“Slipped quickly behind an old beech tree.”
CHAPTER VII
Jean left the house filled with terrified dismay. Robert going to marry another? then what would become of her? She would be disgraced and ruined. The thought drove her frantic. “He shall not marry her; he shall give me the protection of his name, for the time being at least,” she said to herself angrily. Afterward, the marriage could be easily annulled; she did not want him. She did not want to be tied for life to any farmer, not she. She would then return to Edinburgh. But suppose he would not consent to such an arrangement? Well she would scare him into it. He was as much to blame as she was anyway. She would not wait to write him after all; she would tell him now. There was nothing to fear. She would wait until the others had started, then come back and force her claim. If they went on without her, it did not matter much; it was not far to the Inn, she mused determinedly. She stopped in her rapid walk and retraced her steps. As she neared the cottage the door opened and her god-parents came out, and with them were Robert and the others. Before they could perceive her, however, she slipped quickly behind an old beech tree back of the well and nearest the house. Breathlessly, impatiently, she waited while they talked, and talked, till she thought they would never go. Then when the coach came and the attendant excitement of its departure, like a guilty creature she stole noiselessly across the intervening space to the cottage, slipped through the open door, and hid herself behind the fireplace, where Mary had concealed herself some weeks before.
After Mrs. Burns left the room Jean came boldly out from her hiding place and stood before the startled couple, who gazed at her in amazement. She looked at them insolently, a sneer on her full lips.
“Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Burns,” she interrupted sarcastically. The color slowly faded from his ruddy face. Was she going to expose that shameful page in his past history to this innocent child? Would she dare, could she be so reckless, so shameless? he asked himself fearfully.
“I thought ye had gone,” he said, dangerously calm, stepping up to her.
“I could not go till I had delivered a message,” she explained, dropping her eyes before the determined light in his.
“What is it?” he asked, puzzled by her tone and manner.
“It is of great importance and for your ears alone,” she replied glibly. “I’m sure this lady—Miss Campbell, is it not?—will not mind leaving us for a moment,” and she smiled amiably into Mary’s innocent inquiring face.
He led Mary gently to the door. “It’ll be only for a moment, Mary,” he said quietly.
“I dinna’ mind,” she answered brightly. “’Tis near time for me to be going hame, ye ken,” and with a smile she left them together.
“Noo, then, what is your message?” he said with calm abruptness, as the door closed.
“This!” and she threw back her head defiantly. “You must give up this Mary Campbell.”
He looked at her in amazement. “What do ye mean?” he gasped, opening his eyes in bewilderment.
“I mean you must make me your wife.” Her pale and agitated face made him wonder if she had gone quite daft. Before he could answer she continued stridently, “You must marry me now, before it is too late, too late to save my name from dishonor and disgrace. Now do you understand?”
A look of incredulous horror slowly blanched his face to ashy whiteness. Had he heard aright? Surely she was jesting; it could not be possible—and yet, why not? His haggard eyes searched her colorless face as though he would read her very soul. Calmly she bore the scrutiny and then, with a groan of anguish, he sank into a chair, weak and trembling. “I canna, I willna, believe,” he muttered hoarsely. “It’s a lie, it’s a lie, Jean Armour!”
“It’s the truth, I tell you,” she cried passionately, wringing her hands. “What else think you would force me, the rich Belle of Mauchline, to humble my pride and stoop to plead to a poverty-stricken farmer to wed me?” She laughed wildly.
“Can it be true, can it be true?” he whispered to himself dully. He felt dazed by the suddenness, the total unexpectedness, of the blow. He closed his eyes wearily. What was it she wanted him to do, he could not think. He sat dumbly waiting for her to speak again.
“You must write out an acknowledgment and sign your name to it,” she continued, her voice low and insistent. “It is an irregular marriage I know, but it will save me from my father’s wrath, when I can keep my plight from him no longer.” He still remained silent, his face hidden in his hands. “Will you do this?” she demanded anxiously, “or,” and her voice grew hard and threatening, “or shall I appeal to the Parish officers to help me save my good name from disgrace?” Quickly he raised his head. At his look of indignant scorn she winced and turned away, flushing angrily.
With a mirthless little laugh he retorted with bitter emphasis, “Your good name, indeed!”
She turned on him defiantly. “I was no worse than other girls,” she flippantly retorted. “Only more unfortunate. Will you do what I ask? Quick, tell me, someone is coming!” She nervously caught his hand. He did not speak. His face grew haggard and old-looking as he stood motionless, forming his resolution. It seemed to her an eternity before he answered her.
“So be it,” he answered hoarsely, drawing his hand away from hers and moving slowly to the door. “I’ll send ye the lines by the posty to-morrow.”
With a cry of delight she gratefully held out her hand to him. But he quietly opened the door, and, without a word or look at her, stood silently holding it back, his head bowed low on his bosom, his face cold and repellent. Slowly Jean walked past him out into the deepening twilight. She felt a dawning pity in her heart for the wretched lad. She could not quite forget those old, happy days, those stolen walks and trysts along the banks of the Ayr. No one could make love so ardently as he, she thought with a sigh. Of all her lovers he had been the favorite, he was so ingenuous, so trustful and confiding, and yet so reckless, so imprudent and weak. She knew well he had never really loved her, and the thought had made her strive all the harder to win him. He was flattered by her open preference for him, and soon became an easy victim, a slave, to her seductive charms and sophisticated fascinations, for he was only human. And now the heart of that little dairymaid would be broken. A quick pang of shame and regret stole over her, but she instantly stifled it. She must think of self first, she told herself uneasily. Anyway she only wanted the marriage lines in case people should point an accusing finger at her. Later—well, the marriage could be annulled privately, and no one be the wiser, for marriages were easily annulled in Scotland. She walked briskly to where the coach was standing, for they were waiting for her, determined to cast all gloomy, depressing thoughts from her for the time at least.
Robert mechanically closed the door behind her and walked slowly to the dresser. Taking from it a bottle of ink and a quill, he carried them to the table, and placing them upon it, sank heavily in a chair. Long he sat there, pen in hand, the victim of the profoundest melancholy, the deepest despair. The thought that it was his own fault, his indifference to consequences, his recklessness, his weak, sinful folly, that had plunged himself and others into the awful abyss of grief and sorrow, was like the bitterness of death to him. As he sat there with drawn and haggard face, while bitter regret gnawed deeply at his conscience, the plaintive tones of Mary’s voice came through the window, singing softly:
A groan of agony escaped the grief-stricken man at the sound of the voice, which was sweeter than all else in the world to him.
