CHAPTER XXIII
Later that day two men might have been seen galloping their horses at full speed toward the little house on the hillside. They were determined, resolute looking men, evidently bent on serious purpose. Finally they reached the gate, and dismounting made their way to the door, the elder man insisting loudly upon accompanying the other, much to his visible annoyance.
“There is no need for secrecy, Gilbert Burns,” said he grimly, and he followed him into the house and to the room where Robert sat with pencil in hand vainly courting his Muse. Jean, who was busily engaged in sewing, jumped to her feet with a little cry of amazement upon seeing her father before her. Robert held out his hand to his brother in delighted surprise, mixed with anxiety.
“Brother!” he cried, “what brings ye to Ellisland in such haste? Is it bad news? Mother, our sisters, are they ill?”
“Nay,” replied Gilbert constrainedly. “They are all well, Rob, and have sent their love to yourself and family.”
“Thank God for that,” responded Robert thankfully. There was a little embarrassed silence, then Gilbert spoke again.
“Robert, we—we are in sore trouble,” he confessed, his face anxious and troubled.
“Trouble!” echoed Rob blankly. “What is wrong, brother?”
“I cannot hold Mossgiel any longer,” he replied, dejectedly. “The farm is but a wretched lease, as ye know, an’ I canna’ weather out the remaining year. Without assistance, Robert, I canna’ hope to hold our little family together any longer.”
Robert’s heart sank within him as he heard the direful news. He glanced at Squire Armour apprehensively. “And Squire Armour?” he interrogated with an angry glance at that gentleman, who stood with a sneering smile on his harsh face, taking in the evidences of poverty that surrounded them. And with never a word of love or pity, nor of greeting to his daughter who sat there with white face and longing eyes, waiting to hear some news from her stern, implacable father, of her loving mother at home.
“I have bought the lease of Mossgiel,” he growled, “an’ if your brother canna’ pay up the back rent, which is long past due, I shall seize everything and turn the whole lot of them out, every one.”
Robert looked at him a moment in scornful silence. Presently he spoke, and the cutting sarcasm of his voice caused the old Squire to wince and drop his eyes.
“Ye are a most just, square, God-fearin’ man, Squire Armour,” he said. “The Kirk should be proud of ye.” Turning to Gilbert, he asked him the amount of his debt.
“Only a matter of £4, brother,” he replied, “but ’tis a fortune to me at present.”
“An’ I must have the money to-day or the farm, I care not which.”
“Oh, father!” cried Jean, going to him, “do not be hard on him; he will pay you; only give him time.”
“Jean!” flashed Robert angrily, “dinna’ stoop to ask mercy of that mon, even though he be your own father.” Jean turned away with a sigh.
Squire Armour laughed derisively. “Ye’ll both be on your knees before long, I’ll warrant,” he cried harshly, “asking favors of me, especially when ye have naught to feed a starving family. Ye have made yoursel’ a fine, comfortable bed, my lassie, havena’ ye?” He sneered sarcastically, turning to his shrinking daughter. “But ’tis made, and ye can lie on it, ye ungrateful minx.”
Robert rose quickly to his feet, his eyes flashing dangerously.
“Stop! Squire Armour!” he commanded. “Dinna’ dare to use such language to my wife in my own house, or weak, sick, and crippled as I am, I will throw ye into the road like the cur that ye are.” He stopped, breathless with indignation. Presently he resumed with immeasurable scorn in his vibrating voice, “An’ they call such men as ye Christians! A sneaking, crawling, psalm-singing, canting hypocrite! Faugh! Were I the Lord, I would sicken at sight of ye.” He turned away and sat down beside his now weeping wife, and there was pity and compassion in the look he bestowed upon her.
“I’ve had enough of your blasphemy, Robert Burns. If ye canna’ pay the rent for your brother, my business is elsewhere.”
“I had no one else to turn to in this, my hour of trouble,” murmured Gilbert brokenly. “If ye can help me without impoverishing yoursel’, for God’s sake do it, or I shudder to think what will become of the dear ones at home.”
Robert was silent. He thought with anxious loving concern of his own little flock, of the slender resources at his command, of the gravity of his own situation, sick as he was and with such gloomy prospects staring him in the face—and yet was he not better off after all than they at Mossgiel? Had he not his salary, small as it was, and the promise of the supervisorship, besides the money that Thompson would pay him for his poem? He had much to thank God for, he thought gratefully.
“I see ’tis no use delaying longer,” said Armour, looking at the serious, downcast faces before him. “I have given ye fair warning, Gilbert Burns, an’ noo I’ll go.”
He had reached the door, when Robert spoke quietly but firmly. “Wait!” he called. “Ye shall have the money, ye Shylock.”
“Thank God!” cried Gilbert with a loving glance at his brother’s calm face.
Jean looked at him in speechless amazement. What did he mean? How could he help others when they were in such dire need themselves? she asked herself apprehensively.
“Robert,” she whispered anxiously, “ye dinna’ ken what ye say.”
“My brother will meet ye at sundown, at the Inn,” continued Robert without heeding her warning, although his face took on a whiter hue. “He will bring ye every farthing of what is due ye. Noo go; there is the door; your business here is ended. Ye have brought naught but misery and trouble into my life by your unreasonable hatred o’ me, but the time will come, Squire Armour, when all the unhappiness and suffering ye have caused me and mine will rise up before ye like a hideous phantom, robbin’ ye of all peace o’ mind on earth, and your hopes of salvation hereafter.” He drew nearer the gaping man, who was regarding him with angry, sullen eyes, and continued with a bitter, unforgiving intensity that filled his listeners with awe and horror, “An’ when ye feel the chill icy hand of grim death clutching at your heart, ye’ll cry out for the sympathy and love of those whom ye cast out of your life, but ye’ll cry in vain, an’ ye’ll die as ye have lived, a miserable wretched ending to a miserable selfish life.”
As he finished his grim prophecy, Squire Armour gave a cry of nervous fear, and with blanched face and wild eyes he strove to speak, but the words would not pass his white, trembling lips. Finally he gasped in a frightened whisper which gradually rose to angry defiance:
“How dare ye! How dare ye say such things to me, Robert Burns? I willna’ die like that and ye canna’ frighten me with your grim forebodings.” He paused and glanced at them all in turn, then hastily opened the door. Just as he was stepping out, he turned slowly and looked at the white, patient face of his daughter. For a moment he regarded her in silence, then with a visible effort he addressed her.
“Jean,” he said, and his voice was noticeably softer, “ye are welcome to come back to your home.” He cast a quick look at the lowering face of his son-in-law and added vindictively—“alone.”
“Nay, never alone, father,” replied Jean sadly, looking at her husband’s frowning face.
The old man turned with sudden fury upon them. “I’ll wait till sundown for my money,” he shouted, “but not a minute longer!” and he closed the door behind him with a vicious slam.
Gilbert was first to break the depressing silence that ensued. He felt vaguely that all was not so well with his brother as he had been led to believe.
