A knock on the door interrupted his song.
“Weel, who is it?” he called impatiently.
“Open the door,” replied a female voice eagerly.
“A lassie,” exclaimed John in amazement. “Oh, Robbie, ye devil.” He swung open the door and stood back to allow the gorgeously dressed lady to enter the room. Her dress of rich purple brocaded silk, cut in the extreme of fashion, rustled stiffly over the polished floor. Her head with its powdered wig was held haughtily erect as she surveyed the room with sparkling black eyes that nervously took in her surroundings, through the tiny holes in the black mask which concealed her face.
“I—I thought—isn’t Mr. Burns at home?” she stammered uneasily.
“Weel, what may ye be wantin’ wi’ Mr. Burns?” asked John cautiously. He had been bothered to death with answering the questions of the silly women who flocked to the parlors of the inn in hopes of seeing their idol.
The lady turned on him sharply. “None of your business, my good man,” she retorted haughtily. “How dare you question me, sirrah?”
John was quite taken aback by the imperious tones, but he still had his suspicions. “Weel, I thought perhaps ye were one o’ the artless bonnie wenches who were here last night wi’ the lads makin’ merry till the wee sma’ hours. If ye are——” he paused significantly.
She flashed him an angry look. “Make your mind easy on that score, my good fellow,” she retorted icily. “I have called to interview Mr. Burns on an important matter. Is he at home?”
“Aye; he is in there asleep,” replied John, pointing to a door beside the large book cabinet, which nearly occupied one side of the room.
“Asleep!” she repeated incredulously. “Lud, he retires uncommon early for a gallant,” and there was a note of disappointment in her deep contralto voice.
“Early is it?” said John, with a knowing smile. “Faith, he hasna been up this day.”
“What?” she ejaculated in horror. “Not all day? Then you must awaken him immediately. I must have speech with him at once,” and she spread her voluminous draperies over the wide lounge and calmly seated herself. “Do you hear?” she cried impatiently, as John made no move.
“I hae excellent hearin’, mum,” replied John carelessly, “but I ken when I’m well off, an’ I hae nae desire to feel the toe o’ Robert’s boot.”
“A pest on your stubbornness, fool,” she cried angrily, springing to her feet.
“An’ I hae my doubts o’ a lass who comes to a mon’s lodgings at night,” continued John, resenting her impatience. “It’s na respectable.”
She looked him over insolently, then shrugged her shoulders. “I protest, landlord,” she replied, in a mocking tone, “I am quite respectable, even if I am here unchaperoned. But, Lud, I like not conventionalities, and this adventure suits my madcap spirit well.” She walked to the door of the sleeping chamber and was about to open it, when his voice arrested her.
“I ken it all the time,” he cried indignantly. “Ye’re a brazen hussy.”
“Landlord!” she gasped in astonishment.
“An’ ye can leave my inn,” continued John, now thoroughly aroused. “We are respectable, if ye are na.”
“Peace, fool!” she exclaimed furiously. “I am Lady Glen——” she stopped and bit her lips angrily at the indiscreet slip of her tongue. Suddenly a daring thought entered her mind. One glance at his face told her that he had not caught the name. To think was to act with my lady. Then she continued glibly, “I am Lady Nancy Gordon, daughter of the Duke of Gordon, of Gordon Castle. It will be all over town in a day,” she thought with malicious satisfaction.
John staggered back as though he had been shot. “Ye Lady Nancy?” he gasped in amazement. “Oh, my lady, I ask your pardon.”
“’Tis not easily granted, numskull,” replied the imperious beauty, her black eyes flashing dangerously. The sound of a carriage rolling over the cobble stones suddenly arrested her attention. For a moment she listened intently, then, with a startled exclamation, she turned to John and said in a frightened whisper, “’Fore heaven! if it should be my husband—my father, I mean, in pursuit of me.” She ran hastily to the window from where a view of the street could be obtained and threw open the casement.
“It would serve ye right, my lady,” said John to himself.
“Great heavens! ’tis my uncle, Sir William Creech!” she gasped. Then she said aloud, “Landlord, ’tis my father, as I feared! Oons! what a scrape I’m in.” She closed the shutter hastily.
“’Twill ruin your reputation to be found here at night, my lady,” cried John concernedly, trotting nervously to the window.
“O Lud,” she replied airily, “I’m not concerned over my reputation, ’tis already torn to ribbons by my dear friends. ’Tis my—my father’s wrath I fear. He is like to do some mischief.” An imperious knocking sounded on the door below.
“He has found ye, lassie,” cried old John excitedly. “Go down to him; dinna let him find ye here in Robbie’s chamber. Ye ken the blame will all fall on the lad,” and he sought to escort her to the door, but she evaded his outstretched hand with laughing unconcern.
“Nay, nay, my good fellow. I protest, I will not see him,” she exclaimed, with reckless abandon. She would keep up the impersonation till the end. Another such chance to blast her enemy’s reputation would not come to her in a lifetime, she thought wickedly. “Listen,” she cried impetuously. “My father, the Duke of Gordon, while he admires the poetry of Mr. Burns, does not admire the man himself, consequently he did not send him an invitation to attend the masked ball which is given at Gordon Castle to-night,” she explained glibly. “’Twas a monstrous insult to the Bard of Scotland, and I told my father so, and that I would not countenance it. Then I stole away, as I thought, unobserved, and came here to induce Mr. Burns to return with me. Once inside the castle my father will be forced to receive him graciously. Now, hurry, landlord, tell him to dress and we’ll slip out quietly, and, with your connivance, elude my—father’s vigilance.” She watched him narrowly to note the effect of her story.
“My lady,” replied John proudly, “the lad goes to Athol Castle to-night, so ye had better gang hame wi’ your father.” She gave a quick start of delighted satisfaction. So he was going after all. If she had only known that and felt sure of it, she might have spared herself this nerve-racking experiment, she thought impatiently.
The pounding had kept up incessantly, and now a stern, commanding voice called out for the landlord.
“He’s calling me,” said John nervously; “ye’d better go doon an’ explain a’ to him,” he told her pleadingly.
“Landlord, where the devil are you?” They could hear the heavy tread of feet walking about the rooms below.
“He’s inside the house,” whispered John, wringing his hands.
“O Lud, he seems most angry, doesn’t he?” she said in a subdued voice. She had suddenly grown tired of the deception, and was eager now to get away. “I—I think perhaps ’twould be best if he—er—my father didn’t find me here after all,” she admitted. “I—I really dare not face his anger.” She jumped up quickly, all her bravado vanished. “Get me out of this place, landlord, quick, quick!” she gasped, clinging to him. Oh, why had she come? Sir William would make such a disagreeable scene if he found her here.
