full dress, with all his ribboned orders on his breast; she was robed in pale amber satin and glittering with diamonds. The house was very full, the entertainment mirth-provoking, and there was a great deal of sweet, sensuous music. He did not hear anything either sung or spoken, for all his life was in his eyes, and what they saw burned the word _unattainable_ on all his hopes. He left the theater before the performance was finished; he did not wish to meet his false mistress until he was quite sure of his decision. When he thought he was so he lifted his valise and packed it. He had resolved to see her once more and then return to Glasgow. His manner was then haughty and quiet, and his face looked as if carven out of steel, so cold and clear-cut were its features, so hard and implacable the resolve written on them.

In the morning he went to Lady Cramer's house, and was readily admitted.

She was rather glad of his visit, for she by no means realized her offense nor her lover's indignation at it. Indeed, when he entered the parlor she rose with a little cry of pleasure, and, with both hands extended, hurried to meet him.

"O Ian! Ian! How glad I am to see you!" she cried. "I have just written to you--why did you not come again yesterday?"

He had advanced to about the middle of the room, and he stood there, stern and inflexible, until she was near to him. Then he raised his hands, palms outward, and said: "Stand where you are, Ada. I do not wish you to touch me. You are the most false of all women. I have come to give you back your worthless promise. I do not value it any longer."

"Ian! Ian! What do you mean?"

"I mean that I know you are going to marry that old Duke--going to sell yourself once more."

"Oh, indeed," she answered, "if my marriage is a sale, I prefer to be sold for a dukedom than a Free Kirk pulpit. And, if you have come here to be insolent, understand that I do not care for anything you say."

"Care a little for my farewell. I will never trouble you again. I give you back your promise."

"Thank you! If you had been brave enough to insist on my keeping it, I might have done so. You are a very indifferent lover. Twice over Duke Rotherham drove you away, just because he was a duke."

"You are mistaken. I set you free because you are utterly deceitful. I hate deceit. I love you no longer."

"You are deceiving yourself. You can never cease to love me."

"I love you not. I have ceased already."

"Indeed, sir, in the matter of love you leave off loving when you can, not when you wish."

"A burnt-out fire cannot be rekindled; you are dead to me."

"I shall live in your memory."

"I have buried you below memory, and, for the graves of the heart, there is no resurrection."

"Do not quarrel with me, Ian. I did love you! I did intend to marry you!"

"You are a beautiful woman, but you are only a face without a heart. It would have been a good thing for you to have become my wife. I should have taught you how to love."

With a little mocking laugh she answered: "It might have been a good thing to be your wife, but oh, what happiness it is not to be your wife!

You have much learning, sir, but you do not know the way to a woman's heart." Then she slipped from her finger the ring he had given her and let it fall to her feet.

"I take back my promise, Ian. Take back your ring. Farewell!" and, with head proudly lifted, she pa.s.sed him. At the door she turned, and he was just lifting the ring. "Ah!" she cried, "the diamonds are pure enough for you to touch, I see," and with a contemptuous laugh she closed the door behind her.

Her eyes were tearless, and there was a dubious smile around her mouth, but her heart grew so still she thought something must have died there.

"Farewell, Ian!" she whispered, as she sank wearily on her bed.

"Farewell! You wanted too much. You made the great blunder of confounding love-making with love. You took every trifle too seriously.

I thought I loved you, but what is love? I might have married you, if I had not wanted to be a d.u.c.h.ess. You might have spoiled that dream, and I am glad you are gone. _Hi! Ho!_ I think I have managed very well."

Really it was her gift of blindness to anyone's pleasure but her own that at this time had kept her ignorant of danger until she had drifted past it. If Ian had been more persistent, the end of the affair would have been very different.

CHAPTER IX

WHEN WILL THE NIGHT BE PAST?

"Alas! G.o.d Christ--along the weary lands, What lone invisible Calvaries are set, What drooping brows with dews of anguish wet, What faint outspreading of unwilling hands, Bound to a viewless cross with viewless bands.