“Forgive me, brother,” he murmured contritely, “for bringing this trouble on ye.”
“Never mind, Gilbert; it was to be, I ken,” answered Rob absently.
Gilbert was silent a moment. “But the money, Robert, is it—are ye——” he stammered, then stopped in embarrassed confusion.
“’Tis the sum I expect from the sale of a poem. Jean, see if there is aught of the Posty.” She rose and went to the window and peered anxiously down the dusty road.
“I didna’ have the ready money with me,” went on Robert lightly, as if it were a matter of small importance, “or I would have fixed it up at once. But ye shall hae the money, laddie, when my letter comes,” and he smiled reassuringly into Gilbert’s anxious face.
“God bless ye, Robert; ye have taken a great load off my heart.”
Jean returned to her seat by the hearth, and listlessly took up her needlework. “I fear Posty has forgotten us to-day,” she said in answer to Robert’s questioning look.
“‘I’ll wait till sundown for my money,’ he shouted.”
A great fear seized his heart. For nearly a week he had hopefully awaited some word from Thompson. What could be the matter? “O God!” he prayed silently, “let him not fail me noo.” With a bright smile that sadly belied his anxious heart, he rose and, taking Gilbert’s arm, said gayly, “Come, brother, and see the new bairn that has been added to the flock this last year.”
As they left the room Jean dropped her work in her lap and gazed after them with eyes filled with helpless tears of anxiety, at the thought of the hardships and suffering that lay in wait for them all.
After admiring the baby in the trundle bed the two brothers talked of the dear ones in Mossgiel, and the many changes time had wrought in the lives of them all; spoke with tenderness of the sister who had recently been married—and dwelt with anxious concern on the struggles of their younger brother, who had left home to branch out for himself. For a time they forgot their own troubles, and Robert plied his brother with many questions concerning the welfare of all his old friends and neighbors, while Gilbert told him all the gossip of the village, of the prosperity of some of the lads, and the unfortunate situations of many of the others, thus leading up to the recital of their own troubles since Robert had left his home. He listened sorrowfully to the tale of hardship and unceasing toil which brought such little recompense, but not by word or look did he betray his own blighted hopes and gloomy prospects. Finally they had exhausted every subject save one, and that one had been uppermost in the minds of both, but each had avoided the subject with a shrinking dread.
No news of the little dairymaid had come to Robert for almost a year, and the thought that possibly she was ill or dead—or—and a hundred conjectures racked his brain and froze the eager questions that trembled on his lips. Gilbert must have read the longing in his brother’s heart, for, after a troubled glance at the dark yearning face gazing at him so beseechingly, he looked down at his toil-worn hands and awkwardly shifted one knee over the other. Presently he spoke.
“Mary is still at Colonel Montgomery’s,” he observed, making an effort to speak lightly.
“I heard she had left Mrs. Dunlop’s,” replied Robert feverishly, moistening his lips with the tip of his tongue.
“Aye,” sighed Gilbert. “She grew tired o’ the city and longed for the stillness, the restfulness of country life once more, so she came back to us and took her old place in the dairy. Poor lass,” and he looked thoughtfully out of the window and sadly watched the glorious sunset tinting the distant hills in a blaze of golden light.
“An’—an’ is she well—is she happy?” murmured Robert in a soft, hushed voice. Gilbert did not answer for a moment. Presently he roused himself and slowly let his gaze wander back till it rested on his brother’s wistful face.
“Can ye bear a shock, brother?” he asked quietly.
Robert suddenly stiffened and his eyes grew wide and staring. He gripped the sides of the chair as a wave of sudden dizziness dulled his understanding. Presently it passed away, and like one in a dream he whispered hoarsely, “Tell me the worst, Gilbert; is—is she dead?”
He closed his eyes and waited with breathless stillness for the answer.
“Thank God, not that!” replied Gilbert feelingly. Robert breathed a sigh of relief. “But she is very ill, an’ I ken she hasna’ long on earth noo. The doctors say there is no hope for her,” and he bit his lips to keep back the rising tears.
Slowly, sorrowfully, Robert’s head drooped till it rested on his bosom. For a moment he sat like one on the verge of dissolution.
“Oh, God!” he moaned bitterly, “that sweet young life crushed out in all its innocent purity, like a delicate flower, and through my sin, my reckless folly. Oh, how can I live and bear my punishment!” A convulsive sob racked his weakened frame. Gilbert bent over him with tears in his eyes, forgetting his own crushing sorrow in witnessing that of his brother.
“Dinna’ greet so, Robert,” he cried. “’Twas not your fault, ye ken. It was to be.” His philosophical belief in fate helped him over many a hard and stony path, and enabled him to meet with calmness and fortitude the many heartaches and disappointments which befell him.
Soon the convulsive shudders ceased, and leaning wearily back in his chair, Robert fixed his great mournful eyes upon his brother in sorrowful resignation.
“How did she look when ye last saw her, Gilbert?” he asked faintly, pressing his hand tightly to his heart, for the old pain had come back with exhausting results.
“Like an angel, lad,” replied Gilbert tenderly. “So sweet and pure, so patient and forgiving.”
“Does she suffer much?”
“Nay,” he answered reassuringly. Then he continued, his voice soft and low, his strong features quivering from the restraint he put upon his feelings, “Her life is just slowly slipping away from her; day by day she grows weaker and weaker, but ne’er a complaint is on her lips. She is always so cheerful an’ smilin’ that it fair makes ye weep to see her fadin’ awa’ so fast,” and his voice broke into a hard sob.
“Oh, Mary, my Highland Mary!” murmured Robert brokenly.
“Her last wish is to see the Highlands, to—to die there,” continued Gilbert, his lips contracting with a sudden, sharp pain at the thought. “So before she grows any weaker, Mrs. Dunlop, who has come from town to see her, and who is wi’ her noo, is goin’ to take her back to her old home in Argyleshire.”
“Going home to die!” repeated Robert dreamily. “Oh, if I might be taken awa’ too, if my end would only hasten,” he muttered despairingly, with the weak selfishness of the sick and sorrowing. “Then might our departing souls be united as one, to be together for all eternity.”
“Hush, Robert!” cautioned Gilbert, looking fearfully at the closed door. “Remember Jean and the bairns.”
“Gilbert, I must see her before she goes!” he cried utterly distracted. “’Tis for the last time on earth, ye ken, lad,” and he jumped up, trembling with eager excitement.
“Brother, would ye kill yoursel’?” cried Gilbert, seeking to restrain him. “’Tis madness for ye to go out in your weak condition.”
“Dinna’ stop me, Gilbert!” he panted, and he flung open the door and rushed excitedly into the room where Jean sat in patient meditation. “Jean, get my bonnet and coat, quick, quick!” he commanded with his old-time vehemence. She jumped up pale and frightened and looked questioningly at Gilbert. Quickly he told her of Mary’s illness and Robert’s determination to go to her at once. When he had finished she went to her husband, the tears of ready sympathy in her eyes, for she was not jealous of his love for Mary. She had gotten over that long ago, and laying her hand gently on his arm, she tried to coax him to sit down and listen to them.
