THE GREAT TEMPTATION
"Love not, love not! Oh, warning vainly said,
In present years, as in the years gone by;
Love flings a halo round the dear one's head
Faultless, immortal—till they change or die."
It was a warm, sunny day in August, and the slim and graceful Adalaide, Lady of Cramer, was waiting and watching for Dr. Macrae. She had a new purpose in her heart, and it was evident not only in her eyes, which were full of a soft blue fire—languid yet masterful—but also in her dress, from which every trace of black had been eliminated. In a soft flowing gown of white lawn and lace, with belt and bows of white satin, she looked fresh and lovely as a flower on the day of its birth.
"Take my book and work-basket to the Ladies' Rest, Flora," she said to her maid, "and if there are callers, they may come to me. Tell Brodie to attend them."
The Ladies' Rest was a circle of wonderful turf in the very center of which stood a gigantic oak, whose far-stretching branches kept the circle in a dreamy, shadowy peace. Near the heart of the circle there were seats, and a small table, and my Lady, standing in white on its green turf, with the green and golden lights of the garden all around her, was as fair a creature as mortal eyes could desire to see.
When left alone her elfin prettiness became particularly noticeable, for she was practicing her bewildering ways to her own thoughts, her manner being at one moment arch and coquettish, and at the next pensive and affectionate; practicing all her small facial arts with the predeterminate aim and intention of capturing the hitherto impregnable, insensible heart of the handsome Minister.
He was quite unconscious of the danger into which he was walking, and his thoughts were on the eternities, and the tremendous destinies that are connected with them. The gravity induced by such thoughts was becomingly dignified, and Lady Cramer thought him handsomer than even her imagination had painted him. Certainly he was worth captivating, and she was resolved to effect this purpose. Indeed she wondered at herself for not having accomplished such a delightful triumph before.
But, if she had honestly examined her dilatory movement in this direction, she would have known that it was caused by facts brought vividly to her notice during the past few weeks, when Cramer Hall had been filled with company of a pleasantly mixed character—young nobles and soldiers, and many types of beautiful and eligible young ladies. Every one, then, had regarded her as a kind of matron, and she found all her pretenses to be yet of the younger set quietly put aside. She was admired and treated with the greatest respect, but no one made love to her; and she was piqued and humbled by this neglect.
"Because I am thirty-two," she said to herself, "because I am thirty-two, I was treated like an old lady. The insolence of youth is intolerable!" Then she heard steps upon the flagged walk and, turning, saw the stately, rather somber figure of the man whose conquest she was meditating approaching her. She met him with charming smiles, and little fluttering attentions and, in words soft and hesitating, tried to hide, and yet to express her great joy in his presence. "It is so long—so long—since I saw you! I have felt desolate and, oh, so lonely!"
"Lonely! You have had so much pleasant company."
"But you never came—not even when I wrote and asked you—did you know how cruel you were? My company was young and thoughtless—no one cared for me—I longed to see your face you never came—I have been very lonely—but now! Oh, you cannot tell what a pleasure it is to have someone to talk to who does not regard tennis and golf as the chief end and duty of man," and she smiled and laid her jeweled white hand confidingly on his.
"She smiled and laid her jeweled white hand confidingly on his"
He was much astonished, but also greatly touched, by her frankness and evident joy in his presence; and, as any other man would have done, he accepted her gracious kindness without doubt or consideration. Her pretty face, full of sympathetic revelations, and her flattering words went like wine to his head and heart, his eyes dilated with pleasure, and he clasped the hand she had laid upon his own. Its soft warmth, its slight pressure, the tender smile on her lips, the love light in her eyes, were to his starving soul irresistible temptations. But he never thought of these things as temptations; if he had done so, there was in him a Will gigantic enough to have put them behind him. As a man dying of thirst would have seized a glass of cold water, so his soul, famishing for love, took hastily, greedily, the astonishing blessing offered him. Scarcely could he believe in his happiness; yet fast, oh, so fast, he forgot everything before this hour! And when he left Cramer it was with his heart like a spring brimming over with love.
