Robert Burns
BOOK III
CHAPTER XX
When Robert reached Ellisland the evening sun was flaming over the distant western hills. Not a breath stirred the crimson opening blossom, or the verdant spreading leaf. It was a golden moment for a poet’s heart. He stopped his horse by the door of the cottage and stood silently regarding his future home. He had secured from Mr. Miller in Dumfries, the owner of the farm, the keys, and declining the company of several, who offered to show him the way to his new possession, he set out on his journey in gloomy solitude. For a few moments he listened to the birds pouring their harmony on every hand, as if to welcome the wanderer, then with a sigh he unlocked the door and went within. A few weeks passed uneventfully. Upon his arrival he had immediately begun to rebuild the dwelling house, which was inadequate to accommodate his family. It afforded his jaded senses much pleasure to survey the grounds he was about to cultivate, and in rearing a building that should give shelter to his wife and children (who were with Squire Armour in Mauchline, the stern old man having relented upon a bed of sickness), and, as he fondly hoped, to his own gray hairs; sentiments of independence buoyed up his mind; pictures of domestic content and peace rose in his imagination; and a few weeks passed away, the most tranquil, if not the happiest, which he had experienced for some time. His fame naturally drew upon him the attention of his neighbors in the district in which he lived, and he was received at the table of the gentlemen of Nithdale with welcome, with kindness and respect. It is to be lamented that at this critical period of his life he was without the restraining influences of the society of his wife, for a great change had taken place in his situation; his old habits were broken, and he brooded in melancholy abstraction upon his past glories in Edinburgh and his wrongs, while thoughts of Highland Mary constantly filled his waking hours, and caused him to forget the good resolutions he had formed, in his desire to drown recollections. The social parties to which he was invited too often seduced him from his rustic labor and his plain rustic food, and overthrew the unsteady fabric of his resolutions, inflaming those propensities which temperance might have weakened, and prudence finally suppressed. It was not long, therefore, before Robert began to view his farm with dislike and despondence, if not with disgust. Before his advent into Edinburgh society, and during his sojourn there, he had refrained from the habitual use of strong liquors. But in Dumfries the sins that so easily beset him continually presented themselves, and though he clearly foresaw the consequences of yielding to them, his appetite and sensations, which could not prevent the dictates of his judgment, finally triumphed over the power of his will.
His great celebrity made him an object of interest and curiosity to strangers, and few persons of cultivated minds passed through Dumfries without attempting to see the poet, and to enjoy the pleasure of his conversation. As he could not receive them under his own humble roof these interviews passed at the inns of the towns, and often terminated in excesses, which Robert was seldom able to resist. Indeed, there were never wanting persons to share his social pleasures, to lead or accompany him to the tavern, to partake in the wildest sallies of his wit, or to witness the strength and degradation of his genius.
Unfortunately he had for several years looked to an office in the excise as a certain means of livelihood, should his other expectations fail. He had been recommended to the Board of Excise before leaving Mossgiel, and had received the instructions necessary for such a situation. He now applied to be employed regularly, and was immediately appointed exciseman, or gauger, as it is vulgarly called, of the district in which he lived. His farm was after this, in a great measure, abandoned to servants, while he betook himself to the duties of his new appointment. To be sure he could still be seen at intervals directing his plow, a labor in which he excelled, but it was not at Ellisland that he was now in general to be found. Mounted on horseback, our hero was pursuing the defaulters of the revenue among the hills and vales of Nithdale, his roving eye wandering over the charms of nature, and muttering his wayward fancies as he moved along. Though by nature of an athletic form, Robert had in his constitution the peculiarities and delicacies that belong to the temperament of genius. Endowed by nature with great sensibility of nerves, he was in his corporeal, as well as in his mental system, liable to inordinate impressions, to fever of the body, as well as of mind. This predisposition to disease, which strict temperance in diet, regular exercise, and sound sleep might have subdued, habits of a very different nature, strengthened and inflamed.
The following year Jean and her bairns came to live at Ellisland. He received them with quiet affection, and Jean, who had grown strangely humbled and passive, did her utmost to please him at all times, never referring to the past, and tactfully avoiding all irritating subjects, and by her soothing presence, her loving words of comfort and sympathy, soon made her presence indispensable to her moody husband. Another year passed by, a year of anxiety for Jean, who was compelled to witness her husband’s lapses from sobriety, which now came so often, and to watch his health decline slowly, but surely, in consequence. In the midst of all his wanderings Robert met nothing in his domestic circle but gentleness and forgiveness, except the gnawings of his own remorse. He acknowledged his transgressions to his patient wife, promised amendment, and again received pardon for his offenses. But as the strength of his body decayed, his resolution became feebler, and habit acquired predominating strength.