“They’ll have to pass by here on their way to Greenock,” she told him tenderly. “And ye may be sure, Robert, that Mary will not leave Ayrshire without saying good-by to you.” And so she reasoned with him, while Gilbert joined her in assurances of Mrs. Dunlop’s intention of stopping to see him as she passed the farm. Gradually the wild light in his eyes died down, the tense figure relaxed, and with a sigh of exhaustion he allowed himself to be taken back to his room.
“Ye’re sure she’ll not forget to stop here?” he asked with pathetic eagerness. Then he continued with wistful retrospection, “Two years have come and gone and not a word have we spoken to each other since that day we parted in Edinburgh! Oh, cruel, cruel fate!” He spoke so low that none heard him.
“Noo, Robert,” said Jean brightly, “you must take your gruel, ’twill give ye strength.” But he made a gesture of repulsion.
“Nay, Jean, I canna’ eat noo; ’twould choke me. I think I’ll lay me down to rest.” They soon prepared him for bed. Without a word, he turned his face to the wall and for the rest of the night he lay there with wide, staring, sleepless eyes, thinking, thinking, thinking.
CHAPTER XXIV
News of Robert’s illness soon reached Edinburgh, along with reports of his misconduct, profligacy, and intemperance, reports which were grossly exaggerated, together with many other slanderous falsehoods.
And rumors of his poverty and the destitute condition of his family brought sorrow and anxiety to the hearts of many of his loyal friends, who were only too ready and willing to offer him all the help and assistance that would be needed, but they knew, too, his inflexible pride and independence, and realized how futile would be their offers of friendly assistance.
For some days Lady Nancy Gordon had been anxiously puzzling her brain for some thought or scheme whereby she could help the unfortunate Bard who was plunged in such depths of poverty and misfortune. She was thinking of him now as she sat at the harpsichord, her fingers wandering idly over the keyboard in a running accompaniment to her thoughts. Her father softly entered the room at this juncture, but she did not turn her head nor intimate that she was aware of his presence. Presently her touch grew more and more tender. Anon she glided into one of those dreamily joyous, yet sorrowful, mazurkas, that remind one of gay wild flowers growing in rich profusion over silent and forgotten graves. Lady Nancy had reason to boast of herself, for she was a perfect mistress of the instrument—and as her fingers closed on the final chord, she wheeled round abruptly on the chair, and rising to her feet greeted her father with a tender smile. For a moment she regarded him in thoughtful silence, then as he laid down his paper, she walked up to him, a frown of displeasure wrinkling her smooth, white forehead.
“I think, father,” she said deliberately, with a haughty uptilt of her pretty nose, “I think it is perfectly disgraceful the way that hackney scribbler who writes for yon journal,” indicating the paper on the table, “either through malice or ignorance affixes such degrading epithets to the name of the Bard of Scotland, for by no other name will I ever speak of Robert Burns,” and she flashed an angry glance at the offending paper.
“Poor obstinate lad,” sighed the Duke thoughtfully. His mind went back to the day after the garden party at Glencairn Hall, when he had sent for Robert to honor them with his presence at Gordon House, and how the poet had taken offense at some thoughtless remark of his, given in kindly spirit; how with haughty pride, and wounded dignity, he had gotten up from the table and after thanking them for their hospitality, declared he had not come to be insultingly patronized and pitied, and refusing to listen to reason, or explanation, he had left in bitter resentment and blind misunderstanding. Lady Nancy too was thinking the same thoughts, and after a moment’s meditation she looked into her father’s kindly face and remarked earnestly:
“Father, something must be done for him and his family at once.”
“But, my dear,” he meekly replied, “our hands are tied by his own obstinacy.”
“Can we not get up a subscription for him?” she asked. He shook his head slowly.
“’Twould be to no purpose, Nancy,” he returned thoughtfully. “He would refuse all offers of pecuniary aid. I know well his independent principles, and so do you.”
They talked over many plans and projects, but none seemed feasible, and they were about to give up in despair, when Henry Mackenzie was announced. He had just arrived from Ellisland, and immediately spoke of his visit to the poet, and under what painful conditions he had found him—told them of his promise to Burns to secure the office of supervisor for him, and had called to consult with his lordship concerning its bestowal.
Nancy listened with bated breath and tear-dimmed eyes as he spoke of the change in Robert, his poverty, his indomitable courage and independence, in spite of the ravages of disease and the black, gloomy outlook for future prosperity.
“Nancy and I were just discussing some means of alleviating his distress as you entered,” said the Duke as Mr. Mackenzie finished his recital. “And it affords me much gratification to be able to assist him to the office of supervisor of the excise and its attendant increase of salary.”
“’Twill be a God-send to him, believe me, my lord,” returned Mr. Mackenzie feelingly.
“The news will be dispatched to him at once!” cried Nancy with sparkling eyes. “’Twill relieve his present distress of mind.”
With that assurance, Mr. Mackenzie rose, and thanking them for their kindness in behalf of the indigent poet, took his leave.
Having finished luncheon, the old Duke excused himself, and going to his study, he made out the necessary papers of promotion for the struggling exciseman, with many a shake of his head and pitying sigh for the young genius who was reduced to such straits—driven to such a commonplace calling, through his headstrong recklessness, his foolish ideas of independence. Having signed them he sat back in thoughtful meditation. Suddenly the door opened, and his daughter asked permission to enter. Having gained it, she crossed to her father, and sinking down beside him, in an eager, impetuous manner quickly laid before him a project which had been formulating in her active brain while he was busy writing out the papers.
He started back in amazement. “What!” he cried. “Are you out of your senses, Nancy?”
“Now, papa, listen!” she exclaimed earnestly. “’Twill take but a day’s ride to reach Dumfries, and think how delighted he will be to receive the promotion from your hands,” and she slyly noted the effect of the bit of delicate flattery.
He frowned and pursed his lips for a moment, and idly tapped the folded papers against his knee in thought. These signs boded success, as Nancy well knew, and springing to her feet she gave him a big hug that set him gasping.
“Look here, Mistress Nancy!” he exclaimed as soon as he recovered his breath, “why do you want to take this wearisome journey at this season of the year, just to visit the home of this poor exciseman?” and he wonderingly regarded the face that had suddenly grown flushed and pensive, as she looked with worshipful eyes at the large engraving over the fireplace, which contained the figure of Burns in a characteristic attitude, reading one of his poems to the group of people that surrounded him.
“I want to see him once more before the fire of his genius grows cold,” she answered dreamily. “I want to see him in his home with his—his wife and children around him.” She might have told him that she was heart-hungry for a sight of that dark, glowing face, the flashing black eyes that had thrilled her with such blissful pain, for the sound of that rich, majestic voice, that had so often stirred the uttermost depths of her heart. She felt that the yearning of her soul would not be satisfied till she had seen him again, spoken with him. She hoped, yet dreaded, that the sight of his changed face, his miserable surroundings, the commonplaceness of it all, of meeting the exciseman with his wife and children around him, rather than the idealized poet, would silence forever the strange unrest of her soul, banish all thoughts of sentiment from her mind, and destroy the spell of glamour which he had all unconsciously thrown about her. These thoughts flew through her mind with lightning speed while her father was making up his mind how best to dissuade her from her purpose.