While at the darkest hour what ghosts are met Of ancient pain and bitter fond regret, Till the new-risen spirit understands."

Doctor Macrae left London immediately after this interview, but he did not at once return to Glasgow. He spent two days at Oxford and nearly a week in the manufacturing towns of Yorks.h.i.+re, the rest of his leisure in the historic city of Newcastle. He was interested in what he saw, but not comforted by it. For he was well aware that all his hopes had been stripped to the nakedness of a dream. The week days trailed on the ground and the Sabbaths made no effort to rise to the height of their birth. For the spiritual center of his being had never yet been in touch with the spiritual center in the universe, and all philosophies and all creeds must come back to this sympathetic understanding between the Comforter and the Comforted, or they come to nothing.

Many years ago he had a.n.a.lyzed prayer by his creed, and felt that it had nothing to do with troubles so personal and selfish as his love or his hatred. For some wise purpose this discipline of wasted love had been given him, and his duty was to bear his loss as manfully as he could.

There had once been a time when he would even have rejoiced to give up any personal happiness if he thought that by doing so he was learning a G.o.d-sent lesson. He could not do that now. He had been too long looking _into_ the Deity instead of looking _up_ to Him. He had compelled himself to question and to qualify until he knew not how to believe nor yet what to believe. Poor soul! He thought prayer could be reasoned about! Prayer, which is an unrevealed transaction, beyond the region of the stars!

At length, the time of his absence from duty being completed, he took a train for Glasgow, arriving there early in the evening. It was raining hard, it was dark, and the points of gas light only rendered the darkness visible. The streets were crowded with men and women in dripping coats, jostling each other with dripping umbrellas as they hurried home after their day's work.

In the quiet s.p.a.ce of Bath Street the driver of his cab dropped his whip and stopped in order to regain it; and in those moments Dr. Macrae noticed a wretched looking man trying to get a few pennies by singing "The Land of Our Birth." His voice was full of pain and tears, and Macrae called him and put a s.h.i.+lling in his hand. The beggar's look of amazement and grat.i.tude was wonderful. He raised the coin as he took it, and cried out, "_O G.o.d!_" and the look and the words fell on Macrae's heart like a soft shower on a parched land. They called up one of those tender smiles quite possible, and even natural, to his face, though far too seldom seen there. In the light of this smile he reached his home, and the next moment the door opened and Marion and Mrs. Caird stood waiting with outstretched hands to greet him.

He fell readily into their happy mood, and sat down between them to the excellent tea waiting for him. And the blessing of the s.h.i.+lling was on him, and he talked cheerfully of all that he had seen, but added as he took his large easy-chair on the hearthrug,

"East or West, Home is Best."

Alas! this blessed mood did not last. In a few days he was again brooding in a h.e.l.l of his own making. He could not rest his heart on any affection. Lady Cramer had deceived him, Donald had deserted him, Marion was restlessly waiting for her lover's return. Then she also would go.

And Jessy Caird's heart was with Donald. He thought of these things until he felt himself to be a very lonely, desolate man; for the heart is like a vine, it withers and dies if it has nothing to embrace.

In a deep and overwhelming sense he knew that to obey or to disobey duty was to say "yes" or "no" to G.o.d, but what was his duty? He told himself that if he could only see the way of duty clear he would take it, however unpleasant or difficult it might be. Yes, he was sure of that.

But what was his duty? He tried to find out by every logical method known to him, and every method pointed out some flaw in every other method.

One morning, at the end of January, Dr. Macrae received a batch of London newspapers. They were brought to the breakfast table, and he looked at their number and wondered. He did not seem to understand what they portended, but Mrs. Caird did. Some womanly instinct told her what information they brought, and when Macrae did not come to the dinner table she said softly to Marion, "Lady Cramer is married. I wonder how he will bear it."

In the middle of the afternoon she took some coffee into the Minister's study, and at his request sat down beside him. "Stay an hour with me, Jessy," he said. "I am in trouble."

"I know, Ian."

"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?"