And none knew whether the shaft was pointed at them or at the object of their mirth, who stood before him with clasped hands and a smile meant to be winning on her weak face, listening with all her senses.
“How true that is,” murmured Lady Glencairn.
“Yes, indeed,” sighed Eppy soulfully. “What fools some people make of themselves, and they never know it, which is the funny part of it.” She darted a quick glance at Lady Glencairn, who returned the look calmly and evenly, although she was saying to herself, “Is she the fool she appears, or is she giving me a dig, I wonder?”
She turned to Robert. “Mr. Burns, will you find me a chair, please; I am rather fatigued, standing so long.”
He offered her his arm. “It will be rather a difficult matter,” he observed, looking about him vainly. “Still, I can try.” And he moved through the swaying crowd and out upon the balcony, with her little gloved hand resting lightly on his coat sleeve.
“I saw you this morning, Mr. Burns, on Calton Hill,” she observed lightly, “but at a distance. Upon driving nearer I lost sight of you; you must have vanished into the air.”
“Not at all,” replied Robert, sitting beside her on the low balustrade. “I found a beautiful solitude amongst a luxuriant growth of willows, which no doubt you overlooked.”
“To be sure,” she returned. “Now I remember. A sad scene occurred there a few years ago; a lady from Loch Carron drowned herself in the little pond they hang over, because the man she loved despised her.” Her voice was soft and low. She drooped her eyes and sighed.
“Poor unhappy woman,” sighed Robert sympathetically.
She looked at him quickly, her face flushing, her eyes earnestly searching his face. “Then you would have pitied her?” she asked almost breathlessly.
“He cannot be a man who would not pity a woman under such circumstances,” he replied simply and thoughtfully.
“She loved him devotedly, recklessly,” she continued, her voice trembling with suppressed emotion; “but she had no moral right to do so,” she continued. “She was a wife, a miserable, unhappy wife; she deserved much pity, but he was pitiless and uncharitable. He despised her weakness, and so—she drowned herself.” Her voice sank into a strained, unnatural whisper.
“Poor unhappy woman!” he repeated compassionately. “She was over-hasty, I fear.”
“You would not have consigned her to such a fate, would you?” she faltered, laying her soft feverish hand on his.
He started violently and was silent for a time. Then, slowly, sorrowfully he turned and looked into her tell-tale face; for a moment she gazed at him, her eyes glittering with an unholy light, her bosom heaving tumultuously. Then she slowly drooped her head.
“’Twould be a heavy load to have on one’s conscience,” he replied constrainedly.
He rose from his seat and stood looking thoughtfully across to where Edinburgh castle loomed up on the hill, so cold and gloomy, outlined against the blue sky.
She glided swiftly to his side. “Robert, let me——” she began passionately, when the cold voice of Sir William Creech rooted her to the spot in terror. Out of the shadow walked her uncle, and ignoring her presence he addressed himself to Robert.
“Well, Mr. Burns!” he said angrily, “perhaps ye’ll condescend to notice me now, your publisher, Sir William Creech.”
“I hope ye’re well,” returned Robert indifferently.
Sir William quivered with rage. “Ye’ve been in town a week, and yet ye have not called to notify me of your arrival,” he sputtered.
“I quite forgot, Sir William,” answered Rob repentently; “you see I’m not a good business man. However, to-morrow I will call and we will arrange our much neglected business matters.”
“And there is much to arrange. Why did ye refuse to write for my weekly? I offered to pay ye well for it,” he snarled.
“Pay!” flashed Rob indignantly. “Do you think to buy the fruit of my brain like so much merchandise, at so much a line for a penny newspaper? I am not a penny journalist, I am a poet. Whenever I embark on any undertaking it is with honest enthusiasm, and to talk of money, wage, or fee would be a downright prostitution of the soul,” and his eyes flashed dangerously.
“You do not despise money, Robert Burns?” retorted Sir William sarcastically.
“Most certainly not!” replied Robert quickly. “’Tis a most necessary commodity, but extremely elusive, and to show you that money has no terrors for me, I shall expect a settlement to-morrow in full. Some £300 are due me from the sale of the last edition of my songs.” He returned Sir William’s wrathful gaze, his eyes full of righteous anger and strong determination.
“Just one word more, Mr. Burns!” he began belligerently, but Robert raised his hand with a stately gesture.
“I’m in a sorry mood for business, Sir William Creech,” he warned him, a steely glitter in his eye.
“Well, ye will hear what I’ve to say,” insisted Sir William doggedly. “Ye are under contract to me, sir; but instead of living up to the terms of that agreement, ye are scattering broadcast to every person that pleases your fancy, a song or an ode or a poem, which diminishes the worth and consequent sale of your collection.”
“Lud, uncle,” interposed Lady Glencairn quickly, “I’ll warrant it makes not the slightest difference.”
“’Tis not fair to me,” sputtered Sir William, “and I warn ye, Mr. Burns, ye must not do it again. I strictly forbid it.”
“Uncle!” gasped Lady Glencairn in amazement.
“Ye forbid?” repeated Robert in immeasurable scorn. “Ye nor any man living can dictate to Robert Burns. I shall write when an’ for whom I please. I will not barter an’ sell my soul like so much merchandise. You published my collection of songs an’ have made money out o’ the transaction, which is mair than I have done. I am sick of it all; I am done with your roguery, your deceit, now an’ forever.” And he waved his hand in angry dismissal.
“But our contract,” gasped Sir William, taken aback.
“’Tis ended now, canceled by your ain insult, an’ I shall take means to collect my just dues.”
“Are you not hasty?” asked Lady Glencairn concernedly.
“I told ye to call to-morrow,” snarled Sir William, “and I’ll pay ye, then ye can gang your own gait. I have sought to give you advice, but ye were too haughty and independent, and ye wouldn’t listen, but ye will yet see and realize the bitter truth of my words, so go on in your career of folly and its inevitable ruin, for ye’ll soon be at the end of your tether, and may the devil claim ye for his own.” He stalked angrily away, muttering to himself, “Ye upstart, ye low-born peasant, I’ll humble ye yet!”
Robert turned to Lady Glencairn with a smile of apology on his lips. “I ask your pardon, Lady Glencairn,” he said humbly, “for being the cause of this unseemly scene in your presence, but my anger was aroused, an’ I simply couldna’ help speaking my thoughts—I am always doing the wrong thing.”
“Oh, nonsense!” she responded laughingly. “Let us forget it and join the others.” She took his arm and they slowly entered the ballroom, where they were speedily joined by Lord Glencairn and a party of friends, who immediately surrounded them.
“My dear,” said Lord Glencairn, “do you know that you have left us an unconscionable time? Is there some witchery about yon balcony that I know not of?” and he smiled affectionately upon his wife, whose eyes were shining with happiness.
“Your pardon, James, but I’m sure our absence was not noted in such a distinguished assemblage.” She glanced carelessly about the room at the groups of sedate-looking people gravely conversing with each other while they strolled slowly, aimlessly about with much dignity and ceremony, and an almost imperceptible sneer curled her full lips. “Oh, the stiff formality of some of these Calvinistic old fossils!” she remarked contemptuously to Robert.