“I fear me, Nancy, ’twill give us both more pain than pleasure,” he said finally. “We may even lose our respect for him.”
“Don’t say that, father!” she cried reproachfully. “No matter how low he may have fallen, and I protest that fame has exaggerated his misconduct woefully, we people of Scotland cannot forget nor overlook the priceless treasure he has put into our thankless hands, a treasure that will be handed down to posterity with ever increasing regard, admiration and love for its author,” and her flashing blue eyes, that had so often reminded Robert of Mary Campbell, and which had formed a closer tie of comradeship between them, again sought and lingered upon the engraved likeness of her hero. The singular beauty of Lady Nancy Gordon was illumined by that happy expression of countenance which results from the union of cultivated tastes and superior understanding with the finest affections of mind, and the influence of such attractions had been keenly felt by the ardent poet, who was not altogether unaware of the impression he had made upon her heart, which was as susceptible to the charms of wit and intellect as was his own. As she stood gazing up at the picture, she thought with an odd little smile how she had openly sought for his favors, delighted in his apparent preference for her society even while she told herself she knew he was only attracted by her brilliancy—that she appealed to his intellect—charmed him by her wit, her cleverness. No, she had never touched his heart, she thought with a sigh, and a look of sadness came into her thoughtful eyes.
“I fear, Nancy, that Robert still harbors feelings of resentment against us,” protested the Duke after a pause. “I know he would rather not see us.”
But Lady Nancy overruled his objection. “Then all the more reason for our assuring him of our friendship and asking his forgiveness for any offense we have unintentionally offered him.”
Seeing all arguments were useless, the old Duke finally consented, and with a hug and a kiss, Nancy left him and proceeded to make arrangements for their speedy departure for Ayrshire.
CHAPTER XXV
The next morning dawned bleak and dismal. A damp, penetrating mist hung over the farm like a pall, and the chill of the rain-laden air penetrated into the rooms and made itself felt even by the side of the brightest fires. It affected the inmates of Ellisland farm to an alarming extent. They sat gloomily around the hearth idly watching the smoldering peat fire, which failed to send out much warmth—as if it, too, felt the depressing influences which surrounded the little household and which had plunged them all into such a slough of despond.
Robert had partaken of his bowl of porridge and now lay upon his bed, grateful for the added warmth of the woolen blankets which Jean had thrown over him with thoughtful solicitude. He appeared to the anxious watchers to be more like himself than he had been for some days, in spite of his restless, sleepless nights, as he lay there peacefully enjoying the antics of the children who were playing gleefully but quietly around the room their favorite game of “Blind man’s holiday.”
At sundown the night before Gilbert had hastened to the Inn to meet Squire Armour and to plead for another day’s grace, but the implacable old man refused to listen to him when he found he had failed to bring the money, and stormily took his departure with threats of instant eviction, leaving Gilbert in a state of utter distraction. He watched the Squire ride furiously away in the direction of Mossgiel with a heavy, sinking fear at his heart, then slowly made his way, with pale face and clenched hands, back to his brother’s cottage, where he wrestled with the fears that assailed him in despairing silence. Several times during the night he was on the verge of saddling his horse and dashing home, but the hope that the morning would bring the long-expected letter to Robert checked the impulse, and so he sat the long night through anxiously waiting for the dawn, praying fervently that he might not be too late to save his dear ones from the vindictive anger, the unyielding resolution of their irate landlord.
And now morning was here at last. Robert had fallen into a profound slumber of nervous exhaustion. Jean tucked him in carefully with the warm blankets, and taking the children with her, quietly closed the door upon the sleeping man with a prayer of thankfulness for his temporary respite from the troubles that surged about his head.
When her duties were over and the children playing on the green, Jean took her sewing and joined Gilbert in the living room. He was walking restlessly up and down, with nervous, flashing eyes that eagerly searched the road, as he passed and repassed the small window. His restless pacing, his look of hopeful anxiety smote Jean to the heart, for she had been bitterly resentful, and was still in a measure, against Gilbert’s selfishness in thinking only of his own extremity. It didn’t seem right or just that he should be here with outstretched hands, waiting to take the money that meant so much to their own struggling family at the present time, and without which she could only foresee grim want staring them all in the face—and she had to struggle with the desire that rushed over her to rise up and tell him of their bitter plight, to bid him go elsewhere for assistance; but the fear of Robert’s anger kept her silent. Then, too, she suddenly remembered that they had both kept their poverty and Robert’s continued ill luck and failures from the home folk, and it was only to be expected that Gilbert would naturally turn to his prosperous brother for assistance. “Prosperous, indeed! If he but knew,” and she sighed deeply, for her mother’s heart felt sore depressed as she thought of her own loved ones. They did not talk much. Each was too busy with his own gloomy thoughts.
In fancy, Gilbert could see Squire Armour at Mossgiel Farm, ordering out his mother and sister, watching them with sinister eyes as they got together their meager belongings, and then when they, with streaming eyes, had carried out the last piece of furniture and stood gazing at the home that was no longer theirs, the cruel landlord had heartlessly laughed at their sorrow and, locking the door, had ridden away with the keys in his pocket, leaving them standing there not knowing whither to go nor where to find food or shelter.
“O God! Not that! Not that!” he cried aloud, pausing in his walk with clenched hands, pale and wild-eyed.
Jean looked up from her work in startled alarm. “Gilbert!” she cried. “What is it?”
With a little mirthless laugh, he told her of the vision he had had, told of his fears for the safety of his home and the welfare of his loved ones.
She listened with a feeling of shame at her heart and a flush of angry humiliation mantling her pale cheek.
“’Fore Heaven, it makes me feel like cursing even the memory of my father,” she exclaimed bitterly with a flash of her old-time imperiousness. “But be not alarmed, Gilbert,” she continued with an encouraging smile. “Your mother is a match even for my father, and I’ll warrant she’ll not let him set his foot inside the threshold till you return.” His face brightened.
“I had indeed forgot my mother’s independent, courageous spirit,” he replied with a sigh of relief and hopefulness.
The depressing gloom thus lifted, they soon drifted into a friendly, earnest conversation, and the minutes sped by without, however, the looked-for interruption of the overdue postman.
Outside, the mist had long since been dispersed by the warm rays of the noonday sun, which was now shining brilliantly. A soft moisture glittered on every tiny leaf of the wild rose bushes which clustered beneath the window of the little cot, and on every blade of grass. The penetrating and delicious odor of sweet violets and blue-bells scented each puff of wind, and now and then the call of the meadow lark pierced the air with a subdued far-off shrillness. Suddenly the peaceful stillness was broken in upon by the sound of footsteps crunching slowly along the garden path on their way to the door of the cottage.