“Into that room wi’ ye!” cried John quickly, pointing to a small door in the opposite side of the room; “an’ I’ll get your father out o’ the house.”
“Why couldn’t the old fossil have stayed at home?” she said to herself angrily. “This promised to be such a romantic adventure, landlord,” she said aloud, poutingly. “And now ’tis all spoiled. Plague take it. Hurry, landlord, and get my—father away, for I must return to the ball before my absence is noticed.” She went into the room, her heart filled with apprehension, and closed the door, which John promptly locked.
“Thank the Lord,” he muttered with a sigh of relief. “I breathe easier.” Going to the door leading to the hall, he listened for a moment. From below came the sound of clinking glasses. He closed the door quickly. The coast was clear now. His guidwife was waiting on the customer. He hurried across the room and was about to release his prisoner, when he heard the door of Robert’s chamber open. He turned quickly and found his lodger yawning in the doorway.
“Well, John Anderson, my Jo John,” said he lazily, “what’s all the row here, eh?”
John looked up guiltily. “Are ye up, laddie?” he stammered.
“Nay, John, I’m walkin’ round in my bed,” retorted Robert dryly. “Dinna ye think it’s time for me to be up?” he asked. “What’s the matter, mon? stand still, ye make me dizzy.”
John was uneasily walking up and down, casting surreptitious glances at the door of the room which held the fair captive. “Oh, Johnny, my Jo John,” laughed Robert as he caught sight of the old man’s lugubrious countenance, “ye’ve been drinkin’ too much Usqubaugh.”
“Too much what, Robbie?” he asked nervously.
“Usqubaugh. Dinna ken what that is? It’s whisky, whisky, whisky.”
“Oh, I ken, laddie,” replied John, smiling grimly. “Ye needna’ repeat it; one whisky is enough.”
“Not for me,” laughed Robert, slapping him on the shoulder. “Ye dinna ken my capacity.” The noise of a chair overturning in the next room arrested his attention.
“What’s that?” he asked quickly.
“It’s n—nothing,” stammered John.
“There’s somebody in that room,” exclaimed Rob, putting his ear to the crack in the door. “I hear her walking around.”
“Nay, nay, Rob, it’s nobody,” protested John, pushing him away.
“Oh, oh, John Anderson, my Jo John!” cried Rob, pointing an accusing finger at the flushed, embarrassed face of the old man, “I’m on to ye.”
“For shame, Robbie, an’ me wi’ an old wife below stairs,” he answered indignantly.
“Faith, I’ll just find out who it is,” chuckled Rob, going toward the door.
“Nay, nay, lad!” remonstrated John, holding him back. “Wait, I’ll tell ye who it is.”
“Ah, I knew it,” ejaculated Rob triumphantly. “Who is it?”
“It’s—it’s the Bailie,” faltered John.
“The Bailie? what’s he doing in there?”
“Weel, he—he came to arrest ye for debt,” glibly lied the old man. “So I told him to wait in there till ye came hame, an’ noo he’s my prisoner; that’s a’, Robbie.”
Rob grasped his hand gratefully. “Ye’re a true friend, John Anderson. Let me see, how much do I owe him?”
John backed quickly away from him. “Nay, nay, laddie!” he said decidedly. “I havena anither penny.”
“Neither have I,” laughed Rob ruefully. “So I’ll leave ye to get him out the best way ye can; he’s your prisoner, not mine. I’d like to pitch him down stairs. Come on, John, between us we ought to manage the old Shylock.”
“Nay, nay, Robbie,” he retorted dryly. “Take my word for it, we’d hae our hands full.”
“Weel, I’ll get into the rest of my clothes, for I’m due in society,” yawned Rob, going to his room. “Get rid of him, John; do what ye like with him; he’s no friend of mine,” and he went in and closed the door behind him.
John softly followed him to the door and turned the key in the lock. “I’ll take nae chances,” he said grimly.
“Good-evening,” said a sweet voice timidly. He turned around and with a gasp of astonishment beheld a young girl standing in the doorway. Suddenly he gave a great start. Could his eyes deceive him? Was that beautiful creature in the long white opera cloak, her golden locks piled in a gorgeous mass high upon her little head, really the barefooted lass he had seen only a few days ago, in her short skirt of plaid?
“Mary Campbell, is it yoursel’, lass?” he finally gasped.
“Aye, ’tis really me,” laughed Mary happily. “I’m goin’ to the ball at Athol Castle with Mrs. Dunlop. I wanted Robbie to see me in my gown before I went, so Mrs. Dunlop left me here, while she drove over to pick up Mrs. McLehose; then she’ll return for me. Where is Robbie, John?”
“He’s in there dressing, Mary, but whist, I’ve something to tell ye first.”
“About Robbie?” she asked anxiously.
“Aye, there’s the devil to pay here, Mary.” The old man’s face looked gloomy and perturbed. “There’s a—a lady in that room.”
“A—a lady!” gasped Mary in amazement, looking at the door of Robbie’s chamber.
“Aye, Lady Nancy Gordon hersel’.”
“Then it’s true,” cried Mary, sinking into a chair, a great fear tugging at her heart. “It’s true, then, all the stories I hear, that Robert is be—bewitched wi’ her. I wouldna’ believe it before. Mrs. Dunlop says it isna’ true, that Robbie hasna’ changed, but noo what can I think? Oh, laddie, oh, laddie!” and she sank back pale and trembling.
“There, lassie, Robert doesna’ care a penny for that lass,” he said tenderly. “She is only a heartless coquette, o’er fond of adventure,” and he laid his wrinkled hand caressingly on the golden head. “Noo look here, Mary, ye mustna’ expect Robert to be an angel all the time. He thinks only of ye, and he loves ye just as fondly, e’en if he does smile and make love to the ladies who throw themsel’s at his feet. He would lose his popularity, ye ken. ’Tis only an amusin’ pastime, lassie, an’ but gives him inspiration for his poetry, so dinna’ take it to heart. Ye ken Rob is highly sensitive, a most temperamental lad, who is very susceptible to the charms of the fair sex, but whist, Mary, he isn’t marrying any of them. There is only one lassie who will be his wife noo, and she’s nae far away from me this moment.” And he nodded his head sagely.
“Why dinna’ they leave him alone?” sighed Mary disconsolately. “’Tis very unmaidenly in them to seek for his favor so openly.”
“Noo, lassie,” said John seriously, “we maun get Lady Nancy out o’ this scrape, for the house is watched noo by her father, who suspects her presence here.”
He walked up and down the room for a few moments plunged in deep thought. All at once his face brightened.
“I have thought o’ a scheme, lassie,” he said suddenly. “Let Lady Nancy take this long cloak of yours; ’twill cover her o’er entirely; then she can walk boldly out past her father; he will think ’tis ye, Mary, and will na’ stop her. Ye’re both of a height,” and he regarded her with anxious eyes.