Under the sweet strength of the stars he walked home. He felt that he could not meet Mrs. Caird until he had communed with himself in the silence and solitude of the night. His whole life, without his expectation or conscious desire, had been changed. Something wonderful had taken place. He thought he had loved before, but this startling, unforeseen, and unmistakable passion filled him with rapture and a kind of sacred fear. He had in no way sought it. By some Power far above him it had been sent. Yet his beating heart, his strange joy, his firm step, active brain, and glad outlook on life taught him that all the long years of his ascetic rejection of love must have been a mistake.
When he reached home he had not decided whether it would be prudent to tell his sister-in-law of the new joy that had come into his life. His nature was reticent, and he felt a keen personal pleasure in the secrecy of his love. He did not dream of her suspecting or discovering it. He found her sitting on the little porch absolutely idle. He was astonished at the circumstance, and more so at her face and manner, which were both sad and weary.
"Are you sick, Jessy," he asked, "or have I stayed too long at the Hall?"
"You are sooner home than I expected. How are all there?"
"No one is there at present but Lady Cramer. We had dinner together, and I came away as soon as I could well leave. She is very lonely."
"So am I, for that matter."
"Marion is with you."
"In a way, not much. Her heart is at Oban or thereabout."
"Lady Cramer told me that Lord Cramer and Donald had gone on a tramp together. They are walking through the western highlands. It did not please me."
"And why not?"
"Because it is strengthening Donald's love of adventure and change. I wanted him to rest quietly here until we returned to Glasgow. Then I hoped he would be willing and glad to enter St. Andrews, and to settle down to the life I intended for him."
"If he had stayed here, I think he would have regarded St. Andrews with delight. The company of hundreds of young men, the pleasant city, and the fine golf ground would make St. Andrews—after a month of this place—a very Elysium of satisfaction."
"I thought this place was like the Garden of Eden to you."
"I don't blame Eve, if it is. All right for a settled woman like me, and yet I, myself, am missing my afternoon callers and the library. And the two lasses are growing surly for want of company. Aileen was saying an hour ago that, 'If there was only a constable, and a hand-organ passing now and then,' she could bear the loneliness better."
"As for me, I like it more and more. I am thinking of asking the Church to get a supply for a month. I feel a little rest to be necessary."
"I feel as if I had had enough of the country."
"What does Marion say?"
"She is as happy here as anywhere. All places are wearisome to those who live for a person who is not in the place."
"And Lady Cramer tells me that her stepson is miserable if he is not with Donald. She says they are inseparable and very unhappy if apart."
"Like to like, the wide world over."
"But they are not alike."
"You do not know your son. I do. But if you take a month's rest here, you might get through that weary, useless reading of silly books and sillier manuscripts."
"I hope it is not useless reading, Jessy. Every book that discredits scientific theology adds to the evidences of Christianity."
Then Jessy lost control of herself, for she answered angrily, "Do you think, Ian, that I have not read 'Evidences'? Let me tell you how I felt after reading Paley's. I just thought it probable that Christianity might be true. That was only an opinion, but let a man or woman do God's will, until He speaks within them like a living voice, and then they will know there is a God."
"But, Jessy,——"
"Don't interrupt me. I must tell you the truth. Upon my word, I believe you are training yourself to the habit of doubting much and believing little. You have dropped words lately I did not like, and I do not like your selfishness about your children. I have always noticed, as religious faith dies, selfishness takes the place of self-sacrifice. There were the Dalrys! Their children were lost to everything good, because they were forced to marry where they did not love. What have you got to do with Marion's love? I wonder sometimes if you ever loved my little sister! I am doubting it."
"Jessy,——"
"Yes, I am doubting it. You thought it no sin to urge her to leave father and mother, and go away with yourself, though the Bible lays it down as the man's duty to leave father and mother for his wife's sake. Marion wants to do nothing worse than you begged Agnes to do. There is a change—a change for the worse—in you, Ian. I cannot just put my finger on it, but I feel it. Yes, I feel it."
"That may be so, Jessy. We all change, and no wrong done by it. We must in some way carry about with us the aura of any book that takes possession of our thoughts or feelings. The doubtful books I have been reading so steadily have their own influence—perhaps not a good one."
"A very bad one."
"In a way, you are right, Jessy. It makes me unhappy and uncertain, and with a strong insistence leads me from one skeptical writer to another. I wish to destroy them all!"
"Ian, you are not the man appointed to destroy the devil. Keep yourself out of his power, and leave the devil and all his books to God Almighty."