“From all such people, good Lord deliver us,” he replied in a low chant.
“Amen!” cried Eppy, looking archly at Sir William. “Give me youth and gayety always.” Sir William looked his unspoken scorn.
“You and I may well sigh for youth, Miss McKay,” quavered the venerable Dr. Blacklock. “Many moons have passed since he eluded our clutch and fled, never to return,” and he sighed dismally.
“Speak for yourself, Doctor,” bridled Eppy. “I shall never let go my hold on youth,” and she tossed her head indignantly.
“Speaking of fossils,” said Lady Glencairn pointedly, turning to Eppy, “I wonder what can have happened to Mrs. Dunlop?”
“Oh, she is always late for effect,” she replied spitefully.
“Mrs. Dunlop is a very dear friend of mine,” observed Robert quietly, but his eyes flashed with indignation.
“I beg your pardon for my rudeness,” murmured Lady Glencairn sweetly.
“I understand Mrs. Dunlop is chaperoning a new beauty,” said Lord Glencairn inquiringly to his wife.
She gave him a side glance that was far from pleasant. New beauty, indeed! There was only one recognized beauty in Edinburgh and she would not yield the palm to anyone. “I really do not know to whom you allude, James,” she said coldly.
The Duchess of Athol, who was standing near, smiled significantly. “Mrs. Dunlop asked permission to bring a young friend, who was visiting her from the Highlands,” she remarked pleasantly. “I do not know her in the least, and they may not come at all.”
“Mrs. Dunlop and Miss Campbell!” announced the footman loudly. With a smile on his handsome face and a hurried word of apology, Robert rapidly walked to meet the approaching couple, who were the cynosure of all eyes. Mrs. Dunlop was recognized by all as a woman of much importance in Edinburgh society. She knew everybody and everybody knew her, for she was the lineal descendant of the immortal Wallace, a fact of which she was justly proud. She was a motherly looking woman, with a charming smile and a pleasant, taking manner.
But the murmur of admiration throughout the room was not for her; it was for the slim little girl in white with the blue eyes and fair hair, which glittered like gold beneath the brilliant light of the chandeliers. “Who can she be?” they whispered to each other in wonder. “Evidently not a person of importance, else she would be dressed in the fashion of the day and have her hair powdered.”
“At last, Mary, ye’re here!” cried Robert delightedly, placing her hand within his arm. She clung to it with a nervous clutch.
“The child is frightened to death,” whispered Mrs. Dunlop, smiling indulgently.
“‘Mrs. Dunlop and Miss Campbell,’ announced the footman loudly.”
Lady Glencairn turned very pale, as she recognized the girl she had met in Robert’s room. She trembled and could scarcely regain her usual composure as Robert with a proud tenderness lighting up the depths of his black eyes, led the vision of youth and perfect beauty up to the hostess, to whom he introduced Mary. Then he turned to Lady Glencairn. “Lady Glencairn, allow me to introduce to you Miss Campbell. You remember Highland Mary, do you not?”
She gave a slight start and her muscles tightened. The dairymaid sweetheart here in Edinburgh? she thought in amazement. What could it mean?
“Quite well,” she answered, extending her cold jeweled hand. “I little dreamed I should ever meet you here like this, but the unexpected always happens.”
“Dinna’ ye mind, my lady,” replied Mary simply, “ye said ye would be glad to see me whenever I came to town.” She raised those marvelous, innocent eyes of hers and smiled. Why did Lady Glencairn shrink from that frank and childlike openness of regard? Why did she for one brief moment feel herself to be vile and beneath contempt? She turned to where Mrs. Dunlop was conversing animatedly with their hostess, a flush akin to shame mantling her haughty face.
“My dear Duchess,” she was saying apologetically, “pray pardon our late arrival, but I assure you ’tis not made for effect; our carriage broke down on the way.”
Eppy started in amazement; had she overheard her spiteful remark?
The Duchess graciously inclined her stately head. “So glad you got here at all, Mrs. Dunlop,” she said.
Robert turned laughingly to the group of eager people importuning him for an introduction to the beautiful débutante. “Time forbids my introducing ye individually to Miss Campbell,” he said good-naturedly, “therefore let me present ye collectively to Highland Mary, my future wife, whom ye have all read of an’ loved in my poems.” A ripple of applause greeted the news, and congratulations poured in upon them, both hearty and sincere.
Lady Glencairn staggered slightly, her face paling, but she quickly recovered and stood haughtily erect, fanning herself a little more rapidly, her full red lips tightened to a thin malicious line.
Eppy rushed up to Mary effusively. “May I kiss you, dear?” she asked gushingly, “you are so sweet and pretty, just like I was a few years ago,” and she kissed the blushing girl with a resounding smack. “You’ll be married in Edinburgh, I presume?” she continued volubly. “I must attend the wedding.”
“The marriage will be most private, madam,” observed Robert coldly.
“Do you stay long in Edinburgh, Miss Campbell?” asked Lady Glencairn abruptly, forcing a smile to her lips.
“No, not long, your ladyship,” replied Mary timidly. The cold metallic tones of the haughty lady frightened her strangely. “I—I ne’er thought I’d e’er come to Edinburgh,” she said, “but——” She hesitated and looked shyly at Robert, and then looked modestly down at the bit of cobweb lace which she held in her hand and which did duty as a ’kerchief.
“But I found the barrier between us was down, that I was free as ever to wed the sweetheart of my boyhood days,” he explained with simple dignity.
“Aye, but you make a bonnie couple,” exclaimed Mrs. Dunlop admiringly. “Well, I don’t blame anyone for falling in love with you, Robert,” she declared frankly. “You’re a great man,” and she nodded her head vigorously. “And a handsome one, too.”
Robert blushed and shook his finger in warning at his old friend, although a tender smile played around his eyes and mouth. “Mrs. Dunlop, men are said to flatter women because they are weak,” he said, “but if it is so, poets must be weaker still, for the artful compliments I have received from your sex have absolutely turned my head, an’ really I begin to look on myself as a person of no small importance,” and he roguishly winked his eye at his old friend.
“I never knew a man yet who was averse to flattery,” retorted the old lady good-naturedly.
In the brief lull that followed the general laugh, the voice of Lord Glencairn could be heard in conversation with Mary, who was earnestly gazing up into his face, all traces of timidity gone, for she felt singularly at her ease in the presence of the kindly old nobleman. “And so you mean to take Robert away from us for good, eh?” he was saying in his earnest, serious manner.
“Ye ken he is fair anxious to get back to Mossgiel now,” replied Mary, blushing deeply.
Lady Glencairn snapped her fan together convulsively. “You mean to leave Edinburgh for good?” she asked in faint, incredulous accents, turning to Robert.
The people crowded around and a storm of protest arose. “What madness!” “Leave Edinburgh for the country!” “They couldn’t hear of such a thing.” “He owed a duty to them as Scotland’s Bard!” etc., etc.
Robert turned to them and spoke lightly, although with an undercurrent of seriousness. “I ken I am but wasting my time, my energies, my talents here, amid the sensual delight which your city affords,” he said. “I am not formed for it. I am but a rustic at heart and in manners, and the country is my only vantageground.”