The Duke of Gordon and his daughter had arrived in Dumfries the night before, and, after a night’s rest, they took the coach to Ellisland and put up at the little old Inn. There they made inquiries for the whereabouts of the home of the poet of the little old man who was boastfully describing the splendors of MacDougall House, none other than our old friend Souter, once more in his breeches, having asserted his authority, much to his wife’s secret satisfaction, for “she did so love a masterful man.” Whereupon Souter condescendingly offered to conduct them to the place they sought. And now, as they looked at the poor clay biggin and the evidences of poverty and neglect which surrounded them on all sides, their hearts sank within them.
“I suppose we will find Mr. Burns greatly changed?” said Nancy interrogatively with a little shudder of dread.
“Weel, mum,” replied Souter reflectively, “we all change in time, ye ken. Some for worse, like mysel’, and some for the better, like yoursel’, askin’ your pardon for my boldness. And ye ken Robbie’s life has been very hard these past few years.” He sighed and shook his head dolefully. “But I want to say right here,” and his heavy eyebrows drew together in a black scowl, “Robbie Burns’ sickness is na’ due to his drinkin’, as ye people of Edinburgh believe, and put in yer penny papers. Robbie is na drunkard. I hae known him from infancy, and I affirm that he has never been guilty of the gross enormities he has been charged with. He could always attend to his duties,” and he looked with aggressive suspicion into the downcast faces of his listeners for some sign of doubt of his assertion, which, though stanchly loyal, was not altogether true, as he knew only too well. “But there is nae use telling all ye know,” he told himself philosophically. “And what people don’t know about the food they eat, will no hurt their appetites.”
“I am very glad to hear that,” ejaculated the Duke warmly.
“An’ he is a fond father an’ a maist affectionate husband,” continued Souter stoutly. “I’ll go in noo and tell him ye’re here,” and he strode into the house, leaving the couple standing in the path much to their astonishment.
“It doesn’t seem right, father,” said Lady Nancy sadly, “for such genius to dwell in that little hut, amid such surroundings. How I pity him.”
There was a suggestion of tears in the sweet voice which her fond father noticed with sudden apprehension. He looked at her closely.
“Who is to blame for his being here?” he retorted firmly. She remained discreetly silent. Then he continued in a softer voice, “But I mustn’t blame nor censure him, now that he is sick, and down at the bottom again. It is, indeed, a lasting pity that such genius should be allowed to smother here in poverty and among questionable companions, who, ’tis said, seek only to bring him to their level, and who, alas! are but too surely dragging him there, I fear, a weak, unresisting, but also a remorseful, repentant victim.”
“And must he stay on here, father, to die a poor exciseman?” asked Nancy with a strangely beating heart. “Even the added salary of the Supervisorship cannot be sufficient to keep such a family.” At that moment Souter opened the door. They turned to him quietly.
“Well, what says Mr. Burns?” asked the Duke impatiently.
A little smile of amusement appeared on Souter’s face. “Mr. Burns begs you to enter and to be seated,” he replied.
They complied with the injunction and were shown into the living-room, where they seated themselves.
“I was also to tell ye,” continued Souter dryly, “that he will be with ye as soon as he can get into his damned rags.”
“What!” exclaimed the Duke laughingly.
“Excuse me, your ladyship,” answered Souter with a little nod to Lady Nancy, “but them’s his own words and I’m no the one to change the language o’ a Scottish poet.”
“Has he only rags to wear?” asked Lady Nancy pitifully.
“Hush!” cautioned her father, “he is here.”
The door opened and Robert slowly entered the room. He had thrown his wide plaid around his shoulders, over his loose white shirt, and held it together with one hand that gleamed very white and thin against the bright colors. His black hair, now faintly streaked with gray and which had thinned considerably above his forehead, hung loosely about his neck, framing his gaunt face, and accentuating his pallor.
For a moment they gazed upon the wreck of the once stalwart and ruggedly healthy youth, too shocked to utter a word. Robert was the first to break the silence.
“My lord,” he exclaimed with something of his old brightness, “I am rejoiced, indeed, to see you at Ellisland. ’Tis a great surprise, but none the less a welcome one.” He shook the Duke’s outstretched hand with fervor.
“The pleasure is mutual, my lad,” responded the Duke warmly. “’Tis a few years now since we parted, and in anger, too.”
“I was in the wrong that night,” broke in Robert penitently, with a rueful shake of the head. “I sadly misjudged ye there, as I learned afterward, but my stubborn pride refused to accept the olive branch ye held out to me. Ye see,” he explained frankly, “’twas my unreasoning wounded pride and anger, and my disappointment which blinded me to all sense of right and justice. I realized after that ye were my friends and that ye resented the damning insult put upon me at Glencairn Hall.” He paused a moment, a frown of bitterness wrinkling his brow. Presently he looked up and holding out his hand again with one of the old magnetic smiles, said, “An’ ye have forgiven my ingratitude, an’ are come noo to see me! I thank ye.”
“’Tis all forgot. I forgave you at the time,” responded the Duke cordially. “I could not hold resentment against you.” He turned to his daughter, who was partly concealed in the embrasure of the deep window.
“Nancy, child, speak to Robert.” She came slowly forward with hand outstretched, a faint flush dyeing her creamy skin, or perhaps it was the reflection of the pink satin gown she was wearing beneath the long velvet cloak, which, becoming unhooked, had slipped down off her shoulders.
Robert rose to his feet, and his black, gloomy eyes lighted up with pleasure as they rested upon the dainty vision of loveliness before him. Lady Nancy had always reminded him of Mary Campbell, and to-day the resemblance was more striking than ever. For beneath the large leghorn with its waving, black plumes, her golden hair so like Mary’s, for the once unpowdered, glittered in all its beauty. Perhaps my Lady Nancy had remembered the likeness and had purposely heightened it by forgetting to use the powder which had hitherto covered the golden curls at all times. As she stood there with a wistful look upon her face, it was easy to perceive the resemblance to the timid dairymaid who, in borrowed finery, had created such a sensation at the Duchess of Athol’s “at home” three years before.
“Lady Nancy, forgive my rudeness in not greeting you sooner,” he exclaimed fervently.
“I am so glad we are reconciled, friends, once more,” she exclaimed impulsively. “It did seem as if you would never relent, you stubborn man,” and she smiled archly into his embarrassed face.
“You find me greatly changed, of course,” he remarked after they had discoursed a while upon their journey. She remained silent, but he read the sympathy shining in her blue eyes.
“We read of your illness in town,” explained the Duke, “and believe me, Robert, we are deeply sorry for your affliction. But I trust the vigor of your constitution will soon set you on your feet again,” and he gave him a cheery smile of encouragement.
Robert shook his head gloomily. “My health is, I think, flown from me forever,” he replied sadly, “altho’ I am beginning to crawl about the house, and once, indeed, have I been seen outside my cottage door.”
“Why didn’t you let us know of your illness before?” exclaimed Lady Nancy reproachfully. “We are your friends.”