“Mary, my lost Highland Mary!” he cried aloud, “how can I give ye up forever?” and throwing himself across the table he wept bitter tears of anguish and remorse.
continued the sweet voice in mournful cadence. Softly the words floated to the ears of the sorrowing man, like the echo of his own harrowing thoughts.
As Mary reached the open window she paused and gazed into the room eagerly. As she sees her lover sitting there so silent and alone, her smile is very sweet and tender.
“Dear laddie; asleep,” she whispers softly. “He must be o’er tired after his hard day’s work. God bless my laddie,” and with a smile of ineffable sweetness, she wafted a kiss to the bowed head and quickly passed on, wending her lonely way back to Castle Montgomery, while the man sitting there in agonized silence, with clenched teeth and tense muscles, slowly raised his head to listen, in heart-broken silence, to her sweet voice floating back to him in silvery melody, as she took up the broken thread of her song:
The song died away in the distance.
“God pity her, God pity me,” he murmured brokenly.
CHAPTER VIII
From the huge, low ceilinged kitchen of Castle Montgomery, which was ablaze with light, came the gladsome sound of mirth and revelry, for
For miles around the annual invitations had been sent broadcast, and to-night the capacious kitchen was taxed to its utmost. It was, however, a singularly good-natured, if over-hilarious, gathering that had assembled to do justice to old Bess’s cooking, and to test their fate through the medium of the many charms so well known to all the peasantry.
There was Poosie Nancy in her stiffly-starched frilled cap and her new kirtle, complacently nodding here and there to all of her acquaintances as they flocked about her. Poosie Nancy was a merry old soul. For years she had been the mistress of the Arms Inn, the public house on the high road, where Souter and Tam O’Shanter were wont to idle away their time and, incidentally, their “siller.” Standing on one foot behind her was Molly Dunn. Molly was consciously resplendent in a new plaid frock, made by her own unskilled hands, and while it was certainly not a thing of beauty, it surely was a joy forever, to the lassies, who laughingly twitted her about her handiwork. But she heeded not their good-natured jibes. She was admiringly watching Daddy Auld, the little old minister, who sat in the midst of an admiring group of his parishioners at the other side of the room, who evidently stood in no awe of him, judging from the bursts of laughter which greeted his frequent attempts at jocularity.
“Where is Tam O’Shanter, Souter Johnny?” suddenly asked old Bess, who was proudly doing the honors as mistress of ceremonies. Souter was assiduously paying court to the comely Poosie Nancy in the opposite corner with an eye to future possibilities.
“He willna be here till late,” he replied impatiently, addressing the crowd. “I left him at the Arms Inn, an’ if he drinks much mair whisky, he will na’ be here at all, I’m thinkin’,” and he turned eagerly to his inamorata, who was fanning herself indifferently with a plantain leaf.
“He’ll fall into the Doon some night an’ be drowned, sure as fate,” said she, carelessly dismissing the subject.
“Take your partners for the reel!” shouted big Malcolm Macræ stentoriously, at this juncture. Old Donald tuned up his fiddle with gleeful alacrity.
Souter ceremoniously offered Poosie his arm, which she condescendingly accepted, and majestically they walked to the middle of the floor. With much laughing and joking and good-natured rivalry, they were all quickly paired off, and soon the rafters rang with the happy voices of the hilarious dancers as they merrily sang to the tune that blind Donald was scratching out on his old and faithful, though unmelodious, fiddle.
Mary had taken no part in the merrymaking, for she felt heavy and sad at heart. From her seat in the corner, where the light was the dimmest, she had watched the door with patient anxiety, hoping against hope that Robert would come, but she had waited in vain, and now the evening was nearly spent and soon they would be going home, happy and tired after their sport and entertainment, while she would steal away to her quarters over the kitchen and cry herself to sleep, as she had done for many nights past. Souter Johnny, who was in his element and the merriest of them all, had tried vainly to induce her to join the revelers in their sport, and many an honest laddie had sought her hand in the dance, only to be shyly refused. So gradually she was left in peace, and soon forgotten amid the excitement of their diversions. They had tried some of the famous charms, which decided the destinies of many of the lads and lassies that night, and now old Bess brought forth her long-hoarded bag of nuts, which she divided among them. Amid shouts of mirth and laughter, they proceeded to test the most famous of all the charms. As they rushed pell-mell to the fireplace and laid each particular nut in the fire, for which they had named the lad or lassie of their choice, and stood there eagerly watching, open-mouthed, to see how they would burn, Mary, with a quickly beating heart, stole unperceived close to the front row of watchers, and with a little prayer, quietly threw her pair into the fire. For a moment they burned slowly side by side, then with a hop and a jump they popped madly about, and finally at opposite sides of the fireplace they glowed redly for a time, then expired altogether. With a little, suppressed sob, unheeded in the general excitement, she hurried back to her seat, pale and trembling. It was as she had feared: the course of their love was never again to run smoothly, the charm had spoken. It had never been known to predict wrongly. Why had she sought to find out her fate? she asked herself pathetically. Unheeding the merry songs and dances going on around her, of which they never seemed to weary, and the unco tales and funny jokes, she sat there thinking her sweet, sad thoughts, and patiently waiting till they should depart for their homes, that she might seek the quiet of her bed, where her aching heart might find relief in the tears which nowadays were so hard to control. Suddenly the laughter subsided, and Mary with a start raised her head to see all eyes turned on her.
“Mary, come here, lass,” called Souter Johnny, who was fanning himself vigorously.
“It’s your turn noo, Mary,” they cried boisterously. “So gie us a dance or a song,” and they all pressed around her with good-natured suggestions.
Old Bess took the shrinking girl by the hand, and leading her forward, with a deep courtesy announced, “Hieland Mary will favor us wi’ a song,” then she left Mary standing in the center of the room suffering agonies of dread as she raised her frightened eyes to the group of laughing, good-natured, gaping faces about her.
“I canna’ sing, I canna’ sing, Souter,” she faltered, turning to him beseechingly.
“Yes, ye can, dearie, just a—a verse, there’s a girlie,” he answered encouragingly. “Come and stand beside me, if that’s any inspiration to ye,” he added, smiling good-humoredly.
She ran to his side, and clutching him by the arm, tried to muster up her courage, for the good-natured audience were clamorously demanding a song. With a frightened little gasp she began to sing the first thing that came to her mind. “Oh, where, and oh, where is my Highland laddie gone?” she faltered out. A little titter passed through the crowd, for they knew that “Rab Burns was nae longer sweet on Mary Campbell,” as they told each other in loud whispers. At the cruel sound Mary, whose lips had trembled ominously as she thought of her recreant lover, with an indignant look at the thoughtless ones, burst into a flood of tears. Quickly Souter led her sobbing to a seat, while the others anxiously crowded round, conscience-stricken at their thoughtless levity.