All this time Robert had entertained hopes of promotion in the exercise, but circumstances occurred which retarded their fulfillment, and which in his own mind destroyed all expectation of their ever being fulfilled. His steady friend, Mr. Mackenzie, interposed his good offices in his behalf, however, and he was suffered to retain his situation, but given to understand that his promotion was deferred, and must depend on his future behavior. This circumstance made a deep impression on Robert. He fancied that everyone held him in contemptuous pity, as a man of some genius who had dwindled into a paltry exciseman, and who was slinking out the rest of his insignificant existence in the meanest of pursuits, and among the lowest of mankind; and for days he would sit quietly on the banks of the river plunged in the gloomiest meditation.
About this time he received word of Lord Glencairn’s death. The news plunged him into another fit of melancholy gloom, lessened somewhat, however, by the assurance that his noble benefactor had died knowing the truth, believing in Robert’s innocence, and asking his forgiveness.
As his health declined his thoughts became more and more fixed upon Mary, who was once more in Mossgiel at Colonel Montgomery’s. He yearned with bitter longing to gaze upon her sweet face again, to hear her dear voice speak his name. These thoughts he strove vainly to conquer, to banish from his mind, for Jean’s patience and goodness, her loving forbearance, filled him with shame at his own unworthiness. But she gave no sign of the bitter heartache she endured. She accepted it all in patient resignation, striving by uniform prudence and good management to relieve his distress of mind regarding the material welfare of his little flock.
Toward the end of spring he contracted a severe cold while in reckless pursuit of an offender, in a driving rain storm, and, having caught the guilty one, he celebrated the event at the inn, in company with some congenial spirits, seated in his wet clothes, the result being an attack of rheumatism, which laid him upon a bed of sickness for some weeks. His salary was but a small one, hardly sufficient to keep his family from want, and though hitherto his farm had yielded him a comfortable living, for some months it had been left to run itself, with the inevitable results. Planting time had come and gone, and still his ground lay all untouched. His laborers had refused to work for him longer without pay, and Souter Johnny, who was now making his home at Ellisland, could only attend to the lighter chores about the farm. And now things began to take a serious outlook for our hero and his family. Though sick and discouraged, with want staring him in the face, he still sent glowing reports of his continued prosperity to his loved ones in Mossgiel, reports that filled their anxious hearts with false hopes and prayerful thankfulness.
CHAPTER XXI
One day during Robert’s early convalescence, Souter, after having finished his chores, sauntered leisurely through the vegetable garden. It was a peaceful nook, and there were household odors of mint, and thyme, and boy’s love, which were pleasant to the soul of Souter Johnny, and reminded him of stewed rabbit, which he dearly loved, with all its attendant delicacies. He paced the path slowly, the light of the sinking sun blazing gloriously upon the brilliant gown of his companion, who was simpering along beside him, her little gray eyes looking down on him with flattering interest as she listened with apparent delight to his tales of daring adventure. Finally their conversation drifted to the sick man within.
“Poor bonnie laddie,” sighed Eppy dolefully. “To think of him being so ill. We all loved him dearly in Edinburgh.”
“He hasna’ been the same lad since he returned from there,” replied Souter. “He had many great disappointments in his young life, I tell ye,” and he shook his head dismally. “An’ noo everything has gone to the dogs wi’ him, ever since he has been in Ellisland. ’Twas a sorry day when he became an exciseman, say I.” He paused a moment reflectively, then continued earnestly, “But no matter what anybody says different, he has always done his duty faithfully, always on the tramp in all kinds of weather, till at last his robust constitution has given out, an’ he bowled over, so to speak.” He loyally refrained from mentioning that Robert’s illness was partly due to his imprudent way of living.
Eppy sighed again. “And he the Bard of Scotland,” she returned commiseratingly. “How I pity him. Isn’t it sad Mr. MacDougall?”
“Aye,” replied Souter, with a quick look from under his shaggy eyebrows. “Ye hae a kind heart in ye, Miss McKay,” he observed after a pause.
“Do you really think so?” she simpered. “I fear you are a base flatterer, Mr. MacDougall. In Edinburgh there were so many who flattered me, who sought for my favors, that I became wearied of it all, and longed for a change. That is why I came here to Ayrshire and purchased the farm adjoining, that I might rest during the summer.”
“And then ye’ll be leaving us?” asked Souter with a deep sigh.
“Perhaps not,” and she looked at him coquettishly. “Would anyone care if I did return to town?” she insinuated slyly.
“’Tis a wonder that such a bonnie lassie as ye should still be a maiden,” he observed abruptly with a sly look out of the corner of his eye.
“Oh, I have had many offers,” she answered airily, though her heart fluttered with a newly-born hope.
“Do ye ne’er get lonely, Miss McKay?”
She sighed and cast down her eyes. “Yes, I do,” she declared plaintively, “and I’m lonely now in that great big house with only a servant for company.”
“Souter Johnny,” said Souter to himself, “this is the chance of your lifetime; go in and win a home.” Having arrived at this resolution, he cleared his throat and pausing in his walk, faced the simpering old lady. “Mum, ye see before ye,” he remarked, not without some nervousness, “a single man, like yoursel’. Not from necessity, och nae; Souter Johnny, before he lost his handsome looks, could hae had his pick o’ any o’ the lassies, but I hae waited till noo——” he paused impressively.