Robert flushed painfully. “My miserable health was brought on and aggravated solely by my headstrong, thoughtless carelessness, and I felt so heartily ashamed of myself that I sought to conceal from all friends my real condition, but ’tis out at last. How long I will be confined to the house, God alone knows,” and he sighed deeply.
“Do not give yourself up to despondency, my lad,” encouraged the Duke brightly, “nor speak the language of despair. You must get well.”
“Indeed I must!” returned Robert grimly, “for I have three strong, healthy boys and if I am nipt off at the command of fate—gracious God! what would become of my little flock?” and a look of distraction swept over his face at the thought.
“Don’t distress yourself needlessly, Robert!” exclaimed the Duke kindly. Then he continued earnestly, “If anything should happen to you, if you should be taken off before I am called, I promise that the children of Robert Burns shall never come to want.”
“’Twould be a lasting disgrace to Scotland,” flashed Lady Nancy with kindling eyes.
Robert grasped the Duke’s hand impulsively. “God bless ye for your noble assurance!” he cried. “Ye have lifted a heavy weight of care and anxiety off my mind.”
“Why, father!” suddenly exclaimed Lady Nancy, “I vow if you are not forgetting your principal errand here.” He looked at her with a puzzled frown. “Mr. Burns’ promotion,” she reminded him laughingly.
“Gad zooks!” he exclaimed in amazement, jumping to his feet. “What an old dolt I am, to be sure.” Hastily diving his hand in the inside pocket of his elaborate, black-flowered satin square-cut, he pulled out a long paper with a red seal attached and handed it to the now bewildered Robert, who, after a quick glance at their smiling faces, opened the paper and quickly read its contents. Then he gave a gasp, followed by an ejaculation of delighted surprise and gratification.
“My lord,” he exclaimed, “this is indeed a gift to bring gladness to a man’s heart. I thank ye most gratefully for my promotion, and will endeavor to perform my duties to the best of my poor abilities as soon as my strength returns.” And the look of anxiety gave way to one of comparative contentment.
“And your immediate recovery is of the first importance,” returned the Duke brightly. “You need a change.”
“Why not come to town, where you can have the best of medical attendance?” asked Lady Nancy quietly, though her heart beat furiously as she offered the suggestion.
“That is impossible,” replied Robert. “The medical folk tell me that my last and only chance is bathing and sea air and riding. With my promotion and the increase of salary it brings, I can now obey their mandates,” and he held the paper to his breast with a sigh of relief.
“Then the sooner you start, the better,” remarked the Duke kindly.
Lady Nancy rose to her feet with a wan smile on her lips. “And the sooner we start for Dumfries, father, the better,” she returned.
“You’re right, child, we must hasten,” and he hastily arose and got his hat and cane together, then he turned once more to Robert. “Mr. Burns, pardon the suggestion, but is it not time to get out another volume of your poems?” he asked kindly.
“I have not in my present state of mind much appetite for exertion in writing,” answered Robert slowly.
“But they could be arranged for you by some literary friend,” quickly returned the Duke, “and advertised to be published by subscription.”
Robert raised his head proudly. “Subscription!” he repeated. “No, no, that savors too much of charity,” and a look of obstinacy came into his darkened eyes.
“Remember,” said Lady Nancy gently, “that Pope published his Iliad by subscription, Mr. Burns.”
He remained silent a moment, then after a little struggle with his obstinate pride, he answered with a touch of bitterness in his voice, “I realize that I am in no position to despise any means to add to my income or to leave my family better provided for after I am gone. I will take your advice and will at once speak to my dear friend Aiken about it. He will aid me.”
The door opened and Jean entered the room. She had heard all the good news, and having met both the Duke and Lady Nancy while sojourning at Glencairn Castle a few years before, she felt she ought to thank them for their good offices in Robert’s behalf.
Lady Nancy and the Duke greeted her warmly, asked after the health of the children, expressed pleasure in seeing her again, and soon put her at her ease, for the sudden thought of her hasty marriage to Robert and the attendant slanderous gossip at first made her feel and appear self-conscious and restrained.
“I was just telling Robert,” said the old Duke, “that he must go at once to the seashore.” She looked at her husband, and her wistful expression did not escape the keen eyes of Lady Nancy.
“If he only could go at once,” faltered Jean, “I am sure the water would effect a cure, but——”
Nancy gave her father a significant look, which clearly said, “They have no money, father.” At least, so he interpreted it, aided by his own shrewd guess at the state of affairs.
“By the way, Robert,” he said jocularly, “can you swallow your pride sufficiently to accept a month’s salary in advance?” He pulled out a large, well-filled wallet and opened it.
“We do not need it, my lord,” answered Robert firmly and a trifle coldly. “I am expecting——” Here Jean hurriedly interrupted him, knowing what he was about to say.
“Oh, Robert!” she cried contritely, “I forget to tell you that the Posty left no letter.”
“No letter!” he repeated dully, looking at her with wide-open, searching eyes. She sadly shook her head.
“Here are £5, lad. Take the note and to-morrow set out for Brow,” and the Duke held out the note for his acceptance, but he sat with averted gaze in the proud silence of keen disappointment.
“Do not refuse, Robert,” pleaded Jean softly. “’Tis only a loan.”
Slowly he took the money and folded it between his fingers. “Thank ye, my lord,” he said quietly. “I will accept it, for I am in sore need of it at this moment.”
“That’s right, my lad,” he said heartily. “What is a friend for if he cannot extend or receive a favor?” and he turned to help his daughter into her cloak.
Quickly Robert pressed the money into Jean’s hand and whispered to her, “Take it at once to Gilbert and bid him hasten to Mossgiel before it is too late to save the roof over mother’s head.”
“But, Robert——” she protested, but he would not listen to her.
“Do ye not see ’tis near sundown of the second day?” he told her impatiently, “and Gilbert will have to ride fast if he would get to Mossgiel before night overtakes him; noo hasten, Jean.” Still she lingered, reluctant to go.
“Oh, lad, this money is for you; it means your health, our happiness. It isn’t right to——”
“We have got a roof over our head, Jean,” he interrupted sternly. “We maist keep one over my mother and sister as weel. We will nae starve. There are only £4 due your father. Keep out one for our present needs. Noo go, lass, go.”
Thus commanded, she hurried to the chamber where Gilbert sat in despairing solitude, his head held wearily between his hands, and conveyed to him the glad intelligence. And soon he was speeding furiously over the dusty road toward home, his face aglow with joy and eagerness.
When Jean returned to the room she found Souter and Eppy there gayly chatting with the Duke and Lady Nancy, who were evidently much surprised to find their old friend Eppy at last married.
“I am so glad to see you here, Lady Nancy,” gushed Eppy effusively. “You must come and see us before you return to Edinburgh. I live on the estate adjoining this farm.” He drew the smiling girl to the window and pointed out the beauties of MacDougall House. “He is poor,” she whispered, “but he is of noble birth, a MacDougall of Lorne. Souter!” she called aloud to her husband, who was looking exceedingly important as he stood balancing himself on his toes, his hands behind his back, a look of supreme self-satisfaction on his face, and listening, with an air of blasé indifference, to the conversation between the old Duke and Robert. As he heard his name called he leisurely turned his head in his wife’s direction.