“Why should I help her?” said Mary, her heart still heavy and sore.
“For Robbie’s sake,” pleaded John. “Her father will blame the lad for it all; perhaps he will shoot him, and he an innocent man. Why, lassie, he doesna’ even ken the lass is in the house.”
“Doesna’ ken it?” repeated Mary, smiling incredulously. “Why, John, Robert isna’ blind. If she is in his room——”
“But she isna’ in his room, Mary,” interrupted John. “She’s in there, scared to death,” and he pointed to the door opposite.
“Oh!” comprehended Mary with a sigh of relief. “That’s different. I’ll help her noo, John,” and she jumped eagerly to her feet, her face flushed and earnest.
“That’s the girlie,” replied John heartily. Going to the door, he opened it and whispered to Lady Nancy to come out.
“Lud, I thought you were never coming,” she flashed as she hastily entered the room. She stopped short upon seeing Mary.
“This lady will help ye get away,” said John, looking angrily at the bogus Lady Nancy.
“Mary quickly divested herself of her mantle and threw it about the bare shoulders of the disdainful lady.”
“Where have I seen that face before?” Lady Glencairn asked herself nervously, looking closely into Mary’s flushed, innocent face, that reminded her so guiltily of Lady Nancy Gordon herself.
Mary quickly divested herself of her mantle and threw it about the bare shoulders of the disdainful lady, who hastily drew the large hood over her elaborate court wig, entirely concealing it within its voluminous folds.
With a quick careless word of thanks to Mary, she walked to the door, and calling to John, who was quietly turning the key in Robert’s door, to show her the way out, she swiftly left the room, and with wildly beating heart, passed her uncle at the outer door, and mingled her presence with the stream of gallant courtiers and laughing, gayly-dressed ladies that wended its boisterous way along the crowded thoroughfare.
CHAPTER XIV
When Mary found herself alone she sat down pensively in the big leather chair, feeling very sad and thoughtful. Of course she trusted Robert absolutely, but how could he really love such an ignorant little country girl like herself, when there were so many grand, rich, beautiful ladies surrounding him all the time and suing for his favors, even seeking him out in his own rooms? But her face brightened as she thought of what John had told her. “It isna’ his fault if the women lose their hearts over him,” he had said, and in her heart she felt she could not blame anyone for loving Robbie. She rose and softly approached his door. Then she paused. No, she would wait till he came and found her himself. But she did wish he would hurry and finish dressing before Mrs. Dunlop came back. She strolled aimlessly about the room looking with listless eyes at the collections of souvenirs and bric-a-brac which filled the mantels and covered the tables. She noted with wonder the profusion of ladies’ gloves, ’kerchief, scarfs, a slipper or two and a motley collection of other articles littering the table. She picked up a beautiful pink mask and idly turned it over; on the back she read, “Dropped by Lady Nancy at the Charity Ball given in honor of the Prince of Wales.” She put it down, her lips trembling. He must prize it very highly, she thought with a pang of jealousy; but as she read the various inscriptions on the back of a number of the others, she smiled and told herself what a silly she was. Of course he couldn’t be in love with all the owners of those many favors. She picked up the mask again and held it before her eyes. How funny to cover one’s face in such a manner, she thought. She fastened the elastic behind her ear, and with a woman’s curiosity wondered how she looked in it. She quickly spied the large cheval mirror in the cabinet. “How funny I do look,” she said to herself with a little amused laugh, as she caught sight of her reflection. “Nobody would ever know me.” As she drew closer to the mirror in pleased wonder her dancing eyes slowly wandered from the top of the glittering coil of her golden hair, dwelt for an instant in blushing modesty on the gleaming, bare shoulders, and rested in loving, blissful content on her simple trailing robe of ivory-tinted embroidered silk. She looked angelically lovely as she stood there innocently admiring her winsome reflection.
“Is that really the Highland Mary who used to wander barefooted through the glens and vales, the simple dairymaid who made butter for Colonel Montgomery?” she asked herself dreamily. “Am I awake, I wonder? How Souter Johnny would open his eyes if he could only see me noo in this beautiful gown, carrying a fan an’ wi’ my hair done up high.” She laughed gleefully but softly at the thought. “Wouldna’ they be proud to see me such a grand lady.” She walked stiffly across the room with all the dignity she could command, her chin held high and taking quick little pleased glances over her shoulder at her reflection. It was Mary’s first long gown, and it was not to be wondered at, when in turning quickly around a chair she easily became entangled in her train, and with a little frightened gasp she suddenly found herself on her knees endeavoring to extricate her feet from the clinging mass of silk and linen in which they were enmeshed. Finally she succeeded in regaining her feet, but not until she had with extreme care seated herself did she breathe a sigh of relief. She eyed her train ruefully. “If I should fall doon before all the great people at the ball, I should be so ashamed,” she said, sighing dismally. “They would all laugh at me. But Robert says I am nicer than anyone in all the world.” She reveled in that thought an instant, then her face lengthened. “But I ken there is a difference, a great difference; I am only a simple country lass without any learnin’ whatever, while Lady Nancy is——” she rose suddenly as a thought occurred to her, her hands clasped tightly together. “Suppose he should grow ashamed of his ignorant little country wife,” she whispered with trembling lips; “it would break my heart in twain.”
She held out her hands passionately toward her unseen lover. “Ye willna’ ever regret makin’ me your wife, will ye dear?” she whispered imploringly. “Ye willna’ be sorry in years to come.” Quickly her loving, trustful faith reasserted itself. “Nay, nay, my heart tells me ye willna’, so I’ll be foolish nae more. I’ll tell him what a silly lass I’ve been an’ how he’ll laugh at my doubting fears.” She took a step toward his door, when it opened and Robert came quickly into the room, dressed for the ball, looking very handsome in his plain and unpretending dress of blue homespun, for he still retained the same simplicity of manner and appearance that he brought with him from the country. He stopped in amazement as he came face to face with his unexpected visitor.
Mary with a thrill of joy at the sight of her lover waited eagerly for the words of praise which she knew her appearance would elicit, and for which she hungered, but as he stood looking at her so calmly, so coldly, her joy turned to wonder and fear. What was the matter? Didn’t she please him? With a little gasp she put her hand nervously to her face. As it came in contact with the mask, which she had forgotten to remove, her heart gave a quick bound of relief. Of course! He didn’t know her. “He doesna’ ken who I am at all,” she thought gleefully.
As his eyes rested upon the pink mask, Robert gave a sudden start, then glanced quickly at the table. No, it wasn’t there. So then this was Lady Nancy herself. He recognized her hair, her figure, and above all the mask. “So my haughty lady thinks it safer to play wi’ fire incognito, eh?” he thought grimly. “Weel, I’ll teach ye a lesson, my fine lady; ye need one badly.” Then aloud, “I’m indeed honored, madam, by your presence here to-night,” he said, bowing low before her.
