Part 25 (2/2)
”Cannot you stay half an hour longer?”
”Not now.”
”I want to talk to you about Ian.”
”You had better talk to him. He is requiring some one to do so. He is spelling life now with a woman's name.”
”Marion's?”
”No.”
”The lovely widow Grant's?”
”No. You must look higher up.”
”You don't--you can't mean Lady Cramer?”
”Just Lady Cramer.”
”The mischief! Is it true?”
”True? I should say so. I am living at his side, and love and a cold can't be hid. Forbye, he is reading books he has no business to read, and writing letters he ought not to write--love letters.”
”Why should he not write love letters if he wishes to do so?”
”Because I am sure my Lady Cramer is only making a fool of him.”
”It would be most like her--though mind you, Mrs. Caird, she is playing with fire. Ian is a very fascinating man. She will likely get the heartache herself she is sorting out for him. I'll have a talk with the Minister. Think of him trusting that woman! the blind fool! the mortal idiot!”
”Not as bad as that.”
”Ay, and worse, if I had the words I want for his folly. Here is Marion's letter. Tell her I am perfectly annoyed at myself for forgetting it. She must forgive me.”
”Good-bye, Major. I am glad I came.”
”Good-bye. You are welcome here. I hope you will come again--soon.”
And oh, how welcome she was when she reached home. Marion was watching for her, and when Mrs. Caird, as she left the cab, held up the letter Marion was at the door to take it from her hand. Her eyes dilated with rapture when she saw Richard's writing, and, after kissing and thanking her aunt, she ran away with it to her room. There was no offense in that--Mrs. Caird both understood and sympathized with the movement. And when she went into the parlor, an hour afterward, she found Marion rocking gently in the firelight and, with closed eyes, singing softly to herself:
”My heart is like a singing bird, Whose nest is in a watered shoot; My heart is like an apple-tree, Whose boughs are bent with sweetest fruit; My heart is like a rainbow sh.e.l.l, That paddles in a halcyon sea; My heart is gladder than all these, Because my love has come to me.”
CHAPTER VIII
MACRAE LEARNS A HARD LESSON
”What though it be the last time we shall meet, Raise your white brow and wreath of golden hair, And fill with music sweet the summer air, Not this again shall draw me to your feet, Peace, let me go.”
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