Mary stole softly to his side and snuggled her hand in his. “Isn’t it sweet to be in love?” cried Eppy cooingly, to Sir William, in a sibilant aside. “Think what we are missing.”
“We’re too old for such nonsense,” replied Sir William gruffly.
“Oh, indeed!” flashed Eppy. “Huh, a woman’s never too old to love,” with an indignant toss of her head.
“No, nor to make a fool of herself,” retorted Sir William, smiling grimly.
“But we cannot give you up just yet,” declared Lord Glencairn emphatically, placing his hand affectionately on Robert’s shoulder.
“I am sure, Mr. Burns,” said Mr. Mackenzie gravely, “that your friends and admirers would not advise such a move for you, especially as you are now riding high on the top wave of success.”
“I have nothing to gain by staying here, Mr. Mackenzie,” replied Robert, turning to him and speaking slowly and thoughtfully, “for, as you observe, I am now firmly established as a poet. I fear I am not proof against the subtle temptations which constantly beset my path and which push aside all thoughts of poesy; so as discretion is the better part of valor,” he continued, looking lovingly at the girl clinging so confidingly to his arm, “I shall flee from it all to my farm, my plow, and there amid those innocent, wholesome surroundings pass my remaining days in peace wi’ my wife by my side.”
Mrs. Dunlop sighed dismally and shook her white curls in decided disapproval. “Laddie, you will be taking a false step,” she declared emphatically; “your place is here before the public.”
“Indeed it is!” gurgled Eppy soulfully. “I protest Edinburgh cannot spare its poet yet. Your old farm can wait for you yet a while.”
Mary looked at his thoughtful face with anxious eyes. She prayed fervently that nothing would dissuade him from his purpose. For it had been at her earnest solicitation that he finally decided to give up the enervating pleasures of the Capital, and to retire to the country where he would be free from the contaminating influences which now surrounded him.
He smiled reassuringly into her perturbed little face. No power on earth could tempt him to break the promise he had so willingly made her on that first day of her arrival in the gay metropolis, he thought fondly. He turned to his questioners, who were eagerly awaiting his answer, his face shining with fixed determination.
“My friends,” he said quietly, “I am only a farmer born, a son of the soil. My one ambition now is to have my own roof-tree near the Doon, where amidst the beauties of harmonious nature the Goddess Muse will commune with me as of old, for ’twas there the greatest inspiration of my soul came to me, and I know if all else fails me an independent livelihood awaits me at the plowtail.”
“Tut, tut, the plowtail, indeed!” sniffed Mrs. Dunlop indignantly.
Lady Glencairn, who had been feverishly toying with her fan, turned suddenly to Mary, a sneering smile on her crimson lips, “And have you no higher ambition for your future husband, Miss Campbell?” she demanded, her voice strangely harsh and metallic. “Are you content to have him bury his talents in the country?”
“Yes! Oh, yes!” answered Mary shyly, a happy smile dimpling her sweet face. Then she added naïvely, “Ye ken, I’ll hae him all to myself then.” Robert laughed merrily at this naïve confession.
“Young man,” observed Mr. Sterne pompously, “take my word for it, you’ll repent it if you leave Edinburgh now.”
“Robbie, what will everybody think?” cried Mrs. Dunlop tearfully. “You are daft to run away while the world is literally at your feet.”
“For how long?” he asked laconically.
“Until you tire of its homage, my lad,” replied Lord Glencairn stanchly.
Robert shook his head with a doubting smile. “’Twill not be I who will tire first, my lord,” he returned quietly. “I know myself and the world so well. You see the novelty of a poet in my obscure situation, my imperfection of awkward rusticity has raised a partial tide of public notice which has borne me to a height where I am absolutely certain my abilities are inadequate to support me.” He looked around a trifle defiantly at the rows of serious faces, a little feeling of resentment welling up in his heart.
“You are over-modest, my dear Burns,” observed Mr. Mackenzie with kindling eye.
Robert shook his head with somber dignity. “Too surely do I see the time when the same tide will leave me and recede as far below the mark of truth.” He turned and faced the people suddenly, his hands outstretched, his eyes filled with melancholy enthusiasm. Raising his voice he proceeded prophetically, “My friends, you will all bear me witness, that when the bubble of fame was at its height I stood unintoxicated, with the inebriating cup in my hand, looking forward to the hastening time when the blow of calumny should dash it to the ground with all the eagerness of revengeful triumph.”
“That time will never come, Robert,” cried Mary softly, “for we will leave this life behind us in a very short while noo.”
Lord Glencairn slapped him on the back with playful earnestness. “Come, come, my lad!” he cried gayly, “this will never do; you are in the dumps; throw it off, lad, and be merry. Do not heed the idle gossip of your unsuccessful rivals and the scandal mongers. Rest assured your popularity and fame will never die whether you remain here or retire to the country.”
“Would I could think so,” sighed Robert gloomily.
Eppy suddenly gave a nervous little giggle. “I vow I feel like crying,” she observed hysterically, “I wish everybody wouldn’t look so mournful.”
Mr. Mackenzie turned quickly to his hostess. “My dear Duchess,” he said courteously, “you were going to show us your new painting in which Mr. Burns is the central figure of the group.”
At once the silent group became animated. “Oh, yes, do!” cried Eppy, with a yearning look at Robert. “I wonder if I could pick you from among the others?” she coyly observed.
“I trust, madam, that my phiz will be recognizable,” he replied dryly.
The Duchess turned to her husband. “Take Miss Campbell and lead the way to the gallery,” she said quickly.
“Is Mr. Burns to take me?” inquired Eppy of her hostess, but she had followed her husband, leaning on the arm of Mr. Mackenzie.
Lady Glencairn smiled sweetly, “So sorry, Miss McKay, but Sir William has asked for that pleasure.”
“I?” gasped Sir William, with a comical look of dismay.
She looked at him maliciously. “Yes, did you not?” she raised her eyebrows inquiringly, an innocent smile hovering about her mouth.
For a moment he sputtered, then with a grim smile he snarled sarcastically, “’Twill afford me great pleasure.”
With a wildly beating heart Lady Glencairn took Robert’s arm and started for the stairs, followed by the others.
Eppy sniffed suspiciously. “Oh, I understand now,” she observed spitefully with a meaning smile.
“I thought you would, dear,” flashed her ladyship mockingly, over her shoulder.
“Are you coming, madam?” demanded Sir William testily, offering his arm.
With an indignant clack of her tongue, Eppy haughtily brushed past him and swiftly mounted the stairs, leaving the disgruntled Sir William to follow at his leisure.
CHAPTER XVI
Among those that crowded around the carriage of Robert Burns earlier in the evening, listening to his inspiring oration, stood a girl of twenty or thereabouts, whose pale, haggard face and tearful eyes attracted some passing attention from those near her. She was dressed in an ankle length skirt of gray, over which a red shawl had been tastefully draped. A black velvet bodice confined the loose white gimpe at the waist, while from her left shoulder a brilliant plaid hung gracefully to the bottom of her dress. Around her neck row upon row of different colored beads hung loosely to her waist. Upon the blue-black hair which fell around her face in waving masses, a wreath of white and pink heather was twined becomingly. Her unusual attire attracted much attention.