“Souter,” she continued in a tone meant to be careless, but which expressed plainly her feeling of pride, “isn’t it the Marquis of Lorne who is your first cousin?”
“What’s that, Souter?” asked Robert incredulously.
Souter looked around him with a sickly smile. He had not thought to be cornered in this manner, when he had filled his wife’s mind with stories of past grandeur and noble connections, and it made him feel decidedly uncomfortable and embarrassed.
“Er—didna’ ye ken that, Robbie?” he exclaimed with a look of feigned surprise on his reddened face. “Och, yes! By the by, Robbie,” he continued quickly, anxious to change the subject, “we came o’er to tell ye that we are gang to Brow on our honeymoon.” Here Eppy giggled and looked bashfully out of the window. “An’ my wife, Mrs. MacDougall,” with a flourish of the hand in her direction, which elicited another giggle from the lady in question, “has decided that we want ye to gang alang wi’ us.”
Robert looked at him, then at Eppy in speechless surprise. Jean gave a little gasp, and her hand sought her husband’s arm and pressed it with delight.
“Souter,” faltered Robert, “ye’re both doing this out of the kindness of your hearts, but I canna——”
“We’ll na take no for an answer. Ye may be stubborn wi’ your lofty independence, your pride, but I can be just as stubborn as ye, Rab Burns, and I say it is settled,” said Souter.
“’Tis the hand of God,” whispered Jean softly.
“God bless ye both,” faltered Robert, grasping Souter’s hand affectionately.
“Come, father,” said Lady Nancy, who had witnessed this little scene with moist eyes, “I protest we must start on our journey.”
“But first we must have a toast,” said Robert brightly. “’Tis most fitting. Jean, bring the punch bowl.” Quickly she brought from the closet the bowl of Inverary marble and placed it on the table, and into it she poured some hot water and sugar. “We have no wine to offer,” continued Robert, “nothing better than Highland whisky, but ye needna’ be afraid of becoming intoxicated, my lord,” and he smiled ruefully, “for I ken ’twill hardly be tolerable to your educated taste.” Jean had mixed the punch and now passed it around among the guests. “For auld lang syne!” cried Robert feelingly. “Is not that phrase most expressive? My lord, a toast,” and he raised his glass to the old Duke, who, after a moment’s hesitation, proposed “the health of Robert Burns, Scotland’s greatest Bard.”
“We drink to that with pleasure,” exclaimed Lady Nancy.
“Aye, that we do,” echoed Souter heartily. And while the toast was being drunk he slyly whispered, “Rob, dinna’ say aught to my wife about—er—the old Marquis, my—ahem—cousin. Ye understand,” and he nudged him significantly.
Robert smiled and assured him of his secrecy.
“And noo,” said Souter proudly, looking at Eppy’s simpering face, “here’s to the bride.” She made a deep courtesy and quaffed her glass with conscious dignity at her sudden importance. “May she always believe in her husband,” he added in an aside to Robert, much to the latter’s amusement.
“Mrs. MacDougall, here’s to your enemies, your foes,” proposed Robert.
“What?” she cried, opening her eyes in amazement.
“May they have short shoes an’ corny toes,” he added with a merry twinkle in his eyes.
“Duke, a toast!” said Souter importantly.
The Duke thought a moment. “Well, I drink to Mrs. MacDougall. May she soon have a house full of bairns,” he thoughtlessly proposed.
Eppy gasped and turned crimson, and Lady Nancy bit her lips to keep back the smile her father’s well-meant but tactless speech occasioned.
“Do you mean to insult me, my lord?” flashed Eppy indignantly.
“Bless my soul, no,” returned the Duke in astonishment, who could see no reason for offense in his kindly-meant remark.
“The Duke meant well,” said Souter pacifically to his wife, whose eyes were flashing angrily. “An’—an’—stranger things might happen, ye ken,” and he rubbed his chin reflectively with a sly look out of the corner of his roguish eye at Robert. She tossed her head haughtily.
“’Twould not be so monstrous strange, Mr. MacDougall, as you seem to think,” she retorted frigidly. Souter opened his eyes in speechless surprise. He was about to speak, but after one bewildered glance at the disdainful face of his bride, concluded that discretion was the better part of valor, and for the rest of that day he remained in thoughtful silence reflecting on the inconsistencies of woman kind in particular, and speculating upon the strange and mysterious workings of human nature in general.
The Duke bade them all adieu and passed out into the garden, where its wild beauties attracted his eye. He wandered about, forgetting, in his admiration for the flowers, his daughter, who had lingered behind for one last farewell word—alone.
“And so, Mr. Burns,” she said thoughtfully, looking after Jean’s retreating figure, “you have never regretted taking the step that bound your life to that of Jean Armour’s? Regretted doing your duty?” There was a note of regret in the vibrating voice.
“Never, my lady,” he replied firmly. “It was the only really good thing I have ever done in my wretched life.”
She looked at him a moment with hungry eyes. “Do you never think of the old days in town?” she asked suddenly, and she was greatly surprised to see his face turn pale, his eyes flash and deepen.
“For God’s sake, madam, do not mention the past!” he said, turning away. “All that has passed out of my life forever,” he murmured after a pause, “never to return.”
“And you wish it so?” she asked faintly. He bowed his head slowly. She moistened her lips feverishly and drew near to him, her eyes filled with a light that would have startled him had he seen it. “Say not so! Must I give up the friendship of the only man I esteem and hold dear?” she panted breathlessly. “Oh, will you not renew the broken thread of our correspondence [he had written her several times since coming to Ellisland, but before Jean’s advent] and enjoy the sweet intercourse of thought, which will bring such gladness into my own life, and will brighten the gloom of your own, and will take naught from your wife’s peace of mind?”
He raised his head and regarded her thoughtfully. “How can ye ask me that, my lady,” he answered, “when ye declared to me in your last letter that you meant to preserve my epistles with a view, sooner or later, to expose them to the pillory of derision and the rocks of criticism?” And a look of resentment gleamed in his eyes.
“I protest, Mr. Burns,” she cried reproachfully. “I have, indeed, preserved your letters, but they will never leave my possession; they are cherished as the dearest treasures of my life.”
He sighed and remained silent for a space. From the kitchen came the sound of children’s voices. He listened to it a moment, then turned to Lady Nancy, a look of resolution in his face.
“Lady Nancy,” he said firmly, “I canna’ write to ye in sincerity. I have a wife and family, an’ I have given my word to Jean, and while I dare to sin, I dare not to lie, else madam I could perhaps too truly join grief with grief, and echo sighs to thine. But with one foot in the grave, I have no desire to stir up the old ashes of—friendship to find a living ember. ’Twould be but a weak, fitful burning at best. Nay, ’tis too late noo. Believe me, ’tis best, dear lady.” He rose to his feet and held out his hand again. “An’ noo farewell, Lady Nancy, farewell.”