"Many of these skeptical books show a reverent spirit, Jessy."
"I will not believe that. As far as I can judge, they are altogether destructive. They have no business in this room, though in the libraries of hell they ought to be given high place and honor."
"The libraries of hell! What an idea!"
"A very reasonable one. There are books that have slain more souls than any man could slay—but——"
"O Jessy, Jessy! Doubts will come, even if you fight them on your knees—will come to thoughtful men and women; and doubt can only be cured by investigation."
"As far as I can see, the doubt of all Doubters is just the same, and the Book of Job contains as much philosophy of that kind as the world is ever likely to come to. But I notice that, as soon as doubting gets hold of a man, he will believe anything, so long as it is not in the Bible."
"The 'Evidences of Christianity'——"
"Ian, I have no patience with you. If there is anything plain and clear in the religious teachings of the Bible, it is that religion proves itself. Spiritual things are spiritually discerned, not intellectually. If a man has had a good dinner, he knows it; there is no need to argue about the matter. If a soul thirsts after righteousness and drinks of the Waters of Life, it knows it, and is happy and satisfied; it does not want evidences that it is so."
"You are right, Jessy, but what is the matter with you to-night? You are very queer—I may say 'cross.'"
"I am neither queer nor cross. This afternoon, for a few moments, I lost my bodily senses, and found myself—and I saw a black cloud coming straight to our house—coming as if it knew just where to go—as if it had been sent. And it entered the house, and I came to myself in a dream and sweat of terror; and I am feared for my children, for they are heart of my heart. And your selfish way with them both is enough to call some tragedy, a deal worse than a marriage that does not suit you, or the taking of his own way by a good, brave lad who is sure not to take a wrong way, though it may not be the one you prefer."
"Marion has no knowledge of the world, and it is my duty to stand between her and the world."
"Marion loves Richard Cramer, and if she is willing to thole his temper and all the rest of his shortcomings, it is likely her appointed way toward perfection—it seems to be God's commonest way of training women. You do not require to bear with Cramer in any way. He will not trouble you, for there is no doubt he thinks you as selfish and disagreeable as you think him."
"I dislike Lord Cramer for his immoralities."
"God puts up with what you call his 'immoralities,' and I think you need not be so strict to mark iniquity—if there is any. In my opinion, Cramer is as good as the rest of men—fond of women's company, of course, and, like Donald, daft about music and fine singing, but what good man is not?"
"As for Donald, I only ask him to walk in my own footsteps."
"They are over-narrow for him."
"Nevertheless, he shall tread in them or make his own way. I have money to send him to St. Andrews and give him every advantage. He can go there next month—or he can go to the ends of the earth."
"Then he will go to the ends of the earth. But take heed to my words, Ian Macrae, you will not escape the sorrow of it. However you may try to comfort yourself, you will not be able to forget the loving, handsome lad who stands at your side to-day like a vision of your own youth."
"I had a very happy afternoon, and you have completely spoiled it, Jessy."
"You can have a happy afternoon to-morrow, and every day, if you wish it, but if you ruin your children's lives you can never, never undo that wrong. Have some pity on yourself, if you have none on them."
"I will not be bullied into doing what I know to be unwise, Jessy. I am considering the whole life of my children, not a few weeks or months of youth's illusory dreams and temptations. Donald, as a man, will have the privilege of making a choice; as for Marion, I shall insist on her accepting a marriage which will shelter her as far as possible from all the ills of life."
"Do you mean that you will make her marry that lying, sneaking, tale-telling cub, Allan Reid?"
"Certainly. His faults grew out of his jealousy of Donald's beauty and cleverness. He confessed his fault to me and I forgave him. All stands as it stood before that disagreeable evening. He said Donald was very scornful and provoking. I can believe it."
"I hope he was." Then she laughed, and added, with an air of satisfaction: "Donald has a way of his own. He can be very civil, and very unbearable. I have seen him——," and she laughed again at the memory.
"I am going to my room, Jessy. I have said all I have to say on these subjects."
"Will you have some bread and milk first?"
"No. I had an excellent dinner. It was late also. You have made me wretched, Jessy."
"I am sorry, Ian. But, as it concerns the children, we are pulling at opposite ends of the rope."