“She must be a gypsy,” they told each other wonderingly. Finally, after many conjectures, someone in the crowd volunteered the information that she was a street singer who had been seen singing through the streets of the town for a day or so. Their curiosity appeased, they turned to their idol once more. Every now and then a convulsive sob shook the young girl’s slender, graceful figure. Like one who hungered for food and drink she watched the speaker, her heart in her eyes, her hands clasped tightly upon her breast. When the eager throng unhitched the horses from the open carriage she had breathlessly watched every movement, and when they, with wild bursts of applause and good-natured laughter, sped away up Princes Street, pulling the carriage behind them, she had swiftly followed, the center of a noisy gang of street urchins and idle brawlers.
With a mighty cheer, which brought the watchmen running to the spot pell-mell, they finally stopped at Athol Castle and quickly lined themselves on each side of the striped awning avenue, from the curbing to the door, to watch the great man pass within.
The gypsy frantically elbowed her way through the pompous coachmen and good-natured cabbies who had pressed forward to witness the new arrival, and reached the inner edge of the crowd. At that moment Robert stepped from his carriage and walked quickly up the avenue. With a little cry of joy she stretched out her hands to arrest his attention, but he passed inside without having once caught a glimpse of this strange follower.
A derisive laugh went up from those who had curiously watched the peculiar actions of the gypsy. At the sound she dropped her arms hurriedly, the blood rushing to her pale cheeks. With one quick, startled glance at the mocking faces beside her, she turned quickly and threaded her way through the line of splendid equipages, with their prancing horses, till she reached a secluded part of the street, where she stopped and looked back at the brilliantly lighted castle, tears of bitter disappointment and despair slowly trickling down her wan cheeks. As she stood there in the bright moonlight, a prey to her bitter thoughts, a handsome equipage, drawn by a prancing pair of steeds, attracted her listless attention. As it slowly drove past the wretched girl a sweet young face crowned with golden hair appeared in the open window, followed by a white arm. Her little hand was noticeably bare of jewels. With a sweet word of pity the girl tossed a silver piece at the feet of her unfortunate sister. The gypsy indifferently watched the carriage out of sight. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, she stooped and picked up the coin, and without looking at it put it carelessly in her pocket, a flush of shame and mortification mantling her dark cheek. For a while she stood in moody silence, listening to the strains of music which came faintly to her from the castle. Suddenly she lifted her face to the heavens, her arms upraised, her lips moving in some prayer or incantation. For a moment she stood thus, then slowly her arms dropped to her side. There was a new calm look of determination in her face as she quickly traced her steps back to where the crowds still lingered about the closed doors of Athol Castle. She stood on the outskirts of the crowd unseen in the shadow, her restless eyes searching here and there, peering into the open windows, up and down the high stone wall which bordered the huge garden, then back again, finally resting upon the closed portals with a look of keen disappointment shining in their depths. What she sought was evidently not there. She stamped her foot in impotent despair, a muttered imprecation on her lips; she would search again. Gradually she made her way back unnoticed by the crowd, who were intent on listening to the music which floated out bewitchingly on the still air, till she reached the wall where it joined the corner of the castle. Motionless she stood under its shadow, her heart beating loudly as some idler drew near her place of concealment. Suddenly a form loomed up before her. With a startled cry she pressed close against the ivied wall in sudden terror.
“She come this way,” a voice cried eagerly.
“Aye, Sandy, she’s hidin’ among the ivy,” said another.
She heard them beating noisily about the thick vines which hung in wild profusion over the walls, her heart in her mouth. Frantically she tore the vines apart until she reached the bare wall behind. Then with breathless eagerness she pulled them together again, effectually concealing her presence from her pursuers. She pressed closer and closer against the cold stones, shivering apprehensively as they approached her hiding place. Suddenly she felt her support give way with a dull, creaking noise, and before she could recover her equilibrium, she found herself in a heap on the ground. She looked up in time to see the door through which she had fallen swing quickly into place and realized that unwittingly she had found an old and evidently unused entrance through the wall. Quickly rising to her feet she looked about her, then she gave a little cry of joy as she caught sight of the splashing fountains in the moonlight, for she knew she was inside the gardens belonging to the Duke of Athol. Eagerly she gazed about her at the leafy shrubberies, the massive oaks and beeches, the rose garden with its wealth of scented flowers. And for a brief moment she gave herself up to the painful reveries the familiar sights recalled to memory, while the tears of self-pity and heart-longing welled up in her gloomy eyes and flowed unrestrainedly down her cheeks. Presently, with a mirthless laugh of impatience, she dashed the tears angrily away and walked quickly up the grassy terrace toward the brilliantly lighted castle. Through the large window which looked over the low balcony she watched the incessant stream of people coming and going, while others walked aimlessly about the rooms or chatted in groups. For some time she crouched beside the low silver spruce, her eyes fixed upon the moving scenes within. Then with a start she recognized the golden-haired young lady who had given her the silver piece, surrounded by a group of cavaliers. She saw, too, with a pang of jealousy, the tenderness with which the poet greeted her and led her up to the haughty lady in purple. For some time she watched them in melancholy silence, a prey to conflicting emotions. By and by a group of ladies drifted out on the balcony. They were discussing the golden-haired girl, who had been introduced into their midst that evening, and the announcement of her marriage to the poet, Robert Burns. The gypsy, as she heard those words, uttered a smothered cry of amazement and horror, then sank half fainting on the grassy lawn, moaning like one stricken unto death. How long she lay there with senses dulled by pain she never knew. Presently, bitter recollection returned and with it an agony of fear that blanched her lips and made her limbs to quake, while grief and despair, like two grim sentinels, stood eager watch beside her. Slowly she staggered to her feet and turned her weary eyes once more upon the balcony. There was no one there. Listlessly she watched the gay figures darting past the windows. Suddenly her muscles tightened like a hound’s on the scent. The golden-haired girl suddenly glided out on the balcony, a glorious vision of loveliness. Pensively she leaned over the railing watching the swans, which looked ghostly in the moonlight, swimming majestically round and round the small pond of water into which the spraying fountain was playing.
CHAPTER XVII
Mary soon grew weary of looking at the many paintings which lined the walls of the galleries; she wished they would go back to the pretty rooms downstairs, where the music was playing and the young folks were dancing. She had enjoyed that. She tried to force a smile of interest to her lips as the old Duke described the subjects on the canvases before them. He soon perceived her weariness, however, and calling to Mrs. Dunlop, who was being bored beyond measure, as she told her friends wearily, he requested her to show Miss Campbell the gardens by moonlight, to which she gladly assented. Quickly they descended the broad staircase, and slowly wended their way across the large drawing-room. Mrs. Dunlop took her young charge to the large window and waved her fat hand toward the magnificent view which lay stretched before them. “Isn’t it grand, Mary?” she observed lightly. It was an old story to her. Spying an old friend across the room, she excused herself to Mary and told her to enjoy herself, then smilingly left her to her own devices. After admiring the somber beauty of Edinburgh Castle, Mary perceived the flowing fountain which splashed tunefully below her in the garden. She stepped out on the balcony, a smile of pleasure lighting up her sweet face. For a while she stood listening to the rhythmic fall of the water, blissfully unconscious of the presence of the unseen watcher. Suddenly before her startled vision there sprang the form of the gypsy. With a cry of alarm Mary stepped back and was about to enter the room, when a voice calling her by name arrested her wondering attention.