“What’s happent? what’s happent? Has she fainted?” they asked in helpless confusion, gazing from one to the other.
“She’s only a wee bittie tired,” answered old Souter, tenderly smoothing the hair of the sorrowing lass. “Let her alone an’ she’ll be all right. Donald,” he called, “start your fiddle; we’re gang to hae anither dance.”
The blind old patriarch smiled serenely, and raising his fiddle to his chin began to play, and soon the mirth and fun grew fast and furious as the dancers reeled and set, and crosst and cleekit.
While old Donald was playing, and the dance was well started, Souter quietly led Mary out in the open air, and sitting down on the doorstep, he drew her gently beside him. “Noo, Mary, what is the matter?” he inquired kindly. “Winna ye tell old Souter Johnny your trouble?”
“Ye ken why I am unhappy, Souter Johnny,” answered Mary apathetically. He sighed and remained silent.
“Have ye an’ Robert quarreled?” he asked presently.
“No,” she answered sadly.
“Weel, come tell old Souter; it may ease your mind, lassie,” and he drew her plaid about her shoulders, for the night air was keen.
“Well, ye ken, Souter,” she faltered, a pitiful little break in her voice, “Robbie an’ I were to be married after the plantin’ was o’er, and ’tis noo harvest time, but ne’er a word has he spoke of our marriage since that day. He is so changed, Souter, I—I canna understand him at all,” and she leaned wearily against his shoulder like a tired child.
“That Armour lass is at the bottom of it all, I ken,” thought Souter angrily, drawing her close to him.
“Perhaps,” continued Mary sadly, “perhaps he has grown tired of his Highland Mary.” She plucked idly at the fringe of her plaid, a look of resignation on her sweet face.
“Tired o’ ye?” repeated Souter incredulously. “A man would be a most fearful fool to gie up such a bonnie, sweet lassie as ye are. Noo, if I were only younger, Robbie Burns wouldna hae things all his own way, I tell ye,” and he nodded his head vigorously.
“I ken he has some trouble,” said Mary, not heeding his jocular efforts to cheer her, “that makes him so unhappy like; if he would only let me share that trouble wi’ him, whate’er it is, how gladly I would do it.”
Souter rubbed his bearded chin reflectively.
“Weel, Mary, ye ken Robert’s a genius,” he answered soberly. “An’ ye can ne’er tell how a genius is gang to act, therefore ye must ne’er be surprised, Mary, at whate’er he does, for genius is but anither name for eccentricity an’—an’ perverseness,” and he sighed deeply, his kind old face wrinkled with perplexity.
“I feel, Souter,” she continued, pathetically calm, “that I am slowly, but surely, drifting out o’ his life forever.” She gazed suddenly into the face bending over her solicitously.
“Dinna ye know the cause, Souter?” she asked beseechingly.
He brushed his hand across his eyes and slowly shook his head. She sighed patiently and turned away her head and gazed listlessly into space. For a few moments there was deep silence, broken only by the bursts of laughter which came to them at intervals from within.
“Lassie, listen to me,” finally said the old man, his voice cheery and hopeful once more. “Ye mustna be so down-hearted; there is a cause for everything in this world, an’ I ken Robert loves ye wi’ all his heart, just the same as ever. Why, ye can see the glimmer o’ love in his e’e whene’er he looks at ye.” He smiled approvingly as Mary’s face brightened, then continued decidedly, “Robert is well-nigh daft that he hasna heard frae Lord Glencairn all this time; that is why he is sae worrid an’ nervous, sae moody an’ neglectful; noo cheer thee, lassie, it’ll all come right in time,” and he patted her shoulder lovingly.
“Oh, I feel sae much better, Souter,” she murmured, pressing his hand gratefully. “An’ noo I’ll na borrow trouble any mair, thinkin’ Robert doesna’ love me.” She smiled happily and jumped lightly to her feet.
“Whist, Mary, why dinna ye make sure o’ that?” whispered Souter, looking around him mysteriously. She looked at him wonderingly. “’Tis Hallowe’en, ye ken, an’ a’ the witches an’ fairies are about this night an’ will grant any wish made. Try a charm, lassie.”
“I did try one,” replied Mary with a sigh. “I burned the nuts, but it didna’ come out right; that’s what made me sad.”
“Ah, weel, try anither; go pull a stock.”
“Oh, nay, I’m afraid to go out in the field at night,” she replied timidly, drawing back. “But I’ll go if ye’ll come wi’ me.” She held out her hand to him.
“Nay, thank ye, Mary,” he said grimly. “I dinna’ care to see the face o’ my future wife just yet; I fear I couldna’ stand the shock.”
“Well, I darena’ go alone,” answered Mary decidedly, her hand on the latch. “Think of anither charm, one I can do indoors.”
“An’ do ye think the fairies will come around where ’tis light?” he cried in amazement. “Och, no, ye must go to the darkest place ye can find.” His little round eyes gazed into hers with solemn earnestness.
Mary shivered with apprehension and peered into the darkness. “Oh, Souter, think o’ the witches,” she said nervously.
“They willna’ hurt ye,” he answered a little impatiently. “Ye maun sow a handful of hempseed an’ harrow it o’er wi’ anything ye can draw after ye, an’ repeat o’er and o’er,” assuming a guttural monotone:
“And will I see him then?” whispered Mary eagerly, drawing near to him.
“Aye,” returned Souter hoarsely. “Look over your left shoulder an’ ye’ll see your future husband pullin’ hemp. Noo, off wi’ ye; ye’ll find some seed in the barn.” Mary tried to summon up her courage, for she was highly superstitious, like all the peasantry, and was anxious to test the potency of the charm, and finally succeeded in taking a few faltering footsteps in the direction of the barn, when suddenly the door behind them opened, and Molly Dunn appeared in the doorway. She held in one hand a lighted candle, while in the other she carried a broken piece of looking-glass, into which she was gazing intently, her eyes fixed and staring. Behind her, crowding through the doorway, followed the now noiseless revelers, who were stifling their laughter to breathlessly watch the outcome of the well-known charm, whose power Molly had decided to put to a test, though believing staunchly in its potency. Molly majestically walked down the steps and across to the well, where, depositing her mirror on the curbing, she took from the pocket of her skirt a round, red apple, from which she bit a goodly piece and began vigorously to chew upon it, the while holding her candle above her head and anxiously watching her reflection in the mirror.