She took his hand and looked into his set, unmoved face, and a sigh of utter disappointment, of patient longing, involuntarily escaped her trembling lips. “If it must be, then farewell,” she answered slowly, a slight tremor in her soft voice. She walked to the door, then turned and fixing her eyes on him, she continued mournfully, “Do not quite forget me, will you, Robert? Let the scenes of nature remind you of Nancy. In winter remember the dark shades of her life, for there are plenty; in summer, the warmth of her friendship; in autumn, her glowing wishes to bestow plenty on all, and let spring animate you with hopes that your absent friend may yet surmount the wintry blasts of life, and revive to taste a springtime of happiness.”
He bowed his head gravely. “I shall remember ye, Lady Nancy—friend,” he returned feelingly.
She gave him one long, lingering look. “Farewell, farewell!” she gasped, and when he raised his head she was gone.
He sighed and walked thoughtfully to the window. “The past and all its pleasures will soon be but a dim memory,” he muttered grimly, “as one by one the connecting links which bound me to it are severed forever.” He paused and watched her as she joined her father in the garden, and a quizzical look flashed across his face. “Faith!” he muttered with a little smile, “who would believe the time would come when lovely women would plead in vain for the favors o’ Rob Burns. Och! Robbie, ye are indeed fit only for the grave,” and he turned away from the window in earthly meditation.
CHAPTER XXVI
The next few days Jean was very busy with her preparations for their sojourn at the seaside. The date of their departure was already fixed and it now lacked but a few days before they would bid farewell to Ellisland forever, for Robert had decided to take up his residence in Dumfries when his visit was ended, for the duties of his new office would necessitate his being there the quarter part of his time.
As the day of their departure drew near, Robert grew more and more depressed, and day by day he sat in melancholy silence beside the window gazing with unseeing eyes upon the tangled yet graceful wilderness of flowers. Jean watched him in growing fear and anxiety as he sank deeper and deeper into those protracted fits of gloom and depression, and vainly sought to find some reason for the sudden change. He had been so elated at getting his promotion and at the many advantageous changes it would make in their condition—had dwelt with affectionate wonder on Eppy’s kindness in extending to them the invitation to accompany them to Brow, and had seemed to greatly improve in health and spirits for a few days. Then came Gilbert’s letter stating that he had arrived in time to prevent the eviction of the dear ones at home. The letter had plunged him into a state of feverish excitement and restless anxiety, and all day he would sit at the open window, watching with burning eyes the long narrow road that twisted and turned on its way to Mossgiel, straining his eyes eagerly at the approach of any casual traveler who might be passing, then with a look of patient despair, sink back in his chair, pale and listless, his unfocused eyes again gazing into space. One night after he had left his chair and had retired to his bed for the night, looking more haggard than usual, Jean spied on the floor a crumpled paper which had evidently dropped from his nerveless hand. Picking it up, she smoothed it out and found it to be Gilbert’s letter, which she had not seen, as Robert had read it to her and then put it carefully aside. Slowly her gaze wandered over it. Suddenly she gave a great start, for at the bottom of the page this sentence caught her eye: “Mary leaves to-morrow for the Highlands and will pass through Ellisland.” Thoughtfully she put the letter on the chair where he could find it in the morning, and sat down by the cradle of the bairn and gently rocked him till his fretful crying ceased; then she gave herself up to the heart-burning thoughts that filled her mind. She had tried so hard to be patient all these years, she had struggled and struggled to do her duty without a word of complaint, she thought, while bitter tears of patient grief and secret yearning for the love that she knew belonged to another rolled down her sorrowing cheek. She had no word of complaint to make against Robert though, for he had never sought to deceive her once, and there was no feeling of resentment in her heart against the little dairymaid. It was not the child’s fault. It was not the fault of either that they still loved each other. Only Robert might have shown her the letter, she thought with quivering lips; there was no need to keep it from her. She would know it when Mary came to the house, anyway. She might have guessed the reason for his sudden change, she thought, wiping away her tears, only her mind had been so filled with the household preparations for moving that Mary had been quite forgotten. For a while she gently rocked the sleeping child, watching its sweet, flushed face, listening to its soft breathing, and soon all disturbing thoughts slipped away from her troubled mind, and a peaceful, holy calm entered her patient heart and shone through her love-lit eyes. Covering its little form carefully, she carried the cradle into her chamber and placed it within reach of her bed. Then as she disrobed for the night in dreary silence, her eyes fixed on the pale face of her husband, who was tossing and muttering in his sleep, a tender wave of pity swept over her at the thought of the sweet lass who would shortly pass out of their lives forever, leaving only a sweet, haunting memory behind to remind them of her pathetic young life. Quickly she slipped into bed beside her restless husband, upon whose feverish cheek she pressed a tender kiss, and closing her tired eyes, fancied she slept, though her sleep was but a waking dream of love for her husband and children, in which all bright hopes and vague longings reached their utmost fulfillment, and yet were in some strange way crossed with shadows of sorrow and grief, which she had no power to disperse.
On the following morning the heat was intense. No breath of air stirred a ripple on the sluggishly-flowing Nith, and there was a heaviness in the atmosphere which made the very brightness of the sky oppressive. Such hot weather was unusual for that part of Scotland, and, according to Souter Johnny, betokened some change. The sun was dazzling, yet there was a mist in the air as though the heavens were full of unshed tears. A bank of nearly motionless clouds hung behind the dark, sharp peaks of the distant mountains which lay beyond Mossgiel, for there was no wind stirring, and Robert, seated in his chair by the window, found himself too warm with his thick plaid wrapped closely around him, and throwing it back he let the sunshine bathe him in its golden glow and play on the uncovered ebony of his hair. He no longer watched the road with such eager intensity. Rarely this morning had his gaze wandered beyond the bush beneath the window, with its one snowy-white rose, the last rose of summer, nestling among the faded, worm-eaten leaves, looking so pure, so fragrant, so delicately white against the background of rusty, dead-looking foliage. It had blossomed in the night, and in the morning when he had approached the lattice from force of habit, although he had given up all hope of seeing Mary before she left Ayrshire, he had spied it in all its delicate beauty. Each morning for six days now he had gone to that window, expecting before the day drew to its close to see the beloved form of his Mary approach, only to go to his bed at night in bitter disappointment. Gilbert’s letter stated she would start that day, and now the sixth day had come and yet there was no sign of her. He had told himself he would not watch the road this morning; there was no use, she had gone; she had not wanted to see him; she felt too bitter against him—it was only natural she should. These bitter thoughts had filled his mind with misery and wretchedness as he drew near the open window. Suddenly his eyes had rested on the spot of white nestling on the top of the bush. With a strange thrill at his heart, he had knelt down beside the latticed window, and folding his arms on the sill, gazed at the message from heaven, sent to bring peace and hope to his aching heart, so he fondly believed, while bright tears filled his eyes and brimmed over, falling warmly on his folded hands.