“Wait, Mary Campbell!” hissed the voice of the gypsy.
Mary turned and looked into the white face gazing up at her so defiantly, and she recognized the girl to whom she had tossed the money. Suddenly she gave a gasp of astonishment. “Jean Armour!” she exclaimed incredulously.
“Aye, Jean Armour,” repeated the gypsy. “Come down to me; I must have a word with you alone,” she whispered sibilantly.
Mary gave a quick look around. Mrs. Dunlop was still deep in her gossip, and Robert was nowhere to be seen. She walked to the end of the balcony and found the steps. Quickly she reached the bottom, and going to Jean took her two hands in hers and shook them warmly. She was so glad to see anyone from Mossgiel, friend or foe.
Jean regarded her advance with sullen suspicion. “Two years ago I was an invited guest here at Athol Castle,” she sneered bitterly, “while you were a barefooted dairymaid in Mossgiel. Now look at us. You are the lady and I am an outcast, singing on the streets for my daily bread.”
Mary looked at her in amazement. “But what has happened?” she asked wonderingly.
“My father has turned me into the street,” answered Jean dully.
“Had ye done wrong?” inquired Mary timidly.
Jean laughed mirthlessly. “Wrong?” she repeated, “aye, if refusing to marry an old man I detested be wrong.”
“An’ your father turned ye out for that?”
“For that,” she replied stonily, “and because I refused to give up Robert Burns.”
“But—but ye gave him up long ago, Jean, of your own free will,” faltered Mary, an awful fear clutching at her heart. “An’ your father wrote Robert,” she continued breathlessly, “that ye willingly, gladly renounced all claims on him, that ye even hated his name, an’ that ye hoped never to see or hear o’ him again.”
A look of hatred spread over the face of the other. “My father lied when he wrote that,” she cried with bitter intensity, “for I told him I would never renounce my marriage to Robert, irregular though it was, and I never will. He is my husband,” and she glared defiantly at the shrinking girl, who was looking at her with searching, frightened eyes. For a moment the poor child stood there like a lifeless figure as the words stamped themselves one by one on her bewildered brain and sent it reeling into darkness and vacancy. She felt sick and dizzy. There was a rushing sound in her ears, the garden swung round dizzily before her eyes, yet she stood still, speaking no word, although a quiver of agony passed over her pallid face.
“Oh, Robert, my love, have I lost ye again?” she thought dully. “I knew it was only a dream, too sweet to last.” There was a choking sensation in her throat, but she did not weep. As in a horrid dream she heard the sharp metallic voice hissing in her ear, “He is my husband, Mary Campbell. You must give him up to me.” She roused herself out of the lethargy into which she had fallen, and unclasping her hands, she wearily pushed back her curls from her brow and fixed her large pathetic eyes on Jean, who instinctively shrank back before the speechless despair of that helpless gaze. “But ye have no claim on Robbie noo, Jean,” she faltered slowly, “since your irregular marriage was publicly dissolved.” She paused and her pale lips quivered. “Why have ye come here noo to disturb him?” she asked with infinite pathos. “He is happy, so happy noo. Dinna destroy that happiness; go awa’; leave him to me. Ye took him from me once; dinna separate us again.” Her voice broke and a hard sob choked her utterance. A great pity welled up in Jean’s heart for the stricken child, but she steeled herself against it and remained sullenly quiet. Presently Mary spoke again. “I hae nothing in this world, Jean, and I love him so,” she said with dreamy wistfulness, “better than life itsel’. We have loved each ither for years, an’ that love has grown stronger an’ stronger as each year passed by, till noo it’s part o’ my very being.” Her voice rose to passionate pleading. “Oh, what is your weak fancy compared to such a love, Jean Armour?” she asked piteously. “Oh, I tell you I canna give him up to you again.” She sank down convulsively on the high-backed bench under the balcony, her form quivering with low heart-breaking sobs. Tears of sympathy slowly filled Jean’s eyes as she watched the grief-stricken girl before her, but with an angry frown she hardened her heart and forced herself to think of her own wrongs and pitiable condition.
“You must give him up!” she answered harshly, “and to-night.” She paused a moment to watch the brilliant crowd within the drawing-room, passing and repassing each other with slow, stately bearing as they walked with ease and grace through the dignified measures of the minuet. By and by she turned to the drooping form and spoke again. “My God, girl, don’t you suppose I too love him!” she exclaimed passionately. “Why have I tramped mile after mile, half starving, subjected to all kinds of insults, struggling to reach here to see him, if it were not for that love?”
Mary slowly raised her head and looked at her in reproachful sadness. “Your love has only brought him, an’ all of us, sorrow and disgrace,” she said with pathetic simplicity. “He never loved ye, Jean Armour, ye ken that weel.”
Jean winced at the blunt truth, and a quiver of anger passed over her defiant face. “I know that only too well,” she replied bitterly. Then she gave a little mocking laugh, which nevertheless held a suggestion of tears. “You may have his heart, Mary Campbell,” she continued, “but I am what you can never be, his wife and the mother of his bairns.”
“The bairns,” repeated Mary blankly, “are they alive, Jean?”
“Yes, they are alive, thank God!” murmured Jean softly, “that is why I am here, Mary, that is why I must demand my rights, for my bairns’ sake.” Then she continued quickly, feverishly, “Had it not been for them I would have done my father’s bidding, would have forgotten Robert, renounced him utterly, and married the man my father had chosen for me, but I wanted my little ones to have the protection of a father’s name, so I stubbornly refused his commands. After my father had driven me from his door with curses on his lips, I discovered too late that Robert had tried again and again to see me, had even begged my father to allow him to legalize our marriage, and that his overtures were met with scorn and abuse. Then I decided to come to Edinburgh myself to tell Robert the truth and to claim my rights.” She paused defiantly.
Lady Glencairn upon her return to the drawing-room had missed Mary, and upon learning from Mrs. Dunlop that she was upon the balcony, she sauntered slowly in that direction. As she stepped through the window she heard the low murmur of voices, and looking down perceived with amazement the young girl seated below her in company with a fantastically-dressed gypsy. Suddenly, with a start, she recognized the voice of Jean Armour. Hastily concealing herself behind a large marble pillar she listened in growing wonder, her face becoming hard and repellent, to the direful confession of her god-daughter.
“I arrived in Edinburgh after a month of hardships,” continued Jean with suppressed excitement, “and to-night I saw him in all his prosperity entering the castle like a king, looking so handsome, so contented, and so very happy.”
“Yes, he is happy noo,” replied Mary softly. “Happier than he’ll e’er be on earth again, perhaps,” and she closed her eyes wearily.
For a moment there was silence, broken only by the monotonous hum of voices and the faint twanging of the harp from within the drawing-room. Presently Mary opened her eyes and spoke again.