“Molly’s eatin’ the apple at the glass,” chuckled Souter to Mary softly. “She’s lookin’ for the face o’ her future husband. Let’s hae some fun wi’ her.” He motioned to them all to keep silent, and stealing softly over to the unconscious Molly, intoned in a deep sepulchral voice, “Molly Dunn, if ye would see your future husband, dinna’ ye dare turn your head this way.”
Molly gave a shriek of terror, thereby choking herself with the piece of apple she was industriously eating, and falling on her knees, her teeth chattering in fear, she cried frantically, “The witches! the witches!”
“Nay, I’m the Deil himsel’,” answered Souter in awe-inspiring accents. Molly groaned aloud, in mortal terror, not daring to turn around. “An’ I’ve come for ye, Molly Dunn,” slowly continued her tormentor.
“Nay, nay!” cried Molly, her eyes staring wildly in front of her. “I want naught to do wi’ ye; gang awa’, gang awa’!” and she wildly waved her hands behind her.
“Not till ye’ve seen the face o’ the man ye’ll wed,” replied the voice. “Beauteous fairy of Hallowe’en, come forth,” he commanded majestically, beckoning to Mary to come nearer. She did so. “Speak, kind fairy.” He whispered to her what to say to the awestruck Molly.
Thus admonished, Mary, who was once more her old light-hearted winsome self, raised her sweet voice and spoke in a high falsetto, “Gaze in the looking-glass, Molly Dunn; eat o’ the apple, think o’ the one ye desire to see, an’ his face will appear beside yours.”
“Behold, I pass the magic wand o’er your head, ye faithless woman,” added Souter threateningly.
Hurriedly Molly complied with the injunctions, and patiently she knelt there, apple in hand, the candle light glaring full on her eager, ugly face, and the wisp of faded hair tied tightly on top of her head, which was waving wildly about, while she waited for the face to appear beside her own reflection in the glass.
“Do ye see him yet?” asked Mary eagerly, forgetting her rôle of “The Fairy of Hallowe’en,” and speaking in her natural tone, while the group at the doorway drew closer to the kneeling woman in their excited curiosity.
“Nay, not yet,” replied Molly in an awestruck whisper.
“Hold the candle higher,” admonished Souter, “an’ eat quicker.” Molly did so. “Noo do you see your handsome lover?” He crept up slyly behind Molly, and bending over her shoulder, peered into the glass, where he beheld the shadowy reflection of his own face looming up beside that of the wondering Molly. With a gasp of pleasure not unmixed with fear, she dropped the glass, and turning quickly grabbed the surprised Souter and held him close. As she raised her candle to see whom the fairies had sent to her, she recognized her tormentor, and with a shriek of rage, she clouted the laughing Souter over the head with her candlestick, amid peals of laughter from the delighted spectators, until he called for mercy.
“Dinna I suit ye, Molly?” he asked in an injured tone, nursing his sorely punished head.
“Ye skelpie limmer’s face, ye, how dare ye try sich sportin’ wi’ me?” she cried angrily.
“The glass canna’ lie,” called out old Bess with a shake of her frilled cap.
“An’ ye seen Souter’s face there, Molly,” laughed Poosie Nancy loudly. “There’s no gainsaying that.”
“I want a braw mon, a handsome mon,” whimpered Molly. “Ye’re no a mon at all, ye wee skelpie limmer.” The burst of laughter which greeted this sally was very disconcerting to Souter, whose height, five feet two inches, was distinctly a sore subject.
“Try anither charm, Molly,” said Mary, feeling sorry for the poor innocent.
“Aye, I will,” replied Molly eagerly, drying her tears with the back of her hand.
“Then come alang,” said Souter, ready to make amends. “Come an’ pull a stock. Gie me your hand.” She did so eagerly. “Noo shut your eyes tight; that’s it; come along noo.” But Molly braced herself and refused to move.
“I’m afeered o’ the dark an’ the witches,” she faltered, her teeth chattering, her eyes so tightly closed that her face was drawn into a mass of deep wrinkles.
They all crowded round the couple with words of praise and encouragement, and presently Molly was persuaded to take a step forward and then another, and finally the two moved slowly away and were swallowed up in the darkness.
Meanwhile the rest of the revelers, after a whispered consultation, hurried to the outhouse, amid smothered shrieks of laughter.
Molly and Souter walked slowly and timidly toward the field of corn, which looked unreal and shadowy in the pale moonlight. Molly’s few remaining teeth were now chattering so loudly that Souter began to grow nervous. He jerked her arm impatiently.
“Be a mon, Molly,” he hoarsely whispered, his voice a little shaky.
“I’m afeered to,” she answered, opening her eyes and looking fearfully around. They took a few more stumbling step, then stopped.
“Och, get off my foot, ye towsie tyke!” cried Souter. Molly hastily removed the offending member and on they went again. Suddenly they stopped, rooted to the spot in terror. A low, blood-curdling moan had rent the stillness. Again it came, chilling the very blood in their veins by its awful weirdness.
“The witches! the witches!” gasped Molly in abject fear.
Turning, they beheld a sight that caused their hair to stand on end, “the marrow to congeal in their bones,” as Souter afterward explained the sensation which came over him. Coming toward them was a score or more of hideous apparitions with fire blazing from their eyes and their horribly grinning mouths, and groaning and moaning like lost souls. With a mortal cry of terror, the frightened couple sped on wings of fear back to the friendly light of the kitchen, the ghostly figures darting after them with diabolical bursts of laughter. As they slammed the door of the house behind them their pursuers stopped and quickly blew out their Jack-o’-Lanterns and then threw them to one side.
“I didna ken mortal mon could e’er run so fast,” snickered Poosie Nancy to the others as they noiselessly entered the kitchen in time to hear the wonderful tale of Souter’s hairbreadth escape from the witches.
Another hour of mirth and jollity, of dance and song soon sped around. Souter and Molly were still the center of an admiring group, for they had seen the witches with their own eyes, and that distinction was theirs alone that night. Suddenly the old clock struck twelve, then began a merry scrambling for bonnets and plaids. Having donned them, they noisily crowded around their hostesses, who were lined up against the wall, waiting ceremoniously to be thanked for their hospitality and to bid their parting guests godspeed. As the darts of homely wit and repartee flew back and forth among them, causing the lads to burst into uproarious laughter or to grin in awkward bashfulness, and the lassies to turn their heads away blushingly or to toss their curls coquettishly, the door burst in suddenly, and Tam O’Shanter staggered to the center of the floor, pale, wild-eyed, and disheveled.
“Tam O’Shanter!” they cried, gazing at him in startled amazement. Souter quickly reached his old cronie’s side.
“What’s the matter, mon? hae ye seen a ghost?” he asked concernedly.