Mary courtesied deeply. Oh, it was so exciting to be talking with her Robbie, and how surprised he would be when she unmasked.
“Haven’t ye a word to say to me, fair lady?” continued Robert softly, as she stood silently before him.
“He’ll sure ken my voice,” she thought in trepidation; “if I could only talk like a lady.” She wondered if she could imitate the haughty tones of Lady Nancy Gordon herself. She’d try. She seated herself languidly. “Then you don’t recognize me?” she asked, disguising her lyric voice, as near as possible, in the lazy drawl of Lady Glencairn’s voice.
He started and looked at her intently. It didn’t sound like Lady Nancy at all, but who else could she be? he thought blankly. “Your voice sounds like—but nae, I maun be mistaken,” he said doubtfully. “Nay, madam, I do not recognize you. Will you not remove——”
“What, my face?” laughed Mary. She had marvelously lost all trace of her country intonation. “Oh, nay, sir! I’m too much attached to it.”
“Well ye might be, fair lady!” replied Robert, “but why do ye hide your beauty so jealously?” He reached out his hand to lift the mask from her face, but, with a rippling laugh, she eluded him, and from behind the high-backed settle made reply.
“Be not impatient, Mr. Burns,” she said saucily; “you shall see my face in good time, I warrant ye!” It must be Lady Nancy after all, he told himself.
“’Tis a promise of paradise, madam!” he cried fervently, entering into the spirit of adventure.
Mary looked at him reproachfully. Did he think she was really Lady Gordon? she wondered. The thought gave her pause. Well, she would find out how much he really cared for her, how much truth there was in the gossip she had heard. “Rumor sayeth, Mr. Burns, that ye are in love with the beautiful Lady Nancy Gordon; is that so?” she asked, fanning herself languorously.
He smiled quizzically into her face. “Rumor hath many tongues, fair lady, and most of them lying ones. The lady doesna’ suit my taste; even her money couldna’ tempt me, an’ I need the money badly. That will take her conceit down a peg I’ll warrant,” he thought grimly.
“But she is very beautiful, I hear,” said Mary, filled with delight at his answer.
“That I grant ye. Mistress Nancy is most adept in the use of the hare’s foot an’ of the paint box. I’ll wager she can teach even our incomparable actress, Mrs. Siddons, a few tricks in the art of makeup. Oh, but ye should see the lady in the early morning. ’Fore heaven, she resembles damaged goods!” Now would come the explosion of wounded pride and outraged dignity, he thought calmly, but his amazement was unbounded when the seeming Lady Nancy jumped up and down, ecstatically clapping her hands in a very undignified manner. “Ye seem o’er pleased at my remark,” he exclaimed with a puzzled frown.
“I am, I am pleased!” she cried joyfully.
“What?” he stammered taken aback—“why, I—I thought ye were——” He stopped, flushed and embarrassed.
“Were Lady Nancy Gordon!” she finished. “O Lud, if I were, I wouldn’t feel complimented at all the flattering things I’ve heard!” and she went off in a peal of merry laughter.
“Who are ye then, who comes to my chamber at night?” he asked curtly, chagrined at his mistake. She shook her head and laughed softly.
“Ye shall know in good time,” she replied coquettishly. “I—I must make certain that ye dinna’ love—me.” She smiled, but her heart was beating wildly.
“I love only one maiden, an’ I make her my wife within a week,” he answered with dignity.
“An’ ye’ve no regrets for Lady Nancy, nor for Mrs. McLehose, nor—nor any o’ the grand ladies ye’ll be givin’ up to marry the little country maiden?” she asked softly, forgetting in her eagerness her lapse into her natural speech.
“None, my lady,” he replied firmly. “Noo, lets call a truce to this masquerade! I am at a loss to understand your errand here to-night, but do not press ye for an explanation, and as I am due at the Duke of Athol’s, I must bid ye good-night.” He bowed coldly, and started to leave her.
But with a cry of joy, which thrilled him to the heart, she drew near to him with outstretched arms. “Robbie, lad, canna’ ye guess who I am?” she cried. “I’m nae a grand lady at all, I’m only your Highland Mary.” With a quick movement, she tore off the mask from her flushed and radiant face and threw it far from her.
“Mary, is it ye?” he gasped, almost speechless with surprise. He could scarcely believe his senses. This radiantly beautiful lady his Highland Mary? was such a metamorphosis possible?
She made him a little courtesy. “Aye, ’tis Mary!” she answered, her heart beating fast with pleasure. Quickly she told him how she had come, why she had come, and how long she had waited, just to hear his words of approval. “Do I please ye, laddie?” she asked shyly.
For a moment he could not speak. Her wonderful perfection of beauty startled him. He drew her closely into his arms, kissing her with almost pathetic tenderness. “Mary, my love, my sweet lass!” and his voice trembled. “Pleased! Good Heavens, what little words those are to express my feelings. I can tell ye how you look, for nothing can ever make ye vain! Ye’re the most beautiful lassie I’ve ever seen! Ah, but I’m proud of ye this night. Ye’re fit to wear a coronet, Mary lass! I ken there will not be a grand lady at the ball to-night who will look half sae bonnie, nor hae such sweet, dainty manners, as my country sweetheart.” He held her off at arm’s length and glanced with affectionate adoration, from the fair, golden-crowned head down to the point of the small pearl-embroidered slipper that peeped beneath the edge of the rich, sheeny white robe.
“It seems so strange to be here in Edinburgh, decked out in all this finery,” she murmured dreamily, “and on my way to a real ball. Is it really me?”
“Aye, ’tis ye, Mary, I’ll swear to that!” he cried heartily, kissing the sweet, ingenuous face raised to his so wistfully. She blushed with pleasure, and bashfully turned her head away. “Ye dinna’ think I look awkward, do ye laddie?” she inquired in a low, timid voice.
“Nay, ye’re grace itself, sweetheart!” he replied reassuringly, raising her chin till her drooping eyes met his.
“An’ ye wouldna ken I was only a dairymaid if it werena for my speech, would ye?” she interrogated, with pathetic hopefulness. Her concerned, anxious little face and wistful manner touched him deeply.
“I wouldna have ye changed for all the world, Mary!” he told her tenderly, pressing his lips to the one little curl which hung unconfined over her snowy shoulder. “Be your own pure, sweet self always, for ye’re the fairest of all God’s creatures to me noo.”
She gave a deep sigh of absolute content, and leaned against him silently for a moment. Then she looked up at him brightly. “This fine dress makes me quite a grand lady, doesna’ it?” she prattled innocently.
“Aye! every inch a queen!” and he made her a deep bow.