“Till now, Mr. MacDougall?” she repeated breathlessly, eager to have him continue.
“Weel, noo I hae found her,” he answered, “an’ she’s what I hae been lookin’ for a’ my life.”
“How romantic you are,” she cried soulfully, with an admiring look.
“Aye, that I am, ’tis born in me,” he responded. “Do ye mind if I smoke, mum?” he asked carelessly. He took out of his waistcoat pocket his old black pipe and held it in his hand.
“Oh, no,” she gushed. “I love to see you smoke, ’tis so manly.”
Having lighted his pipe and got it drawing to his satisfaction, he turned to her once more, and remarked casually, “Would ye call me too old to get married? I’m askin’ your advice noo.” He looked at her quizzically.
She shook her head vigorously in the negative. “Age does not matter at all,” she observed sagely. “The question is do you feel peart?” and she regarded him with anxious eyes.
A grim smile played around Souter’s lips. Removing his pipe, he replied with convincing firmness, “Never was sick in my life, strong and healthy. Feel my muscle!” and he held out his doubled arm to the timid Eppy, who shrank away bashfully. “It willna’ hurt ye,” he declared. Thus encouraged, she gingerly touched it with one finger. “Fine, isn’t it?” he asked proudly. Before she could answer he continued, “I have a fine appetite, mum, an’ I dinna’ feel my age. Noo I ask ye, am I too ugly to be looked at, mum? Dinna’ be afraid to tell me the truth.” He held up his head, straightened his bent shoulders and stood awaiting her reply.
She eyed him a moment in silence. “Well, Mr. MacDougall,” she said doubtfully, after a pause, “I must confess you’re no beauty.” A look of disappointment came over Souter’s face, seeing which she hastened to reassure him. “But I care not for looks, Mr. MacDougall,” she cried earnestly. “One could get used to you. I’ve heard it said that one can get used to anything in time,” and she smiled sweetly into his downcast face.
He gave her a quick look.
“Is it as bad as that?” he returned reflectively. “Weel, looks is all a matter of taste. And noo let’s get down to business.” Eppy gave a start and her hands fluttered about nervously, as she waited for his next words. “Do ye think, mum, this sweet, lovely lassie I hae in my mind would hae me for a husband?” he insinuated softly.
She gave a little gasp. “This is so sudden,” she simpered, then broke off abruptly—he hadn’t asked her yet. “Er—why don’t you ask the beautiful lassie. She might think of it.” She coyly looked down upon him from under her big bonnet.
Souter threw down his pipe in his earnestness. “I will,” he ejaculated quickly, his eyes sparkling with triumph. “’Tis your ain bright sel’ for whom my heart is yearnin’. Will ye hae me, Eppy?”
Eppy closed her eyes in blissful content. “My first proposal,” she thought joyfully. Opening her eyes, she gazed at him fondly. “Oh, I don’t want to make a mistake now,” she cried, half frightened, but she had no intention of refusing him, however.
“Dinna’ fear,” replied Souter eagerly. “I’ll attend to that; there’ll be no mistake made, I’ll warrant ye.”
“You’re such a masterful man,” she exclaimed, with an admiring look, “and—well, there’s no gainsaying you. I must confess a real live man about the house would be most comforting—to my sister, Sibella—and—and me, so I—I’ll have you, Souter,” and she threw herself into his arms with a cry of joy and thankfulness.
“Thank ye, thank ye, mum,” said Souter gratefully. “I feel as if I had won the prize ticket in a grand lottery.” He heaved a great sigh of blissful content as he thought of the big house across the way. “There noo, my pipe is out again,” he observed, after a little pause, and he calmly turned his back and proceeded to relight it, leaving Eppy regarding him with reproachful eyes and pouting lips.
“Souter,” she finally faltered, “I—I thought you were more romantic. We haven’t sealed our engagement by a—a——”
“A—what?” asked Souter concernedly. “Is there something mair to do?”
She sidled up to him, giggling bashfully, and after turning to see if they were observed, she put her arm around his neck and said pensively:
A comical look of comprehension dawned on Souter’s face. “O—oh! I see, ’tis a kiss ye mean,” he answered lightly. “Weel, noo, I’ll na’ stop ye if ye want to kiss me. If you can stand it, I can,” and he held his face up to hers, for she towered a foot above him. With a sudden dart, a downward sweep of her head, she glued her lips to the little man’s, then with a resounding smack she released him, with a sigh of absolute content upon her homely face. “Weel, noo, that’s not half bad,” observed Souter, smacking his lips reflectively.
“Now, Souter,” declared Eppy decidedly, after they had walked a few paces in quiet, “since you are a Highlander, you must wear the kilt, to please me; and it must be the tartan of our clan.”
Souter threw up his hands in amazed horror. “Oh, dearie, dinna’ ask me to do that; I canna’ wear the kilt; I am na’ built that way,” and he looked down at his legs with whimsical seriousness.
“Then I’ll not marry you,” she declared with apparent firmness.