“Aye, worse than that, much worse,” hoarsely replied Tam, wiping the sweat from off his forehead with a trembling hand.
“What’s happened?” cried old Bess fearfully.
“Calm yoursel’ an’ tell us, Tam,” said Souter soothingly. They brought him a chair, for he trembled like an aspen leaf. Throwing himself into it, he gazed about him fearfully, the while struggling to regain his breath.
“Well,’tis this way, Souter,” he began presently in a husky whisper. “I left the Arms Inn about an hour ago or thereabouts an’ started for hame, for ’tis a long ride to Carrick, ye ken, an’ a most uncanny ride e’en in the daylight.”
“That’s true,” affirmed Poosie Nancy with a nod of conviction to the others.
“Weel,” continued Tam impressively, “a few miles beyond the Maypole road ye have to pass a dark, uncanny spot, the cairn where the hunters found the murdered bairn. Ye ken the spot, Souter?” turning to him for confirmation.
Souter nodded his head quickly. “Aye, Tam, I ken it weel, for ’twas near there old Mingo’s mother hanged hersel’.” Old Bess looked over her shoulder nervously.
“Aye,” eagerly assented Tam, then he continued, “Weel, a weird sight awaited me there; my blood runs cold noo. Suddenly I heard a sound o’ music and revelry, and Maggie stopped still, frightened stiff. I looked up, and glimmering thro’ the trees was auld Kirk Alloway all a blaze o’ light.” He paused to note the effect of his astounding statement.
They looked at each other disbelievingly. Some turned angrily away, muttering to themselves. Was old Tam making sport of them?
“Go alang, mon,” cried Poosie Nancy with an incredulous sniff of her pug nose. “’Tis naught but an old tumbled down ruin.”
“I’m telling ye gospel truth,” replied Tam earnestly. They crowded around again, ready to be convinced, though still eying him distrustfully.
“Well, I was nae afraid,” continued Tam bashfully, “for I was inspired by bold John Barleycorn, so I rode Maggie close to the wall an’ there thro’ the openin’, I saw inside, and wow! I saw an unco sight!” Tam was becoming warmed up with his recital. The eager, excited faces crowding around him had restored his courage and flattered his vanity. He paused impressively, his eyes fixed and staring, gazing straight past the faces of his listeners as though he saw the unco sight again. He noted with pleasure the frightened glances they gave over their shoulders. Then he proceeded slowly in a sibilant whisper, “There were warlocks and witches dancin’ hornpipes and jigs around the Kirk, dressed only in their sarks. There were open coffins standin’ around like clothespresses, an’ in each coffin stood a corpse holdin’ in its cauld hand a burnin’ light. An’ by that light I saw two span-lang wee unchristened bairns, white and cold upon the holy table.” Tam wiped the sweat off his brow and moistened his dry lips; then he proceeded with his harrowing tale. “Beside the bairns lay a bloody knife wi’ gray hairs still sticking to the heft an’——”
But with a shudder of fear, their faces blanched and drawn, they exclaimed in doubting horror, “Nay!” “Stop!” “Out on ye, mon!” “It’s nae true!” etc. Tam was not to be cut off in the midst of his tale so unceremoniously.
He rose excitedly from his seat and continued rapidly. “The dancers were twisting and turning like snakes, and there in a winnock-bunker sat Auld Nick himsel’, in the shape of a beast, playing the pipes. Och, friends, it was an inspirin’ sight, and in my excitement I yelled out——”
“What?” cried the lads in unison.
“‘Well done, Cutty Sark!’” shouted Tam, proudly, well pleased at his own temerity.
They boisterously applauded him for his courage, but the lassies still clung to each other nervously.
“Then what happened, Tam?” asked Souter quizzingly. He could not quite bring himself to believe Tam’s improbable tale, he knew the old sinner so well.
“Weel, the lights went out in an instant,” continued Tam dramatically. “I had no sooner turned Maggie’s head than out poured those unco witches like bees buzzin’ in anger. I didna’ stop to meet them, for Maggie, knowing her danger, bounded off like a terrified deer and plunged off desperately through the trees toward the brig with all these witches followin’ wi’ eldritch screeches, close to her heels till I could feel their breath on my clammy neck. Oh, what an awful moment for me! but I knew if I could but reach the keystone of the auld brig I would be safe, for witches darena cross a running stream, ye ken. Mag did her speedy utmost, but old Nannie pursued close behind and flew at me with tooth and nail, but she didna’ know my Maggie’s mettle,” Tam laughed gleefully, “for with one grand leap she reached the brig and saved her master’s life, just as that Carline Nannie caught her by the rump, an’ my poor Maggie left behind her old gray tail.”
As he finished his recital he gazed around him triumphantly. There was an audible sigh of relief from all.
“That’s a burning shame,” said old Bess sympathetically, alluding to the loss of Maggie’s tail.
“What a wonderful experience ye had, Tam,” cried Poosie Nancy admiringly. They all congratulated him on his narrow escape and pressed food and drink on him, showered him with words of praise, and in short made him out a daring hero, much to Souter’s disgust. He sat apart from the rest in dignified silence, his heart wounded and sore, for was not his late ghostly exploit completely ignored and forgotten? “Le Roi est mort, vive le Roi,” he might have said to himself.
“Listen,” cried Tam, jumping to his feet, his face tense with eagerness. Faintly the patter, patter of a horse’s hoofs was heard drawing nearer and nearer.
“’Tis only someone comin’ alang the highway,” said Souter carelessly.
“’Tis my Maggie,” cried Tam almost tearfully. “She’s comin’ back for her master,” and with a bound he reached the open doorway. A few steps took him to the stone wall along the other side of which ran the King’s Highway. “She’s comin’, she’s comin’, my faithful Maggie is comin’,” he cried joyfully.
“She must be an unco sight wi’out a tail, Tam,” sneered Souter. A roar of laughter greeted this sarcastic retort.
“Dinna’ ye dare laugh,” cried Tam, turning on them furiously. The hoofbeats stopped suddenly. In the misty moonlight they caught a glimpse of a huge white creature, looking very spectral and ghost-like, impatiently tossing its head from side to side as if in search of something or someone. With a glad cry Tam vaulted the fence, old as he was, and dashed down the road, calling lovingly, “I’m comin’, Maggie, I’m comin’ to ye.” A whinny of delight, a snort of pleasure, greeted him as he reached his old mare’s side. Then like a phantom, the old gray mare and her rider sped swiftly past them on into the night and away toward Carrick.
Silently they watched them, while the hoofbeats grew fainter and fainter and then were lost to sound. Such was Tam O’Shanter’s tale, the fame of which soon spread throughout all Ayrshire.