“But it isna mine, Robbie,” she whispered confidentially. “I borrowed it for the night only, like Cinderella in the fairy book, to make my début into fashionable society,” and she laughed gleefully, like a little child telling a wonderful secret. “It’s Mrs. Dunlop’s wedding gown, Robbie; isna it just sweet?” She passed her hand gently over the folds of the silk and there was awe and reverence in the touch. “Oh, how I love to smooth it, ’tis so soft an’ rich an’ glossy; it isna’ wrong to love the beautiful things, is it, laddie?” she asked earnestly.
“Nay,” replied Robert, smiling tenderly at her naïveté. “Love the pretty things all ye like, dearie, for hereafter ye shall have the finest gowns in town. Ye shall select whatsoever your fancy pleases—dresses, bonnets, mits, boots,” and he enumerated on his fingers all the articles he could remember so dear to a woman’s heart.
“Shall I really, really?” she gasped as he finished, looking at him with wondering eyes. “I hae never bought a pretty thing in a’ my life, ye ken, an’ oh, won’t it be just sweet? We’ll go to the shops to-morrow, an’ Mrs. Dunlop will help me select my—my wedding gown.” She held her head away bashfully, blushing pink before the sudden fire that gleamed in the dark eyes bent on her so devotedly.
“Your wedding gown?” he repeated, with dreamy softness. “Let it be silk, Mary, white, soft and shimmering, to float around ye like a cloud of sunshine. An’ ye must have a bridal veil too, lassie, one sae fine an’ transparent that it will cover ye o’er like the morning mist.”
“I would be afraid to buy so much,” she replied gravely. “’Twould be too costly, an’ ye canna’ afford to waste sae much money to deck me out like a lady,” and she shook her head in firm disapproval.
He laughed heartily at her sober face and air of housewifely prudence. “My dear,” he whimsically told her, “dinna’ ye mind the cost. A weddin’ doesna’ often happen in one’s lifetime, sae we’ll make it a grand one this time.”
“Ye’ll spoil me, Robbie,” she answered, smiling happily.
“Nay, ye’re too sweet and lovely to be spoiled.”
“Well, ye ken,” she replied demurely, “sweet things spoil the quickest.”
Before he could reply, the rattle of a carriage over the pavement sounded loudly through the room. As it stopped at the door, Mary gave a little sigh of regret. “It’s Mrs. Dunlop, returning for me at last,” she said. She secretly hoped the sharp old eyes would not miss the cloak.
“Aye, like the good fairy godmother,” smiled Robert, as he led her out of the room and down the stairs.
“I feel as if I were in a dream,” she murmured softly, picking up her train, and lovingly holding it over her arm, as she walked daintily across the sidewalk to the waiting carriage. “If I am, laddie,” she continued earnestly, “I hope I may never awake from it; I want to dream on forever.”
CHAPTER XV
When Lady Glencairn, after her arrival at the Duke of Athol’s, found that Robert had not come—indeed she and Lord Glencairn and Sir William Creech, her uncle, had been the first to arrive—she decided recklessly to visit him at his chambers, so she had easily stolen away unnoticed by all save one, on her indiscreet journey. Sir William had seen her as she slipped guiltily out through the conservatory window and had followed her with growing suspicions to the door of Robert’s chamber, where he waited in impotent wrath for her to reappear, after having questioned the guidwife within the inn. And he was not deceived when she came out, wrapped in the disguising cloak and mask. He followed her like a grim servitor till she reached the castle, and as she was noiselessly reëntering by the conservatory window, he called to her to wait. With a startled gasp she turned, and as her eyes rested on her uncle’s accusing face, she gave a little laugh, half scornful, half defiant, and leisurely throwing off her cloak and mask, stood waiting for him to speak.
“Ye foolish woman!” he told her angrily. “How could ye be so imprudent, reckless mad, as to visit a man’s chamber at night?”
“Don’t preach to me, uncle,” she answered sullenly. “No one knows of my being there, not even Mr. Burns himself.”
“But what were ye thinkin’ of to do such a reprehensible act?” he demanded sternly. She turned on him suddenly.
“Because I love him!” she exclaimed passionately, casting prudence to the winds. “I went there to tell him of my love, to give myself to him, to beg him to take me away from here, to take me anywhere, only to let me be near him, to stay with him. But I was forced to come away without seeing him, thanks to you.”
For a moment he regarded the reckless woman in silence, amazement, shame, and anger struggling for the mastery.
“Alice, of what are you thinking?” he ejaculated finally, catching her roughly by the arm. “You must control yourself. I speak for your own good. Think no more of this idle poet, for only shame, ruin and unhappiness can come to ye and your husband, unless ye give up this unholy passion.”
She laughed scornfully. “My husband!” she cried bitterly. “Don’t remind me of that fossil! You, and the rest of my family, are to blame for my being fettered, tied to a man I do not love. If it were not for that, I could find the happiness I crave.”
“Sh! be calm!” he continued, looking anxiously around. “You may be overheard. Foolish woman! do you forget that Robert Burns, as well as yourself, is married.”
“He is not!” she flashed impetuously. “That was no legal tie. Some foolish chit of a country lass flung herself at him, with the usual result. Any man would have done as he did, but unlike most men, he, out of pity and from a high sense of honor, married her; but it was an irregular marriage, which was speedily annulled by the girl’s father. He is free now, free as ever he was. The girl has given him up, poor fool. I only am the shackled one, a prisoner for life, unless——” An eager light flashed in her deepened eyes.
“Unless Robert Burns elopes with ye!” he finished sarcastically. “I warn ye, Alice, not to play with edged tools;’tis o’er dangerous. Be more careful or others will suspect what I already know.” She smiled disdainfully and shrugged her shapely shoulders.
“Do not force me to open your husband’s eyes!” he retorted, angered by her irritating indifference. She looked at him, her heart filled with sudden fury. How she would like to hit him in the face with her fan, how she hated him and his interference, his unwelcome advice. “Already,” he continued irritably, “you have given that scandalmonger, Eppy McKay, cause to suspect your too warm and ardent affection for Mr. Burns, by openly showing jealousy of Lady Nancy Gordon.”
“I jealous of Nancy Gordon?” she repeated, with airy scorn, walking toward the door of the conservatory. “Huh, not I, uncle; I am not so unconscious of my own charms,” and she drew her magnificent figure up to its full height, then smiled insolently into his perturbed and nervous face. “I thank you for all your advice,” she murmured sweetly as they traversed the long hall, “but remember, hereafter, that I mean to steer my own canoe, whether it leads me into safe waters or through the rapids.” And with a radiant smile upon her sensuous lips she entered the drawing-room, leaning affectionately upon the arm of her outraged but speechless relative. Quietly she took her place by her waiting husband’s side, her dark eyes full of a bewitching and dangerous softness, for her thoughts were on the one guest whose very name had the power to move her so completely.