"They are my children. You will kindly remember that fact, Mrs. Caird." He spoke with a haughty determination and left her without even his usual perfunctory "good night." She was troubled by his somewhat unusual show of temper, and the noble repose of the night had no note of comfort for her. The silence of the far-receding mountains, the murmur of the streams, the air of lonely pastoral melancholy, with a light like dreamland lying over all, did not help her wounded feelings. The Scot does not ask Nature for comfort in any heart sorrow; there is the Book, and the God of his Fathers. But Jessy Caird had not yet arrived at the point where she felt her exigencies beyond her own direction.
In a few minutes she saw Dr. Macrae light his room, and through its open window there came the odor of a fine cigar. "After the manner of men," she muttered. "They don't permit a woman to smoke—if she is worried or ill-tempered—it is not ladylike. And I'm wondering what improves its manners so as to make it gentleman-like. Men are selfish creatures, all of them, not one good, no, not one!"
Then she rose and rather noisily locked the door; she hoped that Dr. Macrae would hear her, and so come and attend to what he considered his duty when at home. But Dr. Macrae was lying on the sofa smoking and dreaming of Lady Cramer's beauty, and that night he did not care who locked the door. The huge key turned, the bolts slipped into their places, and she went upstairs, full of indignation at her brother-in-law. She could not understand his mood; for she remembered that in spite of the gravity of the subjects on which they had disagreed there was an air of yawning and boredom about him. It was evident to her that they were intruding on some subject much more interesting.
At that hour she was trying to find out what really filled her with forebodings. Little wondering, wandering thoughts about some change in her brother-in-law had flitted for two weeks in and out of her consciousness. But all his slight deviations from the natural and usual were as nothing in comparison with the change she perceived this night. Then, in the midst of her trifling suppositions, there was suddenly flashed across her mind a few words she never doubted: "He is in love with Lady Cramer! He intends to marry her!"
The clue had been given and she followed it out. She thought she now saw clearly why Macrae was so determined to marry Marion to Allan Reid. He was going to marry into the Cramer family himself, and it would be most disturbing and confusing if Marion did the same. It would be too much. Though there was no legal barrier, there was a positive social one, so vigilantly deterrent, indeed, that she was sure no such case had ever been brought to the Minister's notice; and then she speculated a while as to what would have been his action under the circumstances.
As she slowly undressed she continued her relentless examination of the supposed condition. "Why," she said to herself, "the silly jokes that would be made about the relationships following the double marriage would be just awful. Even his elders and deacons would hardly refrain themselves. They would give him some sly specimens of their wit—and serve him right, too; and I know well there are families in the Church of the Disciples who would not feel sure in their particular consciences whether such close marriages were quite right in the sight of God. They will think, anyway, that the Minister ought to have been more careful to avoid the appearance of evil, and they will be 'so sorry' and ask for explanations, and say it is 'really so confusing.' Yes, I can see and hear the great congregation of the Church of the Disciples all agog about the Minister's queer marriage. As for myself, I shall tell any unmarried man or woman who says what I don't like 'to look after their own marriages'; and, if they are married, I will tell them to 'mind their own business'; but this, or that, the clash and clatter will drive a proud man like Ian to distraction. True, he is proud enough to strike them dumb with a look. I'll never forget seeing him walk up to the pulpit that Sabbath after he was made a D.D., and I mind well how he was so dignified that pretty Martha Dean called him 'a procession of One.' The Church was down at his feet that day—and if he should marry my Lady! I'll go into no surmises—things will be as ordered."
Thus she followed her thoughts backward and forward until the night grew chilly; then she began again her preparations for sleep, saying softly to herself as she did so: "I am a wiser woman to-night than I was in the morn. I know now why my poor little Marion is to be made to marry Allan Reid, and, moreover, why her selfish father wants the marriage immediately. It is to prevent the joking about his own marriage, for if she got into the Cramer family first it would take a deal of courage to marry his daughter's mother-in-law. My goodness! What a lot of quiet fun and pawky jokes there would be passing round. I must talk it out with Marion in the morning. I am going to sleep now—sleeping must go on, whether marrying does—or not."