CHAPTER IX
In a sequestered spot beside the brook which runs through the lower end of the big field at Mossgiel farm, Robert sat dreamily watching the shallow brook at his feet slowly trickle along over the stones. He had left the field, his heart filled with anger against his brother, who had been reproving him for his thoughtlessness, his absent-mindedness; but gradually his temper had melted, and removing his bonnet from his fevered brow, he had given himself up to his reveries. A little later Gilbert found him there, his loose unbleached linen shirt open at the neck, eagerly writing on a scrap of paper he held in his hand.
The last few weeks Gilbert had thrown off his cloak of habitual reserve, and had treated his brother with less harshness, less severity. He had watched the slowly drifting apart of the lovers with wonder and delight. Could it be that they were tiring of each other? he asked himself over and over again. If that were so then perhaps some day—but he would not permit himself to think of the future. He would be happy in the present. For he was comparatively happy now, happier than he had ever expected to be. Since Robert’s avoidance of her, Mary had again turned to him for sympathy, and once more they were on their old friendly footing. True she was a sad, despondent companion, but he was blissfully happy just to walk beside her from kirk, to listen to the sound of her sweet voice, even though his brother was the only topic of conversation, to feel the touch of her little hand as he helped her over the stile. He thought of all this now as he regarded his brother in thoughtful silence. Presently he called his name. Receiving no answer, he strode through the overhanging willows and touched him quietly on the shoulder.
With a start Robert looked up into his brother’s face, then he turned slowly away. “What is wrong noo, Gilbert?” he asked bitterly. “It seems I will be doing nothing right o’ late.”
“Nothin’ is wrong, lad,” replied Gilbert, his face reddening. “I—I only came to tell ye I am sorry I spoke sae harshly to ye just noo.”
“Say no more, brother,” replied Robert quickly, rising with outstretched hand, his face bright and smiling. So ready was he to forgive any unkindness when his pardon was sought. “’Tis all forgot. I ken I do try your patience sore wi’ my forgetfulness and carelessness, but I couldna’ help it. The voice of the Goddess Muse, whom I adore, suddenly whispered in my ear and I forgot my work, my surroundings, and stood enraptured, entranced behind my patient steed, catchin’ the thoughts and fancies that were tumblin’, burstin’ from my brain, eager to be let loose, and this is the fruit o’ my inspiration almost perfected.” He handed his brother the paper on which he had been writing.
“Is it a song of harvesting?” asked Gilbert sarcastically without glancing at it.
“Nay,” replied Robert softly. “’Tis called the ‘Cotter’s Saturday Night,’ an’ ye will recognize, no doubt, the character and the theme, for ’tis partly of our own and of our father’s life I have written. ’Tis my best work, Gilbert, I ken truly.” He eagerly watched his brother’s face as he slowly read the verses through.
“May the light of success shine on it,” he said kindly, when he had finished. “But it seems o’er doubtful noo that the world will e’er see this, or any of your verses, for not a word hae ye heard from Edinburgh since ye sent Sir William Creech your collection of poems.”
Robert raised his head and regarded his brother in despairing hopelessness. “I ken it weel, brother,” he replied. “And my heart grows sick and weary, waitin’, waitin’, for tidings, be they good or bad. Two lang months have passed since I sent him my collection, an’ still not a word, not a sign. Nae doubt they were thrown in a corner, overlooked an’ neglected.” For a moment he stood there gazing across the fields, his vision blurred by the tears of disappointment which filled his eyes. “Oh, why did Lord Glencairn raise my hopes so high?” he cried passionately, “only to have them dashed to the ground again.” Gilbert remained silent, his eyes cast down. The sight of his brother’s misery touched him keenly. But there was nothing he could say. “I believed him and trusted to his honor, his promise,” continued Robert dejectedly, “an’ for what?” He put on his bonnet and clasping his hands behind him in his characteristic attitude, slowly walked toward the cottage, a prey to his gloomy thoughts.
“Be patient, Rob, yet a while,” said Gilbert encouragingly, as he walked along beside him. “Who kens what the morrow will bring forth?”
“The morrow?” repeated Robert grimly. “Methinks I’ll ne’er know peace an’ tranquillity again on this earth.”
They strode on in silence. As they neared the cottage Gilbert laid his hand on his brother’s shoulder, bringing him to a standstill. “Robert,” he said quietly and firmly, “I want to speak to ye about Mary.”
Robert turned his head away abruptly. “What of her?” he asked in a low voice.
“What are your intentions toward her?” demanded Gilbert earnestly. “Do ye intend to marry her, or are ye but triflin’ idly wi’ her affections?”
Robert turned on him quickly. “Triflin’?” he repeated indignantly. “Nay, Gilbert, ye wrong me deeply.”
“Forgive me, but ye ken Mary is not like other lassies to think lightly o’,” said Gilbert, his eye searching his brother’s face keenly.
“Heaven forbid,” ejaculated Robert in a low, tense voice.
“I canna’ understand your conduct o’ late,” continued Gilbert earnestly. “I fear your stay in Mauchline is responsible for the great change in ye, for ye are not the same lad ye were when ye left hame. I fear ye have sadly departed from those strict rules of virtue and moderation ye were taught by your parents, Robert.”
“What mean ye, Gilbert?” inquired Robert, startled.
“Ah, Rob,” responded Gilbert, shaking his head sadly, “I ken mair than ye think; reports travel e’en in the country.”
The thought that his wild escapades were known to his narrow-minded though upright brother, and perhaps to others, filled Robert with sudden shame. “Weel, Gilbert,” he replied, trying to speak lightly, “Ye ken that I have been fallin’ in love and out again wi’ a’ the lassies ever since I was fifteen, but nae thought of evil ever entered my mind, ye ken that weel.”
“Aye, I ken that,” answered Gilbert quickly, “until ye went to Mauchline. And noo ye have come back a changed lad, your vows to Mary forgotten. If I thought ye would try to wrong her——” he stopped abruptly, for Robert had faced him, white and trembling, his eyes flashing indignantly.
“Stop, Gilbert!” he commanded, intensely calm. “Mary Campbell’s purity is as sacred to me as an angel’s in heaven. I would sooner cut my tongue out by the roots than to willingly say aught to cause her a moment’s misery or sorrow. Ye cruelly misjudge me, Gilbert.” He turned away, feeling hurt and angry that he should be so misunderstood by his brother, and yet was he misjudging him, was he not indeed causing her much sorrow? he asked himself bitterly.
Soon the whole guilty truth must be disclosed, his faithlessness, his unworthiness. If she suffered now, what would be her misery when she learned that an insurmountable barrier had arisen between them, cruelly separating them forever. The thought filled him with unspeakable anguish.