Never had she appeared so dazzlingly beautiful, as she stood there meeting her friends and acquaintances with a deep ceremonious courtesy for the distinguished ones, a smile and a nod for her intimates, and an air of high-bred insolence and extreme self-satisfaction pervading her whole appearance.
No one was ever bored at the Duchess of Athol’s brilliant “at homes.” One always felt sure of meeting at least three or four justly celebrated personages under her hospitable roof. And to-night society was a-gog, for it was to welcome the farmer-poet, Robert Burns, who had returned from his triumphant tour through the Highlands. Soon the capacious drawing-rooms were crowded. There was the rustle of silk and satin, rare and delicate perfumes shaken out of lace kerchiefs, while the heavy scent of the many bouquets oppressed the warm air to the point of suffocation. There was an interminably monotonous murmur of voices, only broken at rare intervals by a ripple of mild laughter. Over by the large windows that overlooked the terrace stood a group of people gazing earnestly out beyond the gardens at some object, which had arrested their attention, with various degrees of interest.
“Whatever is happening below on Princes Street?” suddenly inquired one of the ladies, nervously clutching the arm of the man nearest her. Eppy McKay was an eccentric maiden lady of questionable age and taste. Of more than ordinary height naturally, she looked a giantess in her powdered wig, which towered fully a foot in the air, and which was decorated profusely with waving plumes, rosettes and jewels. Her lowcut gown of crimson satin, over a petticoat of quilted green silk, was cut extremely low, revealing a vision of skin and bones, powdered to a ghastly whiteness. Her affectations, her simperings, and her poses accorded society much amusement, of which fact she was blissfully unconscious.
“There is a crowd gathered around a carriage, but farther than that I cannot make out,” replied Mr. Mackenzie, the famous author and publisher.
A prolonged shout from below increased the restlessness of the timid Eppy. “Oh, dear!” she gasped. “If it should be an uprising of the Jacobites,” and she looked fearfully into the amused faces of her companions.
With a disgusted grunt, Sir William Creech shook his arm free from her clawlike clutch. “Nonsense, woman, ye’re daft!” he answered impatiently.
“Well, upon my word!” she murmured in injured surprise.
“The mob is increasing—’tis coming nearer!” exclaimed Mr. Mackenzie, stepping out upon the wide balcony.
“So it is,” affirmed Eppy, retreating behind the heavy curtains. “Lady Glencairn!” she called as her ladyship approached the window. “Listen to those murmurs! Oh, dear! it makes me so nervous.”
Lady Glencairn stepped out upon the balcony, followed by the timid Eppy, and stood contemplating the scene in the brightly lighted street below them.
“It sounds not ominous,” she said quietly, after a moment. “Lud, what a throng! They have unhitched the horses from a carriage, and are themselves drawing it hither.”
“Who is in the carriage, can you see?” eagerly asked Eppy, straining her eyes.
“A gentleman, who is evidently addressing the people,” answered Lady Glencairn slowly. She gazed intently at the figure silhouetted against the light of the street lamps. Surely she knew that form. At that moment he turned, and with a flush of surprise, a thrill of joy, she suddenly recognized him.
“Upon my life,’tis Robert, Robert Burns!” she cried excitedly.
“Aye, I recognize him now,” said Mr. Mackenzie.
“And you say they are drawing him hither?” inquired Sir William incredulously, turning to his niece.
“Aye, and why not?” she replied brightly, turning to the others. “They should carry him on their shoulders, for he deserves all homage.”
“And ’tis said the Scots are not demonstrative,” ejaculated Mr. Mackenzie, as another burst of applause and cheers, followed by laughter, reached their ears.
“You hear how demonstrative they can be when occasion demands enthusiasm,” replied Lady Glencairn stanchly, “when genius knocks at the door of their hearts. See how Edinburgh has utterly lost control of its conservative old self, and all over the poetic genius of Robert Burns.”
“True, he has indeed stirred the hardest-hearted Scot by his fascinating poetry,” mused Mr. Mackenzie admiringly.
“How I shall love him,” sighed Eppy dreamily. “In sooth I do now,” and she simpered and dropped her eyes like a love-sick school girl.
“And she has never met the man yet!” cried Sir William in amazement. “The woman’s daft,” he muttered, turning away.
“I do wish he would come,” sighed Eppy. “I want to tell him how much I admire him and his poetry. Oh, I have the dearest little speech, that Sibella, my sister, composed, all prepared to say when I am presented to him.” She rolled her eyes up ecstatically.
“I shall also recite one of his odes to him,” she continued, in the tone of one who is about to confer a great favor. “I know ’twill please him greatly,” and she fanned herself languidly.
“What have you selected?” inquired Lady Glencairn, laughing openly. The woman’s vanity amused her.
“Such a sweet conceit,” simpered Eppy.
“Is it ‘Tam O’Shanter’s Tale’?” inquired Mr. Mackenzie, interestedly.
“No, oh, no!” she replied, shaking her head. “’Tis monstrous long to recite.”
“An ode to a calf,” said Sir William grimly, “would be more appropriate.”
“Perhaps ’tis the tale of ‘The Twa Dogs,’” hazarded Lady Glencairn. Eppy laughed gleefully and shook her head.
“Tell us the name, madam; we’re no children!” roared Sir William, glaring at her like an angry bull.
“You’re so gruff,” pouted Eppy reproachfully. “Do you all give it up?” They nodded. “Well, then, don’t be shocked,” and she shook her finger at them coquettishly; then leaning forward she whispered loudly, “’Tis entitled ‘To a Louse.’”
“Heaven, preserve us!” ejaculated Mr. Mackenzie, laughing heartily.
“She’s touched here!” cried Sir William commiseratingly, putting his finger to his head.
“Why did you choose that?” gasped Lady Glencairn, in amazement.
“Because ’tis a beautiful conceit,” answered Eppy soulfully. “I protest, I mean to recite it.”
“I vow ’tis a most singular selection.”
“I don’t see why,” snapped Eppy spitefully. “’Twas written round a fact.”
“Really, I hadn’t heard of that,” answered her ladyship, coolly turning away.
“I wonder at that,” cooed Eppy innocently, although a little malicious twinkle appeared in her eyes. “You of all people should know everything pertaining to Mr. Burns and his verses.” Lady Glencairn stiffened suddenly, and cast a quick look at the stern face of her uncle.
“What do you mean by that?” inquired Sir William aggressively, turning to Eppy.
“Oh, nothing, nothing!” she hastily replied, frightened by what she had said.