In some respects Mrs. Caird's theory was wrong. It was likely that Dr. Macrae had some nascent, unacknowledged admiration for Lady Cramer, but never until that day had he hoped to marry her. Marriage had been so long and so resolutely barred from his thoughts and feelings that it took the encouragement of Lady Cramer to bring it to recognition in his hopes and desires—so the selfishness Mrs. Caird presupposed had not been in any way as yet conscious to him. The situation was sure to present itself, but it had not yet done so. It was probable, also, that it would affect him precisely as it affected Mrs. Caird, but how he would meet or baffle it no one could say. A man in love cannot be measured by those perfectly sane and cool; besides, love has secret keys with which to meet difficulties.
Mrs. Caird had determined to sleep well, but she was restless and had disturbing dreams, for,
"No tight-shut doors, or close-drawn curtains keep
The swarming dreams out, when we sleep."
And the calm freshness and beauty of the morning almost irritated her. What did Nature care that she was unhappy, that she had painful puzzles to solve, and the very unpleasant inheritance from yesterday to dispose of? Still she was disposed to be reasonable, if others were. But Dr. Macrae was neither ready nor wishful to bring questions so important to a hurried and already inharmonious discussion. At that hour the affair between Lady Cramer and himself was more hopeful than settled, her affection being of a tentative rather than of an actual character. She was as yet experimenting with her own heart, and the Minister's heart was a necessary part of the trial, while his sublime confidence in her little coquetries amused her.
Breakfast was usually a very pleasant meal, but this morning all were reserved and silent. Dr. Macrae knew the value of a cool indifference, and he took refuge in that mood. Nothing interested him, he was lost in thought, he answered questions in monosyllables, and placed himself beyond conciliation in any form. Even Marion's remarks passed unheeded, though his heart failed him when she laid her small hand on his and asked softly,
"Are you sick, dear Father?"
"No," he answered, "I am in trouble."
"Can I help you, Father? What is it? Tell me, dear."
"I have brought up children, and they have rebelled against me." His voice was sad and low with the pathetic reproach, and he rose with the words and went to his study. Marion, with a troubled face, turned to her aunt.
"What is the matter?" she asked.
"Come with me to my room, dear, and I will tell you what he means."
"I think I know what he means," she replied as soon as they were alone. "He is cross because I will not marry Allan Reid."
"Can you not manage it, Marion? He has set his heart on that marriage."
"I would rather die. You said you would stand by me."
"So I will."
"Why is Father so cruel to me?"
"Because he wants, I think, to marry Lady Cramer."
"Would you go away from Father in that case?"
"Would I not?"
"I should go with you, of course."
"That stands to reason."
"How do you know, Aunt? I mean, about Lady Cramer?"
"I had a sure word. I do not doubt it."
"Did my father tell you?"
"No. It is a new thing yet; only a mustard seed now, but it will grow to a great tree. It might have happened yesterday."
"Longer ago than that, Aunt, at least on Lady Cramer's side. When I was staying at the Hall she was cross because he did not come, and she wanted to send for him, but Richard would not let her."
"Why then?"
"Because he said the company they had would be an offense to the Minister, and the Minister would be unwelcome to the other guests. I must write and tell Richard your suspicion. It may affect his prospects."
"No doubt it will, but, if he could marry you at once, it might prevent the other marriage."
"I see not how nor why."
Then Mrs. Caird went pitilessly over the sensation the double marriage would make not only socially, but in the Church of the Disciples. She put into the mouths of its elders, deacons and members the foolish jibes and jokes they would be sure to make. The riddling and laughter and comedy sure to flow from the situation were vividly present to her own imagination, and she spared Marion none of the scorn and indignation they would evoke.
"Just think, Marion," she continued, "of your father having to thole all this vulgar tomfoolery—he, that never sees a flash of humor, however broad and plain it may be. Some men would just laugh, and let the jokes go by, but not so your father. They would be words in earnest to him, and every word would be a whip lash. He would fret and fume and worry himself into a brain fever, or he would fall into one of his miraculous passions with some laughing fool, and there would be tragedy and ruin to follow."