Souter hurriedly explained in trembling fear. “I’ll tell ye the truth, dearie: when I last wore the kilt the laddies laughed at my crooked legs an’ called me a scarecrow, an’ I swore then I’d ne’er show my bare legs to mortal man again. Would ye hae me expose my miserable defects, womman?”
She stood off and let her eyes rove slowly down his nether extremities with the air of a connoisseur. “I protest they do not look so badly,” she observed encouragingly.
“‘Keep on turning,’ she commanded.”
“Looks are deceivin’, lassie,” quickly replied Souter, who objected seriously to kilts. “My legs are na’ my beauty point, for a’ that; they are just twa wee bones, I tell ye, so be prepared for the worst,” and he shook his head dolefully.
“Oh, well, as Mr. Burns says, ‘A man’s a man, for a’ that!’” she replied sweetly. Then after a moment’s reflection, she asked with tender solicitude, “Are they so very wee, Souter?”
“Aye, ye should see them,” he replied eagerly, hoping to convince her as to his unfitness to wear the dress.
Eppy held up her hands before her face in horror. “Whatever are you saying, Souter?”
“Weel, my legs are a maist sensitive subject wi’ me, my dear,” he returned apologetically.
“Turn around,” she commanded. He did so in wonder. “Keep on turning,” she commanded. “I think, mayhap, they’re not so bad,” she observed after a critical inspection. “However, after we are wed I can decide better whether ye can wear the kilt or not.”
Souter regarded her in meek astonishment, then he humbly rejoined, “Weel, if ye can stand their looks, I’ll na’ complain, but it’s o’er chilly at times,” and he shivered apprehensively.
She laughed gayly. “Now, Souter, I must go home. Come over soon, you masterful man!”
“Aye, the first thing in the morning,” retorted Souter calmly, “an’ I’ll bring the minister wi’ me.”
“The minister! Why bring him?” asked Eppy in amazement.
“To marry us, my dear,” replied Souter quietly.
“You must be daft man!” she cried in sudden alarm.
Souter shook his head. “Ye’d better take no chances,” he retorted calmly. “I may change my mind,” and he carefully knocked the ashes out of his pipe and put it in his pocket.
“You impatient man!” fluttered Eppy. “I—I—come over and we’ll talk about it. Good-by, laddie,” and she tripped daintily off down the path toward the gate.
Then Souter sat down on the seat under the big tree beside the house. “Souter Johnny,” he said to himself, “ye’re a devil with the wimmen, mon,” and a smile of self-satisfaction stole over his wrinkled face.
“Souter Johnny!” panted Eppy, running back to him breathlessly, “I’ve changed my mind.”
Souter jumped to his feet in sudden terror. Had he lost her after all, or rather, had he lost the home across the way? “W—what, do you mean?” he stammered.
“I mean—you—you—may bring the minister,” she gasped, and away she fluttered down the walk before he could recover from his astonishment.
“Hurrah! your fortune is made, Souter Johnny!” he cried aloud, when the meaning of her words had dawned upon him, and he threw his bonnet high in the air. “Ye’ll nae hae to cobble shoes any mair, noo, for ye’ll be lord of the manor house, wi’ servants to wait on ye. Oh, the power of money! ye’ll ride out in your fine carriage, Souter, and as ye drive by, all the neighbors will be bowing and scraping to ye. I can see them noo. ’Twill be ‘Mr. MacDougall, will ye do us the honor to call at the castle; her ladyship would be pleased to see you.’ Then I’ll say to them that snubbed me when I was poor, ‘Weel, noo, ’tis very busy I am, attending to my estates and other social duties. Tell her grace that Mr. and Mrs. MacDougall will be pleased to have her visit us at MacDougall House, if she cares to meet us.’” And he stalked along majestically to the house with his head held proudly erect. “Noo, I’ll find the minister and make sure of my bird.” Arriving at the door of the cottage, he stopped, and addressing an imaginary butler, said pompously, “James, open the door, your master wishes to enter! Thank ye! Noo take my hat! Noo ye may go!” With a chuckle of delight he quietly opened the door and composing his features into their natural expression, entered the cottage and made his way to the kitchen, where he found a bowl of porridge awaiting him, which he hungrily devoured.
Meanwhile in the other room Robert lay tossing feverishly upon his bed. Jean sat beside him smoothing his pillow from time to time, and soothing his anguished mind with words of love and encouragement.
“Blessings on your faithful head, Jean,” he murmured gratefully. “You’re the best, truest wife that erring mortal man ever had.” She flushed with pleasure at his words of praise. “Oh, this accursed rheumatism,” he groaned. “How it shackles one, making one as much a prisoner as though a ball and chain were attached to his ankle.”
“But you are much better to-day,” said Jean brightly.
“For a while only. I fear me this is my fatal illness,” he replied despondently.
“Don’t say that, Robert; you’ll be on your feet in a few days now,” and she looked hopefully into his worn and haggard face.
He pressed her hand gently. “I haven’t been the best of husbands, lass,” he said after a pause. “I have sore tried your patience and your love ofttimes, by my unfaithfulness, my unworthiness.”