“Everything concerning Mr. Burns, my husband’s protégé, and my friend, my dear friend, I may call him, does interest me mightily, Miss McKay. Pray tell me the story connected with the poem, if you care to!” and Lady Glencairn turned her glittering eyes, which were narrowed dangerously, upon the face of the crestfallen Eppy.
Sir William gave a snort of anger. “Ye couldn’t stop her; she is dying to tell all she knows!” he said crustily.
Eppy cleared her throat vigorously. “Well, it was this way,” she began confidentially. “Mr. Burns was sitting behind a lady in Kirk, one Sabbath, who had on a new bonnet, of which she seemed most proud. As he was admiring its beauty, his keen eyes detected this horrid little animal crawling over the gauze and lace.”
“How fascinating,” murmured Mr. Mackenzie in mocking rapture.
“And it immediately inspired his pen to write the verses which have made such a sensation in town,” concluded Eppy, looking eagerly at her listeners for some look or word of approval.
“What a—a creepy story,” said Lady Glencairn, with a little shiver of repulsion.
She turned to her quickly. “’Tis said, my dear, and I ask you not to repeat it, for I promised not to tell, that the lady in question was Agnes McLehose, the beautiful grass widow, who is such an ardent admirer of Mr. Burns, you know.”
“Really!” murmured Lady Glencairn coldly.
“And the airs she put on!” cried Eppy, with lofty indignation. “Why, do you know——”
But Lady Glencairn interrupted her sharply. “I do not care to speak of Agnes McLehose,” she retorted frigidly, “and I never indulge in scandal, especially before my friends, so let us not disgust them with any woman’s gossip.”
“You are quite right,” affirmed Eppy affably. “I do not believe in it myself; it always comes back to one.”
“Who can understand a woman?” grunted Sir William aloud.
“Well, it’s most easy to understand men,” retorted Eppy quickly.
With a sigh of impatience, Lady Glencairn took Mr. Mackenzie’s arm and silently they reëntered the drawing-room. They wended their way through the groups of people standing about, for the largest and most brilliant portion of the assemblage were standing, the sofas, ottomans, and chairs being occupied by the puffy old dowagers, who were entertaining each other with choice bits of scandal; and, finally, came to a standstill beside the grand piano. For a moment they remained quiet, listening to the glorious voice of Madame Urbani, who from the great drawing-room above was trilling forth an aria from grand opera. From her position Lady Glencairn commanded a good view of the large arch through which the guests entered the drawing-rooms. Anxiously she watched for the handsome face and curly black hair of the poet above the crowd that surrounded her. “Why does he not come? what can be detaining him?” she asked herself for the hundredth time. Perhaps he was with Lady Nancy Gordon, she thought jealously, looking about the vast room. She was sure she had not yet been announced. It looked very suspicious that neither she, nor Robert, had arrived. And her heart was consumed with bitter jealousy, although her smiling face bore no traces of the raging fire within. How she hated that doll-faced beauty for being single and free! How she would delight in trampling her in the dust, she thought cruelly. Nearly a month had elapsed since Robert left Edinburgh, since she had seen him. A month filled with vain longing and unrest. And since his return, she could scarcely restrain her intense longing to see him. Day after day she would drive slowly past his lodgings, hoping to catch a glimpse of his glowing, dark face, which had such power to thrill her to the very depths of her intense and passionate nature. That longing had taken possession of her to-night, when she had slipped out and stolen away to his rooms, and she would have willingly given her body and soul to him, for the asking; but her good angel had protected her from her own indiscretion, and saved her unsuspecting victim from a great remorse. The gurgling voice of Eppy McKay broke in abruptly on her disturbing revery.
“Oh, dear, I wish Mr. Burns would come,” she said plaintively.
“He is usually very punctual,” answered Lady Glencairn, opening her large fan of ostrich plumes and fanning herself indolently.
“Genius is never governed by any rules of punctuality or propriety,” observed Mr. Mackenzie.
“Then he is exempt,” replied her ladyship, smiling brightly. “Ah! you truant. Where have you been?” she demanded of her husband, who joined them at that moment.
“Incidentally getting a breath of fresh air, my dear,” replied Lord Glencairn, smiling lovingly into his wife’s face. “But in reality, I was listening to the ovation which Robert was receiving as he drove through Princes Street.” Her eyes suddenly brightened.
“How I wish I could have heard his speech to the masses,” she cried enthusiastically. “For I must confess, James, that no man’s conversation ever carried me off my feet so completely as that of Robert Burns.”
“Indeed, my lady!” he retorted in mock alarm. “Then it behooves me to keep my eye on you hereafter.”
She joined in the laugh that followed, then remarked audaciously, “But, I vow, a little flirtation is really most exhilarating now and then.” She flashed her brilliant eyes mockingly upon the horror-struck countenance of Eppy McKay.
“How indiscreet!” exclaimed Eppy in amazement, “and you are a married woman, too.”
“’Tis perfectly shocking, isn’t it?” mimicked her ladyship insolently.
Eppy pursed her thin lips, while a little spot of color dyed her parchment-like cheeks. “Well, I do not approve of married women flirting,” she replied primly, and as she caught the look of amusement which passed between her ladyship and Mr. Mackenzie, she added sourly, “Especially in public.”
“Oh! Then you do approve of it in private,” replied her ladyship sweetly, innocently opening her eyes to their widest.
Eppy gave a gasp of horror. “Mercy, no!” she cried indignantly, “I should say not.” And she tossed her head in virtuous anger.
“Robert Burns!” announced the footman at this juncture.
There was a sudden hush, a movement of excitement, and the group around the door fell back, and everybody made way for the most important guest of the evening, who for the last hour had been the all-absorbing topic of conversation. Lady Glencairn started violently, as she heard the name announced. For a brief instant she closed her eyes, feeling faint, and trembling in an ecstasy of joy. He was here at last! Her heart throbbed so violently it stifled her.
“How noble he looks!” exclaimed Eppy in an awestruck tone, as she watched the tall figure in a polite but determined manner coolly elbowing a passage among the heaving bare shoulders, fat arms, the long trains, and bulging bustles and paniers that seriously obstructed his way. “And to think that man is but a lowly-bred peasant,” observed Mr. Mackenzie, as he watched him bending low over the hand of their hostess.
“A man’s a man, for all that!” murmured her ladyship, worshipful pride in her voice and in her dazzling eyes, as she watched him approach, bowing right and left. She drew herself up with the conscious air of a beauty who knows she is nearly perfect, and with a smile she extended her jeweled hand. “I’m so glad to see you here to-night,” she says sweetly, although a glance like fire seen through smoke leaps from beneath her silky eyelashes, but Robert saw it not; he was bending low over her fair hand. “Welcome back to Edinburgh!” she continued, pressing his hand warmly.
A bright smile lighted up his dark visage. “Thank ye,” he returned simply. Then he turned to Lord Glencairn with outstretched hand. “My lord!” he said warmly, “how glad, how delighted, I am to again press the hand of my patron, my friend.”