“Ye maunna blame Robert for anything at a’, Jean,” she said loyally. “He thought the bairns were dead, an’ he believed your father’s words, but noo, when he kens a’, he will do his duty nobly for his bairns’ sake.” She smiled bravely into the eager face of the other. “Ye have the right to him, Jean, I see that noo,” she continued sadly, “an’—an’ forgive my rude and unkind words to ye just noo,” and gently she held out her little hand.
Jean took it tenderly in her own. “What will you do now, where will you go?” she asked with a feeling of remorse.
“I shall go back to Colonel Montgomery’s,” replied Mary, in a sad, spiritless voice, from which all the life seemed to have fled, “where I can see my friends sometimes. Mistress Burns loves me, an’ I—I may see Robbie, if only from the window as he passes. It willna harm anyone.” She looked at Jean in a pleading, timid manner, while her mouth quivered pathetically, but she forced a wan smile to her pale lips and then slowly turned and walked toward the stairway. As she mounted the bottom step Jean ran quickly to her side and clasped her hand impulsively.
“Mary, I’m so sorry for you,” she said pityingly, “but I’m doing it for my bairns’ sake, ye ken that.”
“I understand, Jean,” answered Mary simply, “I dinna blame ye.” She leaned back against the marble balustrade. “But, oh, it’s hard, bitter hard,” she murmured brokenly; “if I could only die here and noo.” She stretched out her hands with a sort of wild appeal. “Oh, Robbie, my darlin’,” she exclaimed in a sobbing whisper, “how can I tell ye, how can I break your heart? I thought ye had drunk your cup o’ misery empty, but the dregs are yet to be drained.”
The sympathetic tears rolled down Jean’s face. “Will you tell him I’m here, Mary, and that I must see him at once?” she asked pleadingly. Mary slowly bowed her head in assent. “Oh, how I dread to meet him,” continued Jean in a frightened whisper, “to have him look at me with stern and angry eyes; to know that he longs to be free, and that he wishes me dead, perhaps.” She covered her face with her hands and shivered apprehensively.
“Ye needna fear, Jean,” replied Mary, with reproachful pride. “Robert Burns is a mon of honor; ye should know that weel. I’ll go noo an’ tell him ye are here.” For a moment she swayed as if about to fall, but she recovered herself in an instant and slowly mounted the few remaining steps to the balcony. As she reached the top she pressed her hand against her heart as if that action would still its rapid beating. “Heaven give me the strength to tell him,” she breathed, and, with a little prayer on her lips, she slowly entered the drawing-room, where she found Mrs. Dunlop anxiously looking for her.
Jean watched her for a few moments, then, with a sigh of nervous dread, she turned and paced restlessly up and down within the deep shadows beneath the overhanging trees. She had only taken one turn when she felt herself seized by the arm and drawn into the bright moonlight. Smothering the startled cry of alarm which rose to her lips she turned and faced her assailant. “Lady Glencairn!” she gasped, starting back in astonishment.
“So, Jean Armour,” hissed her ladyship, “’tis you whose name has been coupled so disgracefully with that of Robert Burns.”
Jean dropped her head quickly, flushing crimson before the scornful light in the other’s eyes, which flashed like stars in the pale moonlight that came streaming down upon them. “Then you have heard?” she faltered, after a little frightened pause.
“Yes, I have heard everything,” her ladyship returned witheringly, “and my suspicions of you of two years ago have turned out to be right.”
“Please say no more now, Lady Glencairn,” retorted Jean sullenly. “Let me go.” She tried to pass, but Lady Glencairn put a restraining hand upon her shoulder. “I will say no more, you foolish girl,” she replied angrily. “Why do you insist upon thrusting yourself upon Robert Burns, to-night? He utterly detests your memory. He has done with you forever.”
Jean looked at her defiantly. “I am his wife. He must acknowledge me,” she declared firmly.
Lady Glencairn laughed scornfully. “You foolish child, do you think he will ever forgive you for stepping in between him and Mary Campbell again?” she asked with studied indifference. “No, he would hate you; you know his erratic temper, my dear Jean; you would but ruin your chance for a reconciliation forever, if he sees you now, when his heart is torn by grief and sorrow at losing for the second time the one lass who is all the world to him.” She paused and watched narrowly the look of dread and doubt creep slowly over the downcast face before her.
By and by Jean looked up, her eyes burning with unshed tears and shining feverishly. “What shall I do then, Lady Glencairn?” she asked helplessly, “where shall I go?”
Lady Glencairn did not answer for a few moments. She was thinking with a thrill of joy that Jean’s coming would separate the two lovers forever. “More than likely Robert would now remain in Edinburgh,” she mused with wildly beating heart. “But, on the other hand, if he stayed he would quixotically marry Jean Armour, and publicly right her in the eyes of the world,” she thought jealously, “and then——” She broke off and stared at the girl intently. “If she were out of the way,” she thought maliciously, “might not his fickle fancy be caught in the rebound?” These thoughts flowed quickly through her brain, and her eyes half shut wickedly, her gleaming white bosom heaving from her hurried breathing, as she decided on her course. “You must leave here at once,” she said softly, taking Jean’s hand with an affectation of tenderness.
“I cannot return to my father,” she replied dully. “I have nowhere to go now.”
“Go to an inn for to-night,” said her ladyship hurriedly, “and I’ll come to you in the morning and advise you as to your future movements, and help you.”
“But I must see Robert first.”
Lady Glencairn frowned impatiently. “Foolish girl, take my advice and wait until to-morrow. You will lose nothing by it, for I will myself plead with Robert in your behalf.”
Jean did not answer. She stood mute and undecided.
“Surely, my dear Jean,” continued Lady Glencairn mockingly, “you don’t expect him to proclaim you as his dearly beloved wife before them all, do you?” She waved her hand carelessly toward the drawing-room.
Jean flushed and looked away. “No, I didn’t come for that,” she muttered slowly.
“Then why not do as I advise? I know that when the keen edge of his grief has worn off he will willingly take you to his heart and by a church marriage make you his lawful wife,” and she threw her warm arm over the shoulders of the yielding girl.
Jean gave a nervous little laugh. “I vow, Lady Glencairn, I have not the courage to meet him now,” she said. “I—I thank you gratefully for your kindness. I—I know ’tis better to wait——” She paused and sighed dejectedly. “You’ll find me at the Star and Garter Inn in King’s Court,” she said quickly after a moment’s indecision. Then she drew her scarf hurriedly about her shoulders as if anxious to get away.
At that instant a laughing group of people came out on the balcony. Lady Glencairn hastily drew her back in the shadows. “Go, go quickly!” she whispered, “before you are seen.” With a panting word of thanks Jean glided through the bushes, and, skirting the patches of light, she soon reached the secret door through which she had so unceremoniously entered and passed out to the street now deserted, save for the motionless coachmen asleep on their boxes. Lady Glencairn breathed a sigh of relief as she watched Jean fade out of sight, swallowed up in the darkness. “Both out of the way now,” she murmured, a triumphant smile on her full crimson lips. She walked quickly toward the balcony. “What a contemptible creature I have become,” she thought with careless unconcern. “And all for love of a low-born peasant,” and she laughed derisively, as she mounted the steps. She slowly entered the drawing-room, feeling strangely nervous and guilty, to find a great many people going to supper. Robert had grown tired of the heat and glare and noise, and seeing Mary sitting so weary and wan looking, surrounded by a crowd of admirers who worshiped at the shrine of youth and beauty, he crossed quickly and whispered his wishes to her. She rose gladly and both advanced to bid their hostess farewell.