“I do not complain, Robert,” she answered quietly.
“No, ye have never done that,” he said with a tender smile, “frequent though my lapses in sobriety and propriety have been.” He paused thoughtfully; presently he continued in mournful reflection, “But I was punished for those sins afterward, for then came remorse, shame, regret, the three hell hounds that ever dog my steps and bay at my heels.”
“If it is God’s will——” began Jean, but he interrupted her.
“Ah, no, Jean,” he replied bitterly. “’Tis not God’s will that I should be here, racked with pain and tortured by the sins that come staring me in the face, each one telling a more bitter tale than his fellow. ’Tis only the result of my own headstrong folly.” She wiped away the drops of perspiration from his brow with tender fingers, while he lay panting from the excitement that the recital of his sorrows had occasioned.
“There, do not distress yourself with such bitter thoughts,” she told him gently. “What is done, is done, and all our sins will be blotted out in that other life.”
“That other life,” he repeated dreamily. “Can it be possible that when I resign this feverish being I shall find myself in conscious existence, enjoying and enjoyed? Would to God I as firmly believed it as I ardently wish it. If there is another life,” he continued with a flash of his old whimsical brightness, “it must be for the just, the benevolent, the amiable only, and the good. I’m sore afraid Rob Burns will na’ be able to get even a peep through the Pearly Gates.”
“Hush, dear,” replied Jean with tender reproach. “’Twill be open to all. ‘Let whosoever will, come and have eternal life,’ the Master said.”
He mused a while on that sweet thought. “Ah, weel, just noo,” he returned with a sigh, “this life is what we must face, and which I must cling to as long as I can for the sake of my little flock. Poverty and misfortune must be overcome, and at once. Our salvation now lies in my getting the supervisorship and increased salary; then we need have no fear of the future; we can laugh at fate.”
“You sent your last poem, ‘Prettiest maid on Devon’s bank,’ to Mr. Thompson, didn’t ye, laddie?” asked Jean anxiously.
“Aye,” he replied, closing his eyes wearily. “And I implored him for God’s sake to send me a few pounds to tide me over the present, till I got my promotion. I am not asking a loan, ’tis a business transaction,” he continued proudly, “and I ken he will send whatever he is able to spare. He is a good friend, and it grieves me bitterly to be obliged to ask help of him to keep us from starving. But,” and a note of independence crept into his voice, “my song is worth whatever he sends.”
“Hunger and want can humble the most independent spirit,” returned Jean sadly. She rose and walked to the window and looked out into the twilight with searching, anxious eyes. “Posty should bring us an answer to-night,” she murmured.
“An’ he will,” cried Robert hopefully, “for Thompson willna’ disappoint me, for he kens I am in sore straits.”
“Heaven bless him!” cried Jean fervently.
CHAPTER XXII
The next day our hero was in better health and spirits, and insisted upon being up and dressed. Jean, not without secret misgivings, got him into his clothes and helped him to the rocking-chair, which she had drawn up to the open window. For a while he sat there in silent content, bathed in the warm, golden light of the morning sun, whose genial beams seemed to infuse new vigor into his languid frame, while the gentle summer wind blew upon him with its exhilarating, refreshing warmth. After Jean had performed her household duties she returned to find him playing happily with their two boys, telling them tale after tale, while they sat perched on either arm of the big rocker, their eyes popping out of their round, healthy faces with excited interest. He looked up as she entered and smiled into her anxious face.
“Do not tire yourself, Robert,” she cautioned him gently. “Come, lads, run out doors and play a wee, your father is tired.” But they clung to him affectionately.
“One mair story,” they pleaded.
“Tell us aboot Tam O’Shanter’s ride!” commanded Robert, Jr., gravely. Jean sat down while he recited the stirring tale, and watched her husband with eyes aglow with love and pity. How changed he was, she thought with a sigh. What havoc had been wrought in that sturdy frame, that fine constitution, in the once ringing tones of his musical voice. Alas, all had flown, but with God’s help she would win him back to health and strength once more, she told herself with resolute determination. As he finished he kissed the earnest faces held up to his with such worshipful affection, and with a serious “Thank ye, father,” they turned and marched quietly out of the room and into the open air, and soon their childish treble floated in through the open window, bringing a smile of amused affection to the faces of their parents.
“Now, Robert, ye must be tired out,” remarked Jean presently. “Will ye not try and get a nappie?”
“In a wee, Jean,” he answered, looking out of the window thoughtfully.
“Then you must have a bittie of gruel now,” she said, rising and going toward the door.
“Nay, nay, Jean, I thank ye, but I canna’ eat nor drink nor sleep just at present.”
“Then try and take a nappie,” she insisted, smoothing the pillows and sheets in anxious preparation.
“A little later, Jean,” he replied a trifle impatiently.
She sighed patiently. “Then I’ll leave ye for a while,” and she walked toward the door. “Ye’re quite comfortable?” she asked. He nodded. Slowly she closed the door upon him and applied herself to the task of getting the midday meal.