“The pleasure is mutual, my lad!” he replied. A kindly smile lighted up his noble face, as he perceived the ruddy glow of health in the full cheeks, the flashing eyes of the young poet. “Ah, you return to us looking bonnier than ever,” he continued. “Your triumphant tour through the north with its Highland chieftains and lords at your feet, has not turned your head after all.”
Robert laughed good-naturedly. “Not a bit of it,” he replied frankly.
“Let me present Mr. Henry Mackenzie,” introduced Lady Glencairn at this juncture.
Robert advanced eagerly to meet him, his hand extended, his eyes flashing with delight. “The author of the ‘Man of Feeling,’ the first book I loved and admired years ago!” he exclaimed in direct frankness. “It is an unexpected pleasure, sir.”
“The pleasure is mutual,” replied Mr. Mackenzie, flushing at the compliment. “We witnessed your triumphant progress up Princes Street, and were delighted at the ovation you received.”
Robert laughed happily. “Was it not wonderful?” he answered in his sonorous voice, which had such a thrilling richness in it. “I could scarcely realize it was the once poor, humble Robbie Burns they were cheering. I am indeed happy; my popularity has not begun to wane yet.” He regarded the great publisher with kindling eyes. “That I am so favorably known, is due to your kindly articles in your inestimable paper, The Lounger, and your unbiased criticism of my poems, which brought me before the public, and I thank you most heartily for that generous criticism which was so judicious withal.” A little murmur of approval from his listeners greeted his last words.
“’Twas a pleasure, believe me, Mr. Burns,” he answered quietly, “to lend a helping hand to assist a struggling genius.”
“Thank ye,” said Robert, simply.
“I believe you have never met our esteemed contemporary, Mr. Sterne, author of ‘Tristam Shandy,’” observed Mr. Mackenzie, and he quickly made the introduction.
Robert turned quickly to the grave and dignified scholar. “Little did I ever dream,” he said fervently, “that I would one day meet and converse with my two favorite authors.”
A smile of gratified vanity overspread the rugged features of the scholar. “I am proud indeed,” he observed pompously, “if my book has found favor in your eyes, Mr. Burns.” And soon they had become engaged in an animated conversation, much to the chagrin of one of his admirers, who had been waiting patiently to be introduced. She had been mentally rehearsing her little speech for some time, and was now waiting for the opportunity to deliver it.
“No one would ever take him for a farmer,” she thought in open-mouthed, worshipful adoration.
“He looks quite like a gentleman,” said a haughty voice near her, in a tone of great surprise.
“Huh! he makes love to every woman he meets!” replied Sir William spitefully.
With a thrill of rapture at the thought, Eppy attracted the attention of Lady Glencairn, and whispered in that lady’s impatient ear, “Introduce me, please; I see Mr. Burns is regarding me very closely.”
Presently a lull occurred in the discussion, and Lady Glencairn smilingly introduced the garrulous old lady to the poet, as a “warm admirer of his poems.” “And of you, too,” eagerly interrupted Eppy, clasping his hand in both of her own. “Oh! I have longed for this moment, that I might clasp the hand of Scotia’s Bard, and tell him how I love him,”—she broke off with a smothered giggle. “I mean his poems; oh, they are too heavenly for utterance,” and she rolled her little gray eyes till only the whites showed. “Sibella—she’s my sister, and a dear creature if I do say so—and I have had many a lovely cry over them,” she rattled on hardly pausing for breath. “Ah, they have made us so happy. You must come and see her, won’t you, she’s a writer also, and you can have a sweet talk over your art. We belong to a literary family, you know. Rob Don, the Gaelic poet, belonged to our clan. We take after him.” She smiled affectedly and batted her little eyes in what she fondly believed a very fetching manner.
Robert had vainly tried to edge in a word, and now stood listening to the silly prattle, a smile of amusement playing round his mobile mouth.
“A long way after,” observed Sir William dryly. Then he threw up his hands in dismay, for Eppy had started off again.
“Here I am rattling off a lot of nonsense,” she gurgled, “but I do enjoy your talking so much, Mr. Burns. I vow I could listen to it all day. I shall always remember this happy occasion of our meeting.” She stopped, out of breath, panting but happy.
Robert regarded her quizzically for a moment while an audible titter was heard throughout the rooms. “You quite overwhelm me, Miss McKay,” he drawled at last. “But I have nevertheless enjoyed conversing with you. Really, madam, I felt quite eloquent and did myself full justice,” and he bowed gravely.
“Oh, you flatterer!” tittered Eppy, slapping his arm coquettishly with her fan. “But I am not madam yet.” She ventured a quick look at Sir William.
“Robert, I have been requested to ask you to recite one of your favorite poems; will you honor us?” asked Lord Glencairn, coming forward.
At once there was a chorus of inanely polite voices. “Oh, do recite, Mr. Burns!” “Please give us ‘Tam O’Shanter’s Ride,’” etc., etc.
Robert slowly looked around him at the sea of faces, and suddenly a feeling of resentment filled his heart. Must he parade himself before these empty-headed noodles, who regarded him in the light of a curiosity, a plaything, to amuse them by his antics? Why didn’t they ask Mr. Mackenzie or Mr. Sterne or Dr. Blacklock, Mr. Ramsay, or any one of the others to read from their books?
“I must ask ye to excuse me to-night,” he replied coldly. “I have been speaking in the open air and my voice is tired.”
“Then I will recite in your stead,” cried Eppy, determined to make an impression on the romantic young farmer.
They crowded around her, laughing and joking, for poor Eppy was the innocent, unsuspecting butt of society.
“What is your selection?” someone asked seriously.
“’Tis about the cunning little animal Mr. Burns saw on the lady’s bonnet,” replied Eppy. “The lady’s name was—er——” She paused and looked inquiringly into Robert’s grimly amused face.
“Ye would be very much surprised, perhaps shocked and grieved, Miss McKay,” he answered, “were I to mention the lady’s name here, so I’ll spare your feelings. Please recite the poem.” Eppy made a deep courtesy, blissfully unconscious that the lady in question was none else than herself. And after arranging her dress to her satisfaction, cleared her throat affectedly and made several ineffectual attempts to begin the recitation. Gradually a look of comical despair puckered up her face, and turning to Robert with an embarrassed giggle, she exclaimed poutingly, “I cannot recall a single line. How provoking, and I protest. I knew every line by rote this morning. Please start me on the first verse, Mr. Burns.”
The spectacle of this silly old woman making a fool of herself before that heartless crowd both annoyed and embarrassed Robert. “The last verse is my favorite,” he replied, frowning angrily at the amused titters which reached his ears from all sides, and quickly he read the verse through: