“Gazed straight into the startled eyes of Robert.”
Mary, from her hiding place, had watched all that happened since Robert had come into the room. She had not expected to remain so long hidden, she thought wistfully. She had hoped that Mrs. Burns would miss her, and that she, or Robert, or someone would look for her, but they had not even thought of her, and her lips trembled piteously at their neglect. And so she had stayed on, peeping out at them, whenever their backs were turned, feeling very lonely, and very miserable, in spite of the pride that thrilled her, as she watched her lover sitting there so handsome in the full strength of his young manhood. Perhaps they didn’t want her here to-night. Perhaps it was true, as Gilbert said, “that Robert didn’t love her any more.” The tears could no longer be restrained. If she could only slip out unobserved she would go home. She wasn’t afraid, she thought miserably. She wondered what they were doing now, they were so quiet? Peering shyly around the mantel, she gazed straight into the startled eyes of Robert, who with a surprised ejaculation started back in amazement.
“Why, Mary Campbell!” cried his mother remorsefully, as she caught sight of Mary’s face, “I declare I clear forgot ye, lass.” With a glad cry Robert sprang toward her and grasped her two hands in his own, his eyes shining with love and happiness.
“Mary, lass, were ye hidin’ awa’ from me?” he asked in tender reproach. She dropped her head bashfully without a word. “’Tis o’er sweet in ye, dear, to come over to welcome me hame,” he continued radiantly. “Come an’ let me look at ye,” and he drew her gently to where the candle light could fall on her shy, flushed face. “Oh, ’tis bonnie ye’re looking, lassie,” he cried proudly. He raised her drooping head, so that his hungry eyes could feast on her beauty. She stood speechless, like a frightened child, not daring to raise her eyes to his. “Haven’t ye a word of welcome for me, sweetheart?” he whispered tenderly, drawing her to him caressingly.
“I’m—I’m very glad to hae ye back again,” she faltered softly, her sweet voice scarcely audible.
“Go an’ kiss him, Mary; dinna’ mind us,” cried Souter impatiently. “I can see ye’re both asking for it wi’ your eyes,” he insinuated. And he drew near them expectantly.
“Hauld your whist, ye old tyke,” flashed Mrs. Burns indignantly. “Robbie Burns doesna’ need ye to tell him how to act wi’ the lassies.”
“I’ll not dispute ye there,” replied Souter dryly, winking his eye at Robert knowingly.
Robert laughed merrily as he answered, “Ye ken we’re both o’er bashful before ye a’.”
“Ah, ye’re a fine pair of lovers, ye are,” retorted Souter disgustedly, turning away.
“So the neighbors say, Souter,” responded Robert gayly, giving Mary a loving little squeeze.
And surely there never was a handsomer couple, thought Mistress Burns proudly, as they stood there together. One so dark, so big and strong, the other so fair, so fragile and winsome. And so thought Gilbert Burns jealously, as he came quietly into the room. Robert went to him quickly, a smile lighting up his dark face, his hand outstretched in greeting.
“I’m o’er glad to see ye again, Gilbert,” he cried impulsively, shaking his brother’s limp hand.
“So ye’ve come back again,” said Gilbert, coldly.
“Aye, like a bad penny,” laughingly responded Robert. “Noo that I am burned out of my situation, I’ve come hame to help ye in the labors of the farm,” and he pressed his brother’s hand warmly.
“I fear your thoughts willna’ lang be on farming,” observed Gilbert sarcastically, going to the fireplace and deliberately turning his back to Robert.
“I’ll struggle hard to keep them there, brother,” replied Robert simply. His brother’s coldness had chilled his extraordinarily sensitive nature. He walked slowly back to his seat.
“I ken ye’d rather be writin’ love verses than farmin’, eh, Robert?” chimed in Souter thoughtlessly.
“’Tis only a waste of time writin’ poetry, my lad,” sighed Mrs. Burns, shaking her head disapprovingly.
“I canna’ help writin’, mother,” answered the lad firmly, a trifle defiantly. “For the love of poesy was born in me, and that love was fostered at your ain knee ever since my childhood days.”
She sighed regretfully. “I didna’ ken what seed I was sowing then, laddie,” she answered thoughtfully.
“Dinna’ be discouraged,” cried Mary eagerly, going to him. “I’ve faith in ye, laddie, and in your poetry, too.” She put her hand on his shoulder lovingly, as he sat beside the table, looking gloomy and dejected. “Some day,” she continued, a thrill of pride in her voice, “ye’ll wake to find your name on everybody’s lips. You’ll be rich and famous, mayhap. Who kens, ye may even become the Bard o’ Scotland,” she concluded in an awestruck tone.
“Nay, Mary, I do not hope for that,” replied Robert, his dark countenance relaxing into a smile of tenderness at her wild prophecy, although in his own heart he felt conscious of superior talents.
“Waesucks,” chuckled Souter reminiscently. “Do you mind, Robbie, how, a year ago, ye riled up the community, an’ the kirk especially, over your verses called ‘Holy Willie’s Prayer’? Aye, lad, it was an able keen satire, and auld Squire Armour recognized the truth of it, for he threatened to hae ye arrested for blaspheming the kirk and the auld licht religion. He’ll ne’er forgive ye for that,” and he shook his head with conviction.
“He’s an auld Calvinistic hypocrite,” replied Robert carelessly, “and he deserved to be satirized alang wi’ the rest of the Elders. Let us hope the verses may do them and the kirk some good. They are sadly in need of reform.” Then with a gay laugh he told them a funny anecdote concerning one of the Elders, and for over an hour they listened to the rich tones of his voice as he entertained them with jest and song and story, passing quickly from one to the other, as the various emotions succeeded each other in his mind, assuming with equal ease the expression of the broadest mirth, the deepest melancholy or the most sublime emotion. They sat around him spellbound. Never had they seen him in such a changeable mood as to-night.
“And noo, laddie, tell us about your life in Irvine and Mauchline,” said Mrs. Burns.
Robert had finished his last story, and sat in meditative silence, watching the smoldering peat in the fireplace.
He hesitated for a moment. “There is little to tell, mother,” he answered, not looking up, “and that little is na worth tellin’.”
“I ken ye’ve come back no richer in pocket than when ye left,” remarked Gilbert questioningly. As his brother made no answer, he continued with sarcastic irony, “But perhaps there wasna’ enough work for ye there.” He watched his brother’s face narrowly.
“There was work enough for a’,” replied Robert in a low tone, an agony of remorse in his voice. “An’ I tried to fulfill faithfully the uncongenial tasks set before me, but I would sink into dreams, forgetting my surroundings, my duties, and would set me doon to put on paper the thoughts and fancies which came rushing through my brain, raging like so many devils, till they found vent in rhyme; then the conning o’er my verses like a spell soothed all into quiet again.” A far away rapt expression came over his countenance as he finished, and his dark glowing eyes gazed dreamily into space, as if communing with the Muses. Mrs. Burns and Mary both watched him with moist, adoring eyes, hardly breathing lest they should disturb his reverie. Gilbert stirred in his chair restlessly.
“Ye will never prosper unless ye give up this day dreaming,” he exclaimed impatiently, rising from his chair and pacing the floor.
Robert looked up, the fire fading from his eyes, his face growing dark and forbidding. “I ken that weel, Gilbert,” he answered bitterly. “An’ I despair of ever makin’ anything of mysel’ in this world, not e’en a poor farmer. I am not formed for the bustle of the busy nor the flutter of the gay. I’m but an idle rhymster, a ne’er-do-weel.” He walked quickly to the window and stood dejectedly looking out into the night.
“Nay, ye’re a genius, lad,” declared old Souter emphatically, patting him affectionately on the shoulder. “I havena’ watched your erratic ways for nothin’, an’ I say ye’re a genius. It’s a sad thing to be a genius, Robert, an’ I sympathize wi’ ye,” and the old hypocrite shook his head dolefully as he took his seat at the fireplace.
“I’m a failure, I ken that weel. I’m a failure,” muttered Robert despairingly, his heart heavy and sad.
“Nay, laddie, ye mustna’ talk like that,’tis not right,” cried Mary, bravely keeping back the sympathetic tears from her eyes and forcing a little smile to her lips. “Ye are only twenty-five,” she continued earnestly. “An’ all your life is stretchin’ out before ye. Why, ye mustna ever think o’ failure. Ye must think only of bright, happy things, and ye’ll see how everythin’ will come out all right. Noo mind that. So cheer thee, laddie, or ye’ll make us all sad on this your hame-comin’. Come, noo, look pleasant,” and she gave his arm a loving little shake. As his stern face melted into a sad smile, she laughed happily. “That’s right, laddie.” With a little encouraging nod she left him, and running to Mrs. Burns, she gave her a hug and a kiss, until the old lady’s grim features relaxed. Then like a bird she flitted to the other side of the room.
“Souter Johnny,” she saucily cried, “how dare ye look so mournful like. Hae ye a fit o’ the gloom, man?”
“Not a bit o’ it,” retorted Souter energetically, jumping lightly to his feet. “Will I stand on my head for ye, Mary, eh?”
Mary laughed merrily as Mrs. Burns replied in scathing tones, “Your brains are in your boots, noo, Souter Johnny.”
“Weel, wherever they are,” responded Souter with a quizzical smile, “they dinna’ trouble me o’er much. Weel, I think I’ll be turnin’ in noo,” he continued, stretching himself lazily. “Good-night to ye all,” and taking a candle from the dresser, he slowly left the room.
“Come, lads,’tis bedtime,” admonished Mrs. Burns, glancing at the old high clock that stood in the corner. “Mary, ye shall sleep with me, and, Robert, ye know where to find your bed. It hasna’ been slept in since ye left. Dinna’ forget your candle, Gilbert,” she called out as he started for the door. He silently took it from her hand. “Dinna’ forget your promise,” she whispered anxiously to him as he left the room in gloomy silence.
The look on his face frightened her. There was bitterness and despair in the quick glance he gave the happy lovers, who were standing in the shadow of the deep window. “The lad looked fair heart-broken,” she mused sorrowfully. For a moment she looked after him, a puzzled frown on her brow. Then suddenly the truth dawned on her. How blind she had been, why hadn’t she thought of that before? The lad was in love. In love with Mary Campbell, that was the cause of his bitterness toward his brother. “Both in love with the same lass,” she murmured apprehensively, and visions of petty meannesses, bitter discords, between the two brothers, jealous quarrels, resulting in bloody strife, perhaps; and she shuddered at the mental picture her uneasy mind had conjured up. The sooner Robert and Mary were married the sooner peace would be restored, she thought resolutely. They could start out for themselves, go to Auld Ayr or to Dumfries. They couldn’t be much worse off there than here. And determined to set her mind easy before she retired, she walked briskly toward the couple, who now sat hand in hand, oblivious to earthly surroundings, the soft moonlight streaming full upon their happy upturned faces. She watched them a moment in silence, loath to break in upon their sweet communion. Presently she spoke.
“Robert,” she called softly, “ye’d better gang to your bed noo, lad.”
With a start he came back to earth, and jumping up boyishly, replied with a happy laugh, “I forgot, mother, that I was keeping ye and Mary from your rest.” He glanced toward the recessed bed in the wall where his mother was wont to sleep. “Good-night, mither, good-night, Mary,” he said lovingly. Then taking his candle, he started for the door, but turned as his mother called his name and looked at her questioningly.
“Laddie, dinna’ think I’m meddling in your affairs,” she said hesitatingly, “but I’m fair curious to know when ye an’ Mary will be wed.”
Robert looked inquiringly at Mary, who blushed and dropped her head. “Before harvest begins, mither,” he answered hopefully, “if Mary will be ready and willing. Will that suit ye, lassie?” And he looked tenderly at the drooping head, covered with its wealth of soft, glittering curls.
“I hae all my linen spun and woven,” she faltered, after a nervous silence, not daring to look at him. “Ye ken the lassies often came a rockin’ and so helped me get it done.” She raised her head and looked in his glowing face. “’Tis a very small dowry I’ll be bringin’ ye, laddie,” she added in pathetic earnestness.
He gave a little contented laugh. “Ye’re bringin’ me yoursel’, dearie,” he murmured tenderly. “What mair could any lad want. I ken I do not deserve such a bonnie sweet sonsie lassie for my wife.” He looked away thoughtfully for a moment. Then he continued with glowing eyes, “But ye mind the verse o’ the song I gave ye before I went awa’?” he said lovingly, taking her hand in his. His voice trembled with feeling as he fervently recited the lines:
She smiled confidingly up into his radiant face, then laid her little head against his breast like a tired child. “Always remember, sweetheart,” he continued softly, as if in answer to that look, “that Robbie Burns’ love for his Highland Mary will remain forever the tenderest, truest passion of his unworthy life.”
CHAPTER V
Life at Mossgiel passed uneventfully and monotonously. Robert had settled down with every appearance of contentment to the homely duties of the farmer, and Gilbert could find no fault with the amount of labor done. Morning till night he plowed and harrowed the rocky soil, without a word of complaint, although the work was very hard and laborious. Planting had now begun and his tasks were materially lightened. He had ample leisure to indulge in his favorite pastime; and that he failed to take advantage of his opportunities for rhyming was a mystery to Gilbert, and a source of endless regret to Mary. But his mother could tell of the many nights she had seen the candle light gleaming far into the night; and her heart was sore troubled when in the morning she would see the evidence of his midnight toil, scraps of closely written paper scattered in wild disorder over his small table, but she held her peace. The lad loved to do it, she mused tenderly, and so long as he was not shirking his work, why disturb his tranquillity?
A few weeks after the return of our hero Mary and Mrs. Burns were seated in the living-room, Mrs. Burns as usual busy at her wheel, while Mary sat sewing at the window, where she could look out across the fields and see her sweetheart, who, with a white sheet containing his seed corn slung across his shoulder, was scattering the grain in the earth. She sang dreamily as she sewed, her sweet face beaming with love and happiness. No presentiment warned her of the approaching tragedy that was soon to cast its blighting shadow over that happy household—a tragedy that was inevitable. The guilty one had sown to the flesh, he must reap corruption. The seed had been sown carelessly, recklessly, and now the harvest time had come, and such a harvest! The pity of it was that the grim reaper must with his devouring sickle ruthlessly cut down such a tender, sweet, and innocent flower as she who sat there so happy and so blissfully unconscious of her impending doom.
Suddenly, with an exclamation of astonishment, she jumped excitedly to her feet. “Mistress Burns,” she cried breathlessly, “here are grand lookin’ strangers comin’ up the path. City folk, too, I ken. Look.”
Hastily the good dame ran to the window. “Sure as death, Mary; they’re comin’ here,” she cried in amazement. “Oh, lack a day, an’ I’m na dressed to receive the gentry.” A look of comical dismay clouded her anxious face as she hurriedly adjusted her cap and smoothed out her apron. “Is my cap on straight, Mary?” she nervously inquired. Mary nodded her head reassuringly. “Oh, dear, whatever can they want?” Steps sounded without. “Ye open the door, Mary,” she whispered sibilantly as the peremptory knock sounded loudly through the room. Timidly Mary approached the door. “Hist, wait,” called Mrs. Burns in sudden alarm. “My ’kerchief isna’ pinned.” Hastily she pinned the loose end in place, then folding her hands, she said firmly, “Noo let them enter.” Mary slowly opened the door, which, swinging inward, concealed her from the three strangers, who entered with ill-concealed impatience on the part of the two ladies who were being laughingly chided by their handsome escort. With a wondering look of admiration at the richly dressed visitors, Mary quietly stole out and softly shut the door behind her.
With a murmur of disgust the younger of the two ladies, who was about nineteen, walked to the fireplace, and raising her quilted blue petticoat, which showed beneath the pale pink overdress with its Watteau plait, she daintily held her foot to the blaze. A disfiguring frown marred the dark beauty of her face as her bold black eyes gazed about her impatiently.
“It’s a monstrous shame,” she flashed angrily, “to have an accident happen within a few miles of home. Will it delay us long, think you?” she inquired anxiously, addressing her companion.
“It depends on the skill of the driver to repair the injury,” replied the other lady indifferently. She appeared the elder of the two by some few years, and was evidently a lady of rank and fashion. She looked distinctly regal and commanding in her large Gainsborough hat tilted on one side of her elaborately dressed court wig. A look of amused curiosity came over her patrician face as she calmly surveyed the interior of the cottage. She inclined her head graciously to Mrs. Burns, who with a deep courtesy stood waiting their pleasure.
“We have just met with an accident, guidwife,” laughingly said the gentleman, who stood in the doorway brushing the dust from his long black cloak. He was a scholarly looking man of middle age, dressed in the height of taste and fashion. “While crossing the old bridge yonder,” he continued, smiling courteously at Mrs. Burns, “our coach had the misfortune to cast a wheel, spilling us all willy-nilly, on the ground, and we must crave your hospitality, guidwife.”
“Ye are a’ welcome,” quickly answered Mrs. Burns with another courtesy. “Sit doon, please,” and she placed a chair for the lady, who languidly seated herself thereon with a low murmur of thanks.
“Allow me to introduce myself,” continued the gentleman, coming into the room, his cloak over his arm. “I am Lord Glencairn of Edinburgh. This is Lady Glencairn, and yonder lady is Mistress Jean Armour of Mauchline.”
The young lady in question, who was still standing by the fireplace, flashed him a look of decided annoyance. She seemed greatly perturbed at the enforced delay of the journey. She started violently as she heard Mrs. Burns say, “And I am Mrs. Burns, your lordship.” Then she hurried to the old lady’s side, a startled look in her flashing eyes.
“Mistress Burns of Mossgiel Farm?” she inquired in a trembling voice.
“Yes, my lady,” replied Mrs. Burns. The young lady’s face went white as she walked nervously back to the fireplace.
“My dear Jean, whatever is the matter?” asked Lady Glencairn lazily, as she noticed Jean’s perturbation. “Is there anything in the name of Burns to frighten you?”
“No, your ladyship,” replied Jean falteringly, turning her face away so that her large Gainsborough hat completely shielded her quivering features. “I—I am still a trifle nervous from the upset, that is all.” She seemed strangely agitated.
“Was it not unlucky?” replied Lady Glencairn in her rich vibrating contralto. “’Twill be a most wearisome wait, I fear, but we simply must endure it with the best possible grace,” and she unfastened her long cloak of black velvet and threw it off her shoulders, revealing her matchless form in its tightly fitting gown of amber satin, with all its alluring lines and sinuous curves, to the utmost advantage.
“It willna’ be long noo, your ladyship,” replied Mrs. Burns, smiling complacently. She had quietly left the room while the two were talking, and seeing Souter hovering anxiously around, trying to summon up courage to enter, she had commanded him to go to the fields and tell the lads of the accident, which he had reluctantly done.
“My lads will soon fix it for ye,” she continued proudly. “Robert is a very handy lad, ye ken. He is my eldest son, who has just returned from Mauchline,” she explained loquaciously in answer to Lord Glencairn’s questioning look.
Jean nervously clutched at the neck of her gown, her face alternately flushing and paling. “Your son is here now?” she asked eagerly, turning to Mrs. Burns.
“Aye, he’s out yonder in the fields,” she answered simply.
“Oh, then you know the young man?” interrogated Lady Glencairn, glancing sharply at Jean.
“Yes, I know him,” she answered with averted gaze. “We met occasionally in Mauchline at dancing school, where we fell acquainted.”
Lady Glencairn looked at her with half-closed eyes for a moment, then she smilingly said, “And I’ll wager your love for coquetting prompted you to make a conquest of the innocent rustic, eh, Jean?”
Jean tossed her head angrily and walked to the window.
“Lady Glencairn, you are pleased to jest,” she retorted haughtily.
“There, there, Jean, you’re over prudish. I vow ’twould be no crime,” her ladyship calmly returned. “I’ll wager this young farmer was a gay Lothario while in Mauchline,” she continued mockingly.
“Oh, no, your ladyship,” interrupted Mrs. Burns simply. “He was a flax dresser.”
“Truly a more respectable occupation, madame,” gravely responded Lord Glencairn with a suspicious twinkle in his eye.
“Thank ye, my lord,” answered Mrs. Burns with a deep courtesy. “My lad is a good lad, if I do say so, and he has returned to us as pure minded as when he went awa’ a year ago.”
Lady Glencairn raised her delicately arched eyebrows in amused surprise. Turning to Jean, she murmured drily, “And away from home a year, too! He must be a model of virtue, truly.”
Jean gazed at her with startled eyes. “Can she suspect aught?” she asked herself fearfully.
“Could I be getting ye a cup of milk?” asked Mrs. Burns hospitably. “’Tis a’ I have to offer, but ’tis cool and refreshing.”
“Fresh milk,” repeated Lady Glencairn, rising with delight. “I vow it would be most welcome, guidwife.”
“Indeed it would,” responded her husband. And Mrs. Burns with a gratified smile hurried from the room.
“My dear, don’t look so tragic,” drawled Lady Glencairn carelessly, as she noticed Jean’s pale face and frightened eyes. “We’ll soon be in Mauchline. Although why you are in such a monstrous hurry to reach that lonesome village after your delightful sojourn in the capital, is more than I can conjecture,” and her keen eyes noted with wonder the flush mount quickly to the girl’s cheek.
“It is two months since I left my home, your ladyship,” faltered Jean hesitatingly. “It’s only natural I should be anxious to see my dear parents again.” She dropped her eyes quickly before her ladyship’s penetrating gaze.
“Dear parents, indeed,” sniffed Lady Glencairn to herself suspiciously as she followed their hostess to the door of the “ben.”
With a nervous little laugh Jean rose quickly from her chair by the window and walked toward the door through which they had entered. “The accident has quite upset me, Lady Glencairn,” she said constrainedly. “Would you mind if I stroll about the fields until my nerves are settled?” she asked with a forced laugh.
“No, child, go by all means,” replied her ladyship indolently. “The air will do you good, no doubt.”
“I warn you not to wander too far from the house,” interposed Lord Glencairn with a kindly smile. “We will not be detained much longer.” With a smile of thanks she hastily left the room just as Mrs. Burns entered from the “ben” bearing a large blue pitcher filled with foaming milk, which she placed on the table before her smiling visitors.
Jean breathed a sigh of relief as she closed the door behind her. She felt in another moment she would have screamed aloud in her nervousness. That fate should have brought her to the very home of the man she had thought still in Mauchline, and to see whom she had hurriedly left Edinburgh, filled her with wonder and dread. “I must see him before we leave,” she said nervously, clasping and unclasping her hands. But where should she find him? She walked quickly down the path and gazed across the fields, where in the distance she could see several men at work, repairing the disabled coach. Anxiously she strained her eyes to see if the one she sought was among them, but he was not there. Quickly she retraced her steps. “I must find him. I must speak with him this day,” she said determinedly. As she neared the cottage she turned aside and walked toward the high stone fence which enclosed the house and yard. Swiftly mounting the old stile, she looked about her. Suddenly she gave a sharp little exclamation, and her heart bounded violently, for there before her, coming across the field, was the man she sought, his hands clasped behind him, his head bent low in the deepest meditation. With a sigh of relief she sank down on the step and calmly awaited his approach.
CHAPTER VI
Robert flung the last of his seed corn into the earth with a sigh of thankfulness, for though he gave the powers of his body to the labors of the farm, he refused to bestow on them his thoughts or his cares. He longed to seek the quiet of his attic room, for his soul was bursting with song and his nervous fingers fairly itched to grasp his pencil and catch and hold forever the pearls dropped from the lap of the Goddess Muse into his worshipful soul, ere they faded and dissolved into lusterless fragments. Mechanically he turned his footsteps toward the cottage, plunged in deep reverie. As he walked slowly along his mind suddenly reverted to the year he had spent in Mauchline. It had been his first taste of town life. Blessed with a strong appetite for sociability, although constitutionally melancholy, and a hair-brained imagination, he had become an immediate favorite and welcome guest wherever he visited. Vive l’amour and vive la bagatelle had soon become his sole principle of action. His heart, which was completely tinder, was eternally lighted up by some goddess or other, and it was not long before he regarded illicit love with levity, which two months previously he had thought of with horror. Poesy was still a darling walk for his mind, but it was only indulged in according to the humor of the hour. Having no aim in life he had been easily led from the paths of virtue into many forms of dissipation, which, when indulged in, afterwards plunged him into the deepest melancholy. A few months after his advent into the village he had met Jean Armour, the daughter of a master builder. She was one of the belles of Mauchline, a wild, willful, imprudent lass, whose sensual charms soon ensnared the susceptible heart of the unsophisticated farmer lad. The fatal defect of his character was the comparative weakness of his volition, and his passions, once lighted up, soon carried him down the stream of error and swept him over the precipice he saw directly in