Presently, a knock on the door startled her, interrupting her meager preparations. Hastily wiping her hands on her apron, she opened it, and there on the threshold stood two richly dressed strangers. “From the city,” she mentally said, noticing the elegance of their attire.
Courteously raising his high conical blue silk hat, the younger man addressed her. “Is not this Mistress Burns, whom I have the honor to address?” he asked.
“I am Mistress Burns,” replied Jean with dignity.
“We have come to see your husband. Will you inform him, my dear madam, that his friend Henry Mackenzie would be pleased to converse with him.”
Jean opened wide the door, a look of pleasure on her face. “Please to enter,” she said quietly. They did so. She showed them into the living-room and bade them be seated. “Robert will be out directly,” she said, and hastily went to tell Robert of their arrival.
“So this is where Scotland’s Bard lives,” remarked Mr. Mackenzie, looking about the room critically. “This cheerless hut, which bespeaks naught but poverty. Poor Burns, I pity him.”
“’Tis all his own fault,” testily replied his companion.
“I am not so sure of that, Sir William,” said Mr. Mackenzie with a swift look at him. “I have always believed and maintained that Burns was innocent of that monstrous charge my Lady Glencairn brought against him, even though you did confess to being an eye witness of the occurrence. However, she has received her just deserts. She is at last totally ostracized.”
“Do ye mean to say——” sputtered Sir William.
Mr. Mackenzie raised his hand in a stately gesture. “I really do not care to discuss it, Sir William. But at last Edinburgh is beginning to realize how cruelly they have misjudged him, and they would welcome him back again, but I fear his pride and independence will prevent his accepting any assistance whatever.”
Sir William gave a snort of impatience. “I cannot waste my sympathy on him,” he said angrily. “I am dispatched here to do my duty, and I must do it,” and his mouth set in a straight, determined line.
“’Tis a duty that for once is uncommon pleasant to you,” replied Mackenzie sarcastically. There was silence for a moment, then he continued, “I take it, the decision of the Board is final?” he asked.
“Aye, ’tis irrevocable, sir,” replied Sir William gruffly.
“And he must live on here as a poor exciseman,” murmured Mackenzie half to himself. “Live! In sooth ’tis but an existence,” and he strode to the window in sudden perturbation and gazed thoughtfully out upon the untilled land.
The door of the chamber opened and Robert entered the room, a smile of pleasure lighting up his face. Mr. Mackenzie stepped eagerly forward and clasped his hand and shook it warmly.
“I am uncommon glad to see ye beneath my humble roof,” said Rob earnestly, “and that ye havena’ forgotten poor, hopeless Robert Burns.”
Mackenzie led him to a chair. “Indeed, I have not,” he replied brightly. “Believe me, Mr. Burns, when I say that I prize your friendship above that of all men I know.”
Robert was about to reply, when he caught sight of Sir William Creech watching them impatiently. He gave a great start and rose to his feet.
“Sir William Creech!” he said slowly and bitterly. “To what do I owe this visit?”
“I come on a matter of business,” replied Sir William, a flush rising to his cheek.
“What business can ye have with me noo?” asked Robert with rising anger. “Perjurer, have ye come to gloat over the man ye helped ruin by your iniquitous falsehood? It isna’ good news ye bring, I warrant ye, else ye would not be the bearer of it.” And he gave a scornful little laugh.
“Insulting as ever, Robert Burns,” snarled Sir William, a red spot of anger on each cheek, his eyes flashing wickedly. “Well, I’ll state my business briefly. Ye wrote to the Board of Commissioners for the position of supervisor in the excise. Your request has been voted on and was refused.” He spat the words out with vindictive satisfaction.
“Refused!” gasped Rob incredulously. He had felt so confident that the position would be given him. He sat down weakly in his chair, dazed for a moment. “But my name has been on the list of promotion for months,” he told them dully.
“’Twas scratched off some weeks ago.”
“Scratched off? and why?”
“Because of your Jacobite tendencies,” replied Sir William coldly. “Many reports concerning your disloyal sentiments to your country have reached the Board, which utterly ruined any chance ye might have had of promotion.”
Robert sat with bowed head, crushed by his disappointment. “Again must I drink deeply of the cup of humiliation and disappointment!” he cried bitterly. Presently he looked up at Mr. Mackenzie with a grim smile on his trembling face. “I am at last persuaded, Mr. Mackenzie, that it was of me the Hebrew sage prophesied when he foretold, ‘and behold, on whatsoever this man doth set his heart, it shall not prosper.’” His head dropped on his chest—his hands clenched the sides of the chair with despairing intensity. Suddenly he jumped to his feet, his face set and drawn, his eyes wild and flashing with bitter anger. “My curse on those damned informers, who have blasted my hopes,” he exclaimed hoarsely. “May the devil be let loose to torture them to madness.” Then he sank down in his chair exhausted by his passion, his face pale and quivering.
Mr. Mackenzie hastened to his side, fearful of the consequences of the excitement on his frail constitution. Presently Robert spoke again, but in a weak, broken voice.
“My last hope is torn from me,” he said despairingly. “What shall I do now? Ah, Mr. Mackenzie, I have felt all the sweetness of applause in my short life, but I am now experiencing the bitterness of the after-taste.” And the pitiful little smile, the pathetic catch in his voice, strangely moved the heart of his listener.
“Pardon my question, Mr. Burns,” said he, “but surely the excise allows you a salary?”
Rob laughed mirthlessly. “Aye,” he replied, “the munificent sum of thirty pounds a year.”
“Thirty pounds a year!” repeated Mackenzie incredulously.
“Aye, only half of which I am getting now,” explained Robert bitterly. “Ye see I am ill and off duty.”
“And are there no royalties on your songs or published collection coming to you?”
“Ask Sir William,” retorted Robert bitterly.
“There is no demand for your poems since you left Edinburgh,” replied Sir William crustily. “The youth Walter Scott has taken your place in their regard. He shows a remarkable talent for rhyming.” And a malicious smile appeared on his crafty face as he noted the quick flush appear on the expressive countenance of the sick man.
His quivering features betrayed how deeply the barbed dart had entered his heart. He turned to Mr. Mackenzie with a resigned little gesture. “Ye see, sir,” he faltered with a pathetic smile, “how soon I am forgot.” He paused, and the weak tears of sickness welled up into his eyes; then he resumed with a shade of bitterness, “Scott is sure to succeed, for he is of noble birth. He’ll not be patronized, at least.”
Mr. Mackenzie had been thinking deeply, and now he turned to Robert with a resolute air. “Mr. Burns,” he said earnestly, “with your consent, I will go to the Board of Commissioners of Excise, of which the Duke of Gordon is the chairman, and move them to grant you full salary. They are well known to me and I am sure will not refuse my request.”
A glad smile broke up Robert’s gloomy features. “Ye are a friend, indeed!” he cried fervently. “God grant they do not refuse you, for if they do, I must lay my account with an exit truly en poète, for if I die not with disease, I must perish with hunger.”
“Your interference will do no good here, Mr. Mackenzie,” hotly declared Sir William, glaring at Robert hatefully.
“I think it will,” returned Mr. Mackenzie coolly. “’Twould be Lord Glencairn’s wishes were he alive, and his wishes will be respected by the Board, mark well what I tell you,” and he flashed him a significant look of defiance. Then turning to Robert, he shook him by the hand and bade him adieu, saying that he must return at once to Edinburgh. “And rest assured,” he concluded, “I will inform you at once of the decision of the Board, which without doubt will be favorable. Cheer up, my man, Scotland will not allow her ablest son to die of want and neglect, if Henry Mackenzie can prevent it.”
“Heaven bless ye!” responded Robert gratefully.
“Mr. Burns, if you——” began Mr. Mackenzie, then he hesitated a moment, but finally after a moment’s thought continued his sentence—“if you will but accept a loan,” and his hand sought his pocket, but Robert shook his head decidedly.
“No, no, Mr. Mackenzie,” he said proudly; “I canna’ accept it, thank ye.”
Mackenzie sighed. “Oh, you sensitive people,” he remarked, “pride and poverty.”
“Ye see,” explained Robert gratefully, “I expect a few pounds from the sale of a poem, which will relieve my temporary embarrassment, and if the commissioners grant me full salary, I can start for the seaside, where I may regain my lost health.” He passed his hand wearily over his brow, which began to pain him, for the excitement had worn him out. “But I fear that has flown from me forever, that the voice of the Bard will soon be heard among ye no mair.”
“Nonsense!” replied Mackenzie brightly, putting his hand affectionately on Robert’s shoulder. “You will live for years yet, but you must take better care of this life which is so valuable to your family, to your friends and to the world.” There was deep concern in his pleasant voice and in his earnest eyes.
At that moment the street door opened and Eppy appeared dressed youthfully in white, leading by the hand none other than Souter Johnny, who was looking decidedly crestfallen and sheepish, as he vainly tried to pull down his little short kilt over his thin, bony legs, for Souter was at last arrayed in full kilts, much to his evident sorrow. He looked exceedingly grotesque, squeezed into the suit, which was too small even for his undersized frame.
“In the name of!—Souter Johnny, what means this?” gasped Robert in amazement.
“Canna’ a man wear the kilts without being laughed at?” answered Souter ruefully, resenting the amused look on their faces.
“Well, I must say ye look better in breeches,” observed Rob with a quizzical glance at Souter’s grotesquely thin crooked legs.
“He wears them for my sake,” explained Eppy with a soulful look at the uncomfortable Souter; then she spied the visitors. “Why, Mr. Mackenzie, it is good to see you here!” she exclaimed effusively, and she made him a deep courtesy, purposely ignoring Sir William.
“Daft as ever,” grunted Sir William audibly.
She regarded him with a haughty look of disdain. “Daft!” she repeated. “Huh! you cannot insult me now with impunity!” she exclaimed in triumph. Turning to Souter, she called him to her side with a commanding gesture.