Marion did not speak, but she was white as the white dress she wore. Mrs. Caird looked at her and was not quite pleased with her attitude. She had expected tears or anger, and Marion gave way to neither, but her silence and pallor and a certain proud erectness of her figure spoke for her. At this hour she was startlingly like her father. She had put herself completely in his place, and was moved just as he would have been by her aunt's scornful picture of the Church of the Disciples in a jocular insurrection. So she looked like him. Quick as thought and feeling, the soul had photographed on the plastic body the very presentment of Ian Macrae. Her erect figure, her haughty manner, her scornful and indignant expression, and her large dark eyes, full of reproach, but quite tearless, were exactly the symptoms which he would have manifested if subjected to a like recital. For it is the expression of the human face, rather than its features, which makes its identity. The face enshrined in our hearts, which comes to us in dreams, when it has long moldered in the grave, is not the mechanical countenance of the loved one—it is its abstract idealization, its essence and life—it is the spirit of the face.
Mrs. Caird was astonished. It was a Marion she did not expect, but after a few moments' silence she said, "You can see your father's position, child?"
"Yes, I can see it and feel it, too. He would be distracted with the gossip and the disgrace of it."
"Well, then?"
"I must prevent it."
"Would you marry Allan Reid?"
"No."
"What will you do?"
"Stand by my father whatever befall, if he will let me."
"And Lord Cramer?"
"We can wait."
"But if you married at once, the onus of such a condition as I have pointed out would be on your father, and he would not face it for any living woman. That stands to reason."
"It is nineteen years since my mother died. He has given all those years to Donald and myself. He gave us you for a mother, but he never gave us a stepmother. He was good to us in that respect, and, though we may not have known it, he may have had many temptations to alter his life and he denied himself a wife for our sakes. I must stand by my father. If he wishes to marry Lady Cramer, I will only express satisfaction in his choice."
"But if he insists on your marrying Allan Reid first?"
"That I will not do. His hopes and desires are sacred to me. I shall expect him to give to mine the same regard. I am sure he will do so. Why do you not point out to him the results you have just made so plain to me?"
"Not I! I shall wash my hands of the whole affair. I wonder what kind of mortals you Macraes are! I was trying to prepare some plain road for you and your lover, and the thought of your father steps in between you and you make him a curtsey, and say, 'Your will be it, Father.'"
"Aunt, for a thousand years the father and the chief in my family have been one. He has had the affection and the loyalty due to both relations. My father is still to me the Macrae, and I owe him and give him the first and best homage of my heart."
"Goodness! Gracious! I am very sorry, Miss Macrae, I have presumed to meddle in your affairs. I am only a poor Lowland Scot, ignorant of your famous clansmen. I have seen some of them, of course, in the Glasgow and Edinburgh barracks, but we called them 'kilties,' just plain kilties! Good soldiers, I believe, but——"
"Dear Aunt, you are making yourself angry for nothing at all. If you think over what I have said, you will allow I am right."
"I have something else to think over now, and I'll meddle no more with other people's love affairs. There now—go away and let me alone—I want no kissing and fleeching. You have cast me clean off—after nineteen years——" and the rest of her complaint was lost in passionate sobs and tears.
Then Marion was on her knees, crying with her, and the upcome and outcome was kisses and fond words and forgiveness. But do we forgive? We agree to put aside the fault and forget it; the real thing is, we agree to forget.
After this common family rite Mrs. Caird washed her face and went down to look after dinner, and as she did so she felt a little hardly toward Marion, and her thoughts were grieving and reminiscent. "Oh, the sleepless nights and anxious days I have spent for that dear lassie!" she sighed; "and, now she is a woman, her lover and her father fill her heart. I am just a nobody. Well, thank the Father of all, I gave my love freely. I did not sell it, I gave it, and the gift is my reward. It is more blessed to give than to receive."
Marion, at her sewing, had thoughts not much more satisfactory. "Aunt makes so much of things," she said to herself. "She is so romantic and simple-minded, and she goes over the score on both sides; everything is the very worst or the very best. I wish she would not talk so much about Richard, and be always planning this and that for us. Oh, I ought to be ashamed of such thoughts, and I am ashamed! Aunt Jessy has been my mother, God bless her!" She had a few moments of repentant reflection and resolutions, and then she continued them in a different way, saying almost audibly: "My father! Oh, Aunt knows my father is different. His blood flows through my heart. I am his child from head to feet. Aunt has often told me so. She ought, then, to know I would stand by my father, whomever he married."
They had forgiven each other—but had they forgotten?