“Sorry you cannot remain longer,” said the Duchess with genuine cordiality. “You must bring Miss Campbell some afternoon to see me, Mr. Burns, when I am not receiving the public,” and with a pleasant smile she bade them good-night. Slowly they made their way through the crowd and met Lady Glencairn coming swiftly toward them.
As her eyes rested upon his happy countenance she knew that he was still in ignorance of Jean’s arrival in Edinburgh. “Won’t you have some supper?” she inquired brightly. “Don’t go yet.”
But Robert quietly insisted, as he perceived Mary’s increasing languor and pallor. So Lady Glencairn, with anger and disappointment gnawing at her heart, for she had hoped to show him the beauties of the garden by moonlight before he went, seeing that remonstrances were of no avail, bade them both an effusive good-night. “Don’t forget my garden party to-morrow,” she said with a patronizing smile, touching Mary’s cold hand lightly. “I shall expect you,” and she turned to greet her husband, who was approaching with Mr. Mackenzie.
“Thank ye, your ladyship,” answered Mary simply, making a little courtesy.
“Let me escort you to the carriage, Miss Campbell,” said Lord Glencairn, at once offering her his arm.
“And allow me to follow,” added Mr. Mackenzie, slipping his arm through Robert’s, to whom he whispered, “How dare you, sir, how dare you be such a provokingly happy man in this miserable old world?” Robert laughed, and they all walked slowly down to the carriage, conversing gayly on their way.
Suddenly Mary stopped with a little exclamation of dismay. “We’ve forgotten Mrs. Dunlop,” she said contritely.
With a laugh Lord Glencairn dispatched a footman to find her, and the good lady soon appeared, flushed and panting from her hurried departure. With a last handshake all around Robert sprang in beside them and within a couple of minutes the carriage was out of sight.
“Ye were the queen of the evening, Mary, just as I told ye ye’d be,” said Robert triumphantly. “Have ye enjoyed yoursel’?”
“Ay, for a whiley,” answered Mary listlessly, leaning back against the heavy padding of the seat, with eyes heavy and sad. She had had no opportunity as yet to tell Robert the dread news, and her heart was filled with misgivings as she thought of Jean waiting patiently in the garden for him to come to her. She started up suddenly, resolved to tell him, but the sight of his happy face, and the presence of Mrs. Dunlop, cooled her courage, and she leaned back again silent and miserable. If she didn’t tell him to-night what would Jean do? With her usual unselfishness she gave no thought to self. She was miserably unhappy, but she would not allow herself to think of her own sufferings. Her whole thought was of him and the darkness into which he would soon be plunged, and of Jean and her bairns, Robert’s bairns. She sighed quiveringly, and a little pang of jealousy shot through her heart like a breath of fire, but it soon passed away and left only a dull ache that would always be there now, she thought wearily, as they rolled along toward home. She clasped her hands together feverishly. “Should she whisper to him now, tell him all and bid him drive back to Jean?” she asked herself in an agony of indecision. At that moment the carriage stopped at the door of Mrs. Dunlop’s mansion. It was too late now. She gave a little sigh of relief, though her heart was filled with grief and anxiety. Robert escorted her to the door, with loving pride in her daintiness, in her sweet air of refinement. She looked very frail and spirituelle, as she turned to him quietly and bade him good-night.
“Has something gone wrong, Mary?” he inquired solicitously, noticing with alarm her wan face, her languid air of weariness.
She shook her head slowly, not daring to trust her voice. Mrs. Dunlop put her arm about her fondly.
“The lassie is tired, Robert,” she said in her motherly way, “and no wonder. She’ll be as bright as a lark in the morning.” Bidding them both a tender good-night, he turned and ran down the steps, jumped into the carriage, and drove off toward his chambers, whistling softly to himself the tune of “Mary of Argyle.”
CHAPTER XVIII
The next day a grand garden party was given at Glencairn Hall. All Edinburgh was invited, and they came eagerly to see the great poet, who was on the eve of leaving the social world to retire to his farm in Ayrshire, and to see Highland Mary, the dainty, flower-like sweetheart of their idol. The grounds looked very bright and gay. Refreshment booths of red and white canvas were dotted here and there on the smooth velvet lawns. Bright flags of all nations waved from different parts of the gardens—signals of putting, archery, and dancing—and the seductive music of the Queen’s theater orchestra rose up and joined the songs of birds and the tinkle of the fountains in full play. Girls in light summer costumes were grouped picturesquely beneath the stately oaks and beeches. Gay laughter echoed from the leafy shrubberies, and stray couples were seen sauntering carelessly through the rose gardens, too much absorbed in each other to notice what was going on around them.
Presently out of the same rose garden a man walked hurriedly, followed by a woman, who quickly overtook him, to his perceptible annoyance. They were Sir William Creech and Eppy McKay. Eppy looked exceedingly ugly in the full glare of the bright sun. She was dressed in a brilliant plaid gown, the style of which seemed to accentuate her angularity; and a huge Gainsborough hat was perched jauntily upon her towering court wig. Her small green eyes looked coquettishly at her irate companion. He stopped and glared at her fiercely.
“But I desire to take a smoke,” he said wrathfully.
“I don’t object to smoke, Sir William,” she tittered coyly.
He looked about him wildly as if seeking some means of escape from his admirer. “But I wish to be alone,” he cried almost pleadingly.
She opened her eyes and regarded him reproachfully. “Oh, you are joking, Sir William, but you cannot scare me away.”
With a groan of despair he continued his walk, hoping to escape from his persistent admirer. “Great heavens! I’ll go daft yet,” he muttered as he perceived her close at his elbow. For a few minutes he puffed furiously at his pipe, casting angry glances from time to time at his unwelcome companion, who trotted along so contentedly at his side. Finally Sir William concluded that he could not elude her attentions for the time being, so decided to make the best of the infliction. “Do I go too fast for you?” he asked maliciously, as he heard her puffing away vigorously beside him.
“No, indeed,” she replied with a little breathless giggle. “You couldn’t go too fast for me, for I am as light and quick on my feet as ever I was. In faith, why shouldn’t I be?” she continued gayly. “I am only 32. You see I am so much younger than you.”
He snorted angrily. “Well, you don’t look it,” he retorted. She stopped short and looked at him in amazed indignation.
“What?” she quavered, a little out of breath, “I don’t look younger than you?”
At the sign of approaching tears, Sir William frowned impatiently. “I mean you don’t look—32,” he said diplomatically.
She simpered and thanked him for the compliment.
He smiled grimly as he said to himself, “She’s over 60 if she’s a day.”
“They all tell me I don’t look my age,” she said gushingly. “It’s my artistic soul that keeps me so young and fresh-looking.” They sat down on a bench, glad of the opportunity to cool themselves after their strenuous walk. “Do you know,” she said dreamily, fanning herself, “I am very different from most artistic people.” He looked at her. “Oh my, yes, indeed!” she affirmed convincingly. “I don’t live in the clouds, I am of the earth earthy,” and she gave him another languishing look.