“Noo, ye see, Robert, what has become of my breeches,” whispered Souter in Robert’s ear as he passed him. “She is wearing them,” and he winked his eye significantly.
As he approached her, she reached out a long arm and drew him to her so suddenly that it took him off his feet. Finally he righted himself and stood close beside her, his little gray head, with the bonnet perched saucily on one side of it, scarcely reaching to her shoulder.
“Friends,” she announced proudly, “this gentleman is my—my husband,” and she noticed with pleasure the look of consternation which appeared on all their faces.
“What!” cried Robert aghast.
“You’re married!” ejaculated Mr. Mackenzie incredulously.
“Poor man,” sneered Sir William mockingly.
Eppy tittered gleefully. “Yes, I was married to-day, and ’tis heavenly,” and she rolled her eyes in an ecstasy of joy.
“Well, ’twas the best you could do, I suppose,” observed Sir William maliciously.
“I wouldn’t take you as a gift,” she flashed. “And you tried hard enough to win me, dear knows,” she went on with total disregard for the truth. “He was forever running after me,” she explained deprecatingly to Souter.
“You—you—you are not speaking the truth,” sputtered Sir William furiously. “If I was running it was to get away from you.”
“Oh, of course you won’t admit it now,” she observed calmly. “But I am rejoicing that I didn’t marry you.” She looked Souter over critically. “Well, Souter may not be very handsome,” she remarked thoughtfully after a pause, “but he is a perfect picture in kilts,” and she gave a sigh of absolute content.
“Women are queer creatures,” whispered Souter to Robert deprecatingly, “and my—my wife, ahem! weel, she’s the queerest of them a’.”
“Well, my friends,” laughed Mr. Mackenzie, “I protest this time I must be off. Good-by, lad.”
“May blessings attend your steps and affliction know ye not,” answered Robert fervently. “Ye might take Sir William along, for he looks maist uncomfortable amongst honest people!” he added dryly.
Mackenzie laughed grimly and passed out, leaving Sir William to follow.
“Ye insulting pauper!” fumed Sir William, starting angrily for the door.
“Ye can go back to your Edinburgh friends,” cried Robert with flashing eyes, “an’ tell them that e’en though ye found me almost on the verge of despair, with oblivion hovering dark over my still independent head, that I yet live in the hope of seeing the prophecy I made to them all that night fulfilled, and that Sir William Creech, my worst traducer, will be the first one to again court my favor.”
“I’ll hear no more such insulting language!” roared Sir William threateningly.
“Ye’ll not hear it t’other side of the door,” replied Robert quietly.
“Aye, but ye’ll get your fairin’ one of these days,” exclaimed Souter belligerently. “An’ ’twill be in hell, where they’ll roast ye like a herrin’,” he added grimly, much to Eppy’s horror.
“Open the door for me, fellow!” shouted Sir William wrathfully.
“Open it yoursel’,” replied Souter, “an’ I promise ye I’ll shut it behind your coattails mighty quick.”
“Out of my way, idiot,” and with a shove he brushed the little man aside and swiftly joined his waiting companion outside the gate.
“Did ye see that?” gasped Souter, his eyes flashing fire. “Did ye see that? Let me get after him,” and he started for the door, with blood in his eyes, but Eppy with a little shriek of alarm grabbed him by the plaidie and held on to him with all her strength, which was not slight.
“Don’t, dearie, don’t, you might get hurt!” she cried tearfully.
“Weel, if ye say not, why I’ll let him gae,” returned Souter submissively.
“Come, Robert,” said Jean gently, “you must lie down for a wee bit now.”
“By the way, Rob,” laughed Souter reminiscently, “do ye mind the day——” He stopped short as Jean shook her head disapprovingly.
“He’s had a most exciting morning,” she exclaimed gently, “and needs rest now. He’ll be feeling more peart to-morrow,” and she held out her hand in dismissal.
“Ye mean get out, eh, Mistress?” said Souter good-naturedly. “Weel, weel, Souter Johnny can take a hint.”
“Come, Souter,” called Eppy from the open doorway, where she had been impatiently waiting for her bridegroom, “come with me to your—your new home,” and she bashfully held her fan over her face with a nervous little giggle.
“Aye, that I will,” replied Souter, with alacrity. He turned to Robert with a new air of dignity which set comically upon his little figure. “If we can do anything for ye, Robert, dinna’ forget to send over to MacDougall House. Dinna’ forget my address. Mrs. MacDougall, my arm.” She grabbed it quickly and they walked to the door. “God-day all,” he called over his shoulder, and with a feeling of great contentment, that at last his troubles were over, and that he was entering upon a new life of ease and plenty, he closed the door behind them, and trotted along beside his wife, grinning like a schoolboy, across the fields to their new home.
“Has the Posty come yet?” inquired Robert, after they had gone.
“Yes, but he brought no letter for ye,” answered Jean sadly.
The words of one of the verses of his “Ode to a Mouse,” came to him with gloomy presentiment.