“Forgive me, Rob, for my hasty words,” said Gilbert remorsefully. “But ye ken Mary is very dear to—to us all; that is why I spoke so plainly.”
At that moment the door of the cottage opened and the object of their discussion stepped into view. The poor little moth could not help fluttering around the candle, and so she was to be found at Mossgiel whenever her duties would permit her to steal away.
“Oh, here ye are, lads,” she called out to them, her face brightening. “Will ye be comin’ in to tea noo?” They did not answer. “My, what long faces ye both have,” she continued, smiling. “This isna’ the Sabbath Day, so there’s no need of such sorrowful faces.”
“I didna’ ken ye were here,” answered Gilbert, going toward her.
Robert sat down by the well, the look of pain on his melancholy face deepening as he listened to her gentle voice. He closed his eyes wearily and leaned back against the curbing, the paper held loosely in his hand. It was so hard to realize that never again would he press that form to his aching heart, that he must renounce her utterly. Oh, if he could only die now, how much better it would be for them all, he weakly told himself.
“I’m going to stay here to tea wi’ ye this night,” said Mary wistfully. Why didn’t Robert speak to her just one word of greeting? she thought sadly. “Your mother bade me tell ye supper is waiting whenever ye are ready.” She took a few halting steps toward the well. “Are ye comin’ in, Robert?” she inquired timidly.
“In a wee,” he answered quietly, without looking at her. “After I have finished my poem.” Mary turned back, crushed to the heart by his apparent coldness.
“Weel, lads,” cried Mrs. Burns brightly, stepping out on the low, broad stoop followed by Souter, who held a cup of steaming tea in one hand and some oatcakes in the other, on which he nibbled with evident relish. “I heard your voices and couldna’ stay within,” and she beamed on them lovingly.
“Ye’re at it again, I see, Robert,” observed Souter tactlessly. Robert flushed angrily. He was easily irritated in his present state of mind. “Ye’ll write yoursel’ into the grave, mon; ye’re not lookin’ very peart the noo.”
Mrs. Burns regarded her eldest son with anxious eyes. “Aye, I fear, laddie, ye are too intent on your rhymin’,” she said solicitously. His abstracted moods, his melancholy moroseness had filled her loving heart with gloomy forebodings. “Sae much livin’ in the clouds, my son, is unhealthful, an’ does but make ye moody an’ uncertain in temper. Is it worth while to wreck body, mind an’ soul to gain a little fame an’ fortune, which, alas, seem so very far off?” she asked, putting her hand lovingly on his bowed head.
“Ye dinna’ understand, mither,” he replied sadly. “I love to write. ’Tis my very life; thought flows unbidden from my brain.” He rose to his feet and pointing to the stream, which could be faintly seen at the foot of the hill, continued with mournful finality, “Why, mother, I might as well try to stop the waters of yonder rushin’ brook as to attempt to smother the poetic fancies that cry for utterance. Nay, ’tis too late noo to dissuade me from my purpose,” and he turned and watched the setting sun slowly sink behind the distant hills in a flood of golden splendor.
Souter noticed with uneasiness the gloom which had settled upon them all as the result of his careless words. Why was he such a thoughtless fool? Ah, well, he would make them forget their troubles.
“Och, Mistress Burns,” he cried, smacking his lips with apparent relish, “’tis a mighty fine cup of tea, a perfectly grand cup. It fair cheers the heart of mon,” and he drained it to the bottom.
“An’ where do ye think the oatcakes were made, Souter?” asked Mary brightly.
“Weel, I’m no’ a good hand at guessin’,” he answered, thoughtfully scratching his head; “but by their taste an’ sweetness, I should say that Mistress Burns made them hersel’.”
The good dame regarded him witheringly. “I didna’ ken that oatcakes were sweet, Souter,” she retorted.
Mary laughed softly at his discomfiture. “Weel, they come frae my sister in Applecross.”
“Applecross!” he repeated, his face lighting up with pleasure. “Noo I mind they did have the Highland flavor, for true.”
“Aye, an’ ye finished the last one for that reason, no doubt,” replied Mrs. Burns wrathfully. “Ye’re a pig, mon. Come awa’, lads, your supper will be gettin’ cold,” and she led the way inside, followed meekly by Souter. Gilbert waited for Mary to enter, but she stood wistfully gazing at Robert. With a sigh he left them together, and Robert entered the cottage.
Mary slowly approached Robert as he stood looking across to the distant hills, and patiently waited for him to speak to her, but he stood there in tense silence, not daring to trust himself to even look at the pure flower-like face held up to his so pleadingly.
“Robbie,” she said timidly after a pause, which seemed interminable to them both, “willna’ ye let the sunlight enter your heart an’ be your old bonnie sel’ once mair? It will make us all sae happy.” She put her hand on his arm lovingly. “Why are ye sae changed, laddie? Dinna’ ye want me to love ye any mair?”
At the gentle touch of her fingers an uncontrollable wave of passionate love and longing came over him, sweeping away all resolutions resistlessly. “Oh, my Mary, my Mary,” he cried hoarsely. “I do want your love, I do want it noo an’ forever,” and he clasped her lovingly to his aching heart. Blissfully she lay in his strong arms while he showered her flushed and happy face with the hungry, fervent, loving kisses which he had denied himself so long, and murmured little caressing words of endearment which filled her soul with rapture and happiness. “How I love ye, Mary,” he breathed in her ear again and again as he held her close.
“An’ how happy ye make me once mair, laddie,” she answered, nestling against him lovingly.
“An’ how happy we will——,” he began, then stopped pale and trembling, for grim recollection had suddenly loomed up before him with all its train of bitter, ugly facts; and conscience began to drum insistently into his dulled ear. “Tell her the truth now, the whole truth,” it said. But the voice of the tempter whispered persuasively, saying, “Why tell her now? wait, let her be happy while she may, put it off as long as possible.”
“What is it, Robbie?” cried Mary fearfully. “Tell me what is troublin’ ye; dinna’ be afraid.” His bowed head bent lower and lower.