“Ye don’t tell me,” he retorted mockingly.
“But I love art,” sighed Eppy ecstatically. “When I was young,” she went on reminiscently, “I mean when I was younger,” she corrected herself with a startled look at her silent companion, “I came near having a painting from my own hand hung in the National Gallery.”
“You are a clever woman,” he remarked sarcastically.
“It was this way,” she explained volubly. “I had painted a lovely marine. I do marines much better than anything else,” with a self-conscious smirk, “and upon showing it to Mr. William Nichol, a dear man, but one who drinks to excess, he promised to mention it to the Lord Mayor. Well, it made me exceedingly nervous, I vow. However, I bought a most lovely frame for it, Nile green in color, with sweet red plush ends.” She cleared her throat affectedly and continued with evident delight. “I do like things to match,” she explained, “and the green was the exact shade of the water. It was simply exquisite.” She clasped her hands together and rolled her eyes heavenward. “And the red ends exactly matched the cow, which was a lovely shade of——”
“Cow?” echoed Sir William in amazement. “Did I hear you say cow?”
Eppy looked at him pettishly. She didn’t like to be so violently interrupted. “Certainly a cow,” she returned frigidly. “Is there anything strange in a cow?” and she drew herself up with an injured air.
“No, there’s nothing strange in a cow when it is by itself,” replied Sir William dryly, “but in a marine, well, it is a little hard on the cow.”
“You don’t know what you are saying, Sir William,” flashed Eppy indignantly. “Please don’t interrupt me again. The cow I have reference to was in one corner drinking. I heard Lady Nancy Gordon telling Mrs. McLehose that the cow looked as if it were trying to drink the ocean dry; the idea!” and she clucked her tongue against her teeth in contemptuous scorn. “She’s a cat,” she continued spitefully; “I never could bear her. She was uncommon jealous of me, yes, indeed, but that’s another matter.”
Sir William turned crimson, and seemed about to choke, as he tried to smother his laughter. “You were telling me about your marine,” he finally stuttered.
“Don’t hurry me, Sir William,” said Eppy coquettishly. “Well, I took it to Lord Mundobbo. You know whom I mean; at that time he had something to do with the National Gallery; Mr. Nichol didn’t inform me as to his exact connection with it.” She paused and gazed soulfully into space. “Shall I ever forget the day? The sun was high in the heavens—but there,” she broke off with a deprecating smile. “I really must restrain my poetic impulse. But as I was saying,” she rambled on quickly, “the sky was overcast and threatening snow——”
“I thought the sun was shining, Miss McKay,” interrupted Sir William gruffly.
She was beginning to get on his nerves again. “I am a little mixed in my metaphors,” apologized Eppy condescendingly, “but you flustrate me so, Sir William,” and she tapped him playfully with her fan. “Well, I felt that victory was mine. I took off the paper—it was pink, tied with a yellow string—and laid it before him.” She paused impressively, then she continued in an elocutionary tone of voice. “He gazed at it long and silently. He was simply speechless. I knew he’d be. I said to him, ‘Lord Mundobbo, as much as it grieves me to part with my—ahem—masterpiece, for the sake of art I will permit you to add it to the collection of paintings in the National Gallery.’ Said he, ‘Miss McKay, really I appreciate this honor you do me and the National Gallery. It is a masterpiece of its kind, but I cannot accept it.’”
“The brute!” exclaimed Sir William in mock anger. “Why not?”
“He said if I would change the ocean into a fresh water pond and give the cow a chance, he might consider it,” and Eppy tearfully regarded her now laughing companion with an aggrieved air.
“Did ye do it?” inquired Sir William, rising to his feet.
“Did I do it!” repeated Eppy with horror expressed in every tone of her voice, every feature of her pointed face. “No, sir,” she replied emphatically. “Never would I willingly spoil a work of art. That was my first and only. I couldn’t improve on it. But my artistic soul was smothered, and now another, a poetic spirit has taken its place.” She smiled dreamily, a sigh of content escaping her parted lips.
“A case of the survival of the fittest, eh?” he retorted brusquely.
For a moment they walked on in silence, Sir William wondering how to get rid of the incubus, and Eppy happy over the impression she fondly imagined she had made upon Sir William. Just then a bend in the avenue brought them in full view of the broad terrace in front of the hall, where Robert’s handsome figure was outlined clearly against the dazzling blue of the sky. Several people were grouped near him. He seemed to be in animated conversation with some of them, and his face was radiant with smiles. With a cry of delight, Eppy hurried forward to greet him, forgetting Sir William utterly, much to his amazement. That she, or anyone, would dare leave him so unceremoniously to join Robert Burns angered him beyond measure. He followed her slowly at some little distance, with no very pleasant expression on his stern features.
Later in the afternoon when it was close to sunset, and all other amusements had given way to the delight of dancing Sir Roger de Coverly on the springy green turf to the silvery music of the orchestra, Mary and Mrs. Dunlop put in their appearance. Mary was looking very beautiful in a clinging, old-fashioned white crepe de chene, another old relic of Mrs. Dunlop’s dead and gone slim youth. While they danced, she reclined languidly in a low chair, her sad eyes fixed mournfully upon Robert’s glowing face as he lay stretched in lazy length at her feet. The day had passed and still she had had no opportunity to tell him the dire news, for she had not seen him since the night before.
While the dancing was in progress a liveried page walked noiselessly over the turf and stopping beside the recumbent figure of the poet, quietly handed him a note. He leisurely opened it and read it at a glance. “Say I’ll be right there,” he said to the waiting page after a moment’s meditation. He excused himself to Mary and the others and followed the man indoors, with a frown of impatient wonder clouding his brow.
Under the shadow of a noble maple, Lady Glencairn was seated in earnest conversation with her uncle. Her ladyship was looking exceedingly beautiful in a pink-flowered summer silk, which puffed and billowed around her, with a bunch of white heather at her breast and a wreath of the same dainty flowers in her picturesque Leghorn hat. She held a pink-lined parasol over her head, and from under the protecting shadow her dark lustrous eyes flashed disdainfully as she regarded her scolding companion. Suddenly she gave a start and leaned forward to watch the group opposite. She had noticed the quiet entrance of the servant and the immediate departure of the poet, and idly wondered who it was that desired to see Robert on such urgent business that they must needs follow him here. The minutes passed and still he did not return. She was growing anxious. “Suppose”—and she started violently at the sudden thought—“suppose it was by some unfortunate chance Jean Armour herself?” She rose quickly to her feet, with a word of apology and after a quick look around, in which she noticed Mary’s pale face and restless manner, she walked leisurely toward the house. Once inside she rang for the page and upon questioning him learned that the young woman who had insisted on seeing Mr. Burns, and who was none other than Jean Armour, as she concluded from the man’s description, had just gone, and that Mr. Burns was now seated in the drawing-room alone. Hastily dismissing him, she stole softly into the parlors, and there beside the table, his face in his hands, sat Robert, his shoulders heaving convulsively. She looked at him a moment and the tears of pity came into her luminous eyes. Then softly she walked to his side and laid her cool hand upon his feverish head. “Robert, I am so sorry for you,” she said gently.