"Like her! What do you mean, Jessy?"
"Oh, gay, flirting women, who count men"s broken hearts and hopes very ornamental to themselves. As like as not she will be making eyes at Donald. I wish he was out of her seductions and safe on the Atlantic."
"If my advice had been taken, he would now be safe in the hallowed halls of St. Andrews. How can he afford such carryings on? They cost money."
"Donald will never want money while I live; forbye, the violin in his hand is a sure fortune."
"Was it not Izaak Walton who said that G.o.d had given to some men intelligence and to others the art of playing on the fiddle?"
"Let me tell you, Ian, a man could not play the fiddle without intelligence. My goodness! he requires brains to his fingers" ends to play as Donald plays. But Izaak Walton is right in one thing--Donald"s gift is the gift of G.o.d, and every gift of G.o.d is good if used for innocent purpose. For myself, I am real glad that Donald"s gift was music. There will be music in heaven, but there is no mention of preaching there; no matter how many play and sing in a household, if they do it well, there are never too many; but one preacher is enough in any family."
"Do not be angry, Jessy. It was but a pa.s.sing remark--blame Izaak Walton for it--if it was he."
"I have no doubt it was he. The remark is just what you would expect from a man who could spend day after day and year after year putting hooks through the throats of fishes only weighing a pound or two. I think he would need few brains for that vocation. The silly body with his fishing rod! I wonder at sensible people quoting anything he says."
Dr. Macrae laughed a little, silent laugh which did not brighten his sad face, and then asked, "What time will Marion be home?"
"After midnight; you would do right if you went for her."
"Then I will go. You need have no fear, Jessy. I will be at Lockerby"s before midnight."
"Marion will be pleased, and the Lockerbys will take it as a great honor. Speak kindly to the young people; you will make them your friends forever."
"Jessy, something has come between me and my people, something that dashes and interferes. It has grown up lately."
"It is yourself, Ian. You are different. Your countenance used to be steadfast and hopeful, your voice strong and sincere, your simple presence encouraging. Your face is now troubled, your voice indifferent, your presence has lost much of that sympathy which binds one heart to another."
"My congregation, Jessy, is too material to be moved by anything but spoken words or positive actions."
"Unconsciously your face--so dark and pathetic--moves them. The immortal Dweller, in molding its home, uses only the material you give it. So the sense of desolation, which has been stirred in you by the writings of Darwin, Schopenhauer, Comte and others, is visible on your countenance; and your people look on you and catch your spirit, even as we look over an infected country and catch its malaria."
Dr. Macrae shook his head in desponding denial, and Mrs. Caird continued: "What has Kant"s "Thing in Itself," or Hegel"s "Absolute," or Pascal"s "Abysom," or Renan"s "Scepticism," or Spencer"s "Agnosticism"
given you? O Ian, what are they but words empty of help or meaning to souls who have lost their faith in G.o.d. Listen to this," she cried, as, moving swiftly to a small hanging bookcase, she took from it a slim volume, "a man like yourself, Ian, fighting his doubts and fears and sad forecastings, wrote them;" and her eager face and intense sympathy made him bend his head in acquiescence. They were standing together in the center of the parlor floor, and Dr. Macrae was anxious to be alone and consider the news he had just received about Lady Cramer and his son, but he found something promising in his sister-in-law"s words, and he stood expectantly watching her strong, sweet face as she spoke, or G.o.d in her spoke, these lines:
"Away, haunt thou not me, Thou vain Philosophy.
Little hast thou bestead, Save to perplex the head, And leave the Spirit dead.
Unto thy broken cisterns wherefore go?
While from the secret treasure depths below, Wisdom and Peace and Power Are welling forth incessantly.
Why labor at the dull mechanic oar When the fresh breeze is blowing, And the strong current flowing, Right onward to the Eternal Sh.o.r.e?"
"Whosoever wrote those lines, Jessy, had lain with me in the dungeons of Doubting Castle."
"Arthur Hugh Clough, an English clergyman, wrote them. His feet well-nigh slipped, but he constantly struggled to hold fast the skirts of Faith, and bid himself remember that in the Christ creed
"The souls of near two thousand years Have laid up here their toils and fears; And all the earnings of their pain.
Ah, yet consider it again!"
"Let me have the book, Jessy," and he stood a few minutes looking at it.
What Mrs. Caird was saying he heard not, his eyes had fallen upon a few lines describing the Christ creed:
"With its humiliations combining Exaltations sublime, and yet diviner abas.e.m.e.nts, Aspirations from something most shameful here upon earth, and In our poor selves, to something most perfect above in the heavens."
"I do not care for poetry, Jessy, but this book appears to reveal a soul. I will take it to my room; it may have something to say to me."
But Dr. Macrae did not read any book that night. To sit still with closed eyes and consider what this sudden a.s.sociation of Lady Cramer and his son might mean was the most urgent of his desires. Until near midnight he thought over the circ.u.mstance in every possible way, coming finally to the conclusion that Lady Cramer"s attentions to Donald were a most delicate revelation of her love for himself; and this conviction brought instantly an acute longing for her presence. He felt that he must reach London as soon as it was possible. For some weeks he had antic.i.p.ated this visit and made the necessary preparations for it. The finest clothing was ready to put into his valise, and there was little to do except to secure a minister to supply his pulpit for one Sabbath.
This was easily accomplished, and on a fine, bright Monday morning he took a very early train southward.
"I am sure," said Marion, "Father has taken this journey purposely to see Donald again. It is so good of him, and I do hope Donald will treat him properly."
"Nonsense!" answered Mrs. Caird. "Your father has gone to London to see Lady Cramer."
"Aunt, he told me he hoped Donald would be in London; he said he wished to see him."
"Then why did he not start for London at once?"
"He thought Donald would be delayed and detained by Lady Cramer. I thought so also. She liked to have young men waiting upon her. She always found them plenty to do. Father wanted to see Donald again."
"If your father wants anything, it is not his way to wait three or four days for it."
"Anyway, I do not believe my father and Lady Cramer are in love with each other. It is not likely."
"Do you think Richard and yourself have captured all the love in the world? Your father is a very handsome man and Lady Cramer is a beautiful woman. Why should they not be in love with each other?"
"They are so old, Aunt."
"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 circ.u.mstance."
"Everyone forgets Donald."
And Marion, tired of a.s.suring 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.