“Oh, Mary, I’m sae unworthy, sae unworthy of all your pure thoughts, your tender love,” he faltered despairingly, resolved to tell her all. “Ye dinna’ ken all my weakness, my deception, and into what depths of sin I have fallen.” She sought to interrupt him, but he continued rapidly, his voice harsh with the nervous tension, his face pallid from the stress of his emotions. “I have a confession to make ye——”
“Nay, nay, laddie,” cried Mary, putting her hand over his trembling lips. “Dinna’ tell me anything. I want nae confession from ye, except that o’ your love,” and she smoothed his cheek tenderly. “Ye ken that is music to my ears at all times, but if ye are deceivin’ me, if ye have na always been true to me, an’ your vows, why, laddie, keep the knowledge to yourself’. I am content noo, and ye ken happiness is such a fleetin’ thing that I mean to cling to it as long as I can.” She took his hands in both her own and held them close to her heart. “Ye ken, Robbie, ill news travels apace and ’twill reach my ears soon enough,” she continued with a mournful little quaver in her voice. “But no matter what comes, what ye may do, my love for ye will overlook it all; I will see only your virtues, my love, not your vices.”
Robert bowed his head in heart-broken silence. Grief, shame, and remorse like tongues of fiery flames were scorching and burning into his very soul. Quietly they sat there engrossed in their thoughts, till the voice of Mrs. Burns calling to them from the cottage to come to supper roused them from their lethargy.
“We’re comin’ right awa’,” answered Mary brightly. “Come, laddie, we mustna’ keep the folks waitin’.”
She took his listless hand and drew him gently to the door and into the cottage.
Silently they took their places at the table, around which the others were already seated.
“By the way,” said old blind Donald, the fiddler, who had dropped in on his way to Mauchline for a bite and a cup, “Poosie Nancy told me to tell ye, Mistress Burns, that she wa drop in to see ye this night.”
“We’ll be glad to see her,” replied Mrs. Burns hospitably.
“And Daddy Auld says he’ll be along, too,” continued Donald, grinning broadly. “That is, if he isna’ too busy convertin’ souls.”
“Convertin’ souls,” sneered Souter incredulously.
“Aye, ye should see the Jolly Beggars he was haranguin’. They were jumpin’, an’ rantin’, an’ singin’ like daft Methodists.”
“The auld hypocrites!” cried Mrs. Burns, buttering a scone which she placed in the old man’s tremulous hand. “They didna’ go to the manse for conversion; ’tis a square meal they are after. They ken the kind old heart o’ Daddy Auld.”
Souter leaned back in his chair and smiled reminiscently. “That reminds me o’ a guid story,” he began, chuckling.
“Never mind that story noo,” remonstrated Mrs. Burns, who was in constant dread of Souter’s risque stories. “That’ll keep.”
“I never can tell that damn story,” ejaculated Souter wrathfully.
CHAPTER X
They had finished their meager supper, and now sat comfortably around the fire, Mrs. Burns and Mary busy with their knitting, the men contentedly smoking, while old Donald discordantly tuned up his fiddle.
“Noo, Donald,” said Souter briskly, “play us something lively.”
“Aye, I’ll play ye the Highland Fling, Souter Johnny, an’ ye can dance. Come alang noo,” and he started to play vigorously, keeping time with his foot.
“Aye, get out on the floor, Souter,” said Gilbert, pulling him out of his chair.
“Nay, nay, lad,” expostulated Souter fretfully, “I be too old to fling the toe noo.”
“Go alang wi’ ye, mon,” retorted Mrs. Burns encouragingly; “a Scotsman, and a Highlander besides, is ne’er too old to——”
“To learn,” interrupted Gilbert brightly, swinging the old man to the middle of the floor. “Let her go.”
“I havena danced for years,” said Souter apologetically. Carefully knocking the ashes out of his pipe he deposited it in the pocket of his capacious waistcoat and proceeded to divest himself of his coat. “Ye ken I was the champion dancer of my clan, Clan McDougal, when I was a young lad,” he announced boastingly. “An’ mony a time I have cheered an’ amused the lads, while tentin’ on the fields of Culloden, before the big battle. An’ that reminds me o’ a guid——”
“Never mind the story,” said Gilbert impatiently. “Gie us a dance.”
After a few preliminary movements Souter caught the swinging measure of the dance, and once started he limbered up surprisingly. On he danced nimbly, and untiringly, soon ably proving to his delighted audience that he had not forgotten his old-time accomplishment. “I’ll show these Lowlanders what a Highlander can do,” thought the old man proudly. Panting with excitement and eagerness he failed to hear the metallic patter of horses’ hoofs drawing near the cottage. Nearer and nearer they came unheeded by all save one.
From his seat by the fireplace, where he sat in melancholy silence, Robert heard the sound, but gave it no heed. Suddenly it ceased. He raised his head to listen. Someone had surely stopped at the gate, he thought, straining his ears eagerly, but the noise of the fiddle and the dancing drowned all sound from without. He glanced quickly at the smiling faces of the others as they good-naturally watched the dancer. “I must hae been mistaken,” he muttered uneasily. Suddenly he leaned forward, grasping his chair hard; surely he had heard his name faintly called. He listened intently. Yes, there it was again; this time the voice was nearer. A woman’s voice, too. What could it mean? He rose to his feet, his heart thumping fiercely, his muscles alert and tense, his eyes fixed on the door, his mind filled with gloomy presentiment.
At that moment an imperative knock sounded loudly through the room, and almost at the same time the door flew open violently, and Jean Armour impetuously dashed in. Closing the door quickly behind her she leaned back against it, pale and exhausted. Her riding habit of green and gold was splashed and discolored with mud. The large hat with its gleaming white plume hung limply over her shoulder, while her black disheveled hair streamed over her face and down her back in bewildering confusion. She had evidently ridden fast and furious, for she stood there with her eyes closed, her hand on her heart, gasping for breath.
Quickly Mrs. Burns led the exhausted girl to a seat. In a few moments she raised her drooping head and with wild frightened eyes searched the room till her gaze fell on Robert, who was leaning white and speechless against the fireplace, a great fear in his heart.
She rose quickly and going to him said in a tense, rapid whisper, “Robert, my father knows all, but through no fault of mine. Some idle gossip reached his ear to-day, and when he returned home and learned my condition his rage was terrible. He cursed you like a madman, and would have done me bodily harm had I remained within sight. But I feared for my life, and fled before I had explained the truth to him. I have come to you to protect me.”
He listened to her in stony silence. The blow had fallen so suddenly, so unexpectedly, it found him totally unprepared to ward off its paralyzing effects. He tried to speak, but the words refused to leave his parched tongue. He felt benumbed and cold, all the blood in his body seeming to have suddenly congealed. As he stood there with the eyes of all riveted upon him he felt like the veriest criminal that walked the earth.
For a moment there was a tense silence. Jean stood there anxiously gazing into Robert’s stricken face, as he vainly strove to utter a sound. Mary had watched the little scene before her in growing wonder and alarm and now leaned back against the wall, her heart beating with some unknown, nameless fear. What did this highborn lady want with her laddie? she asked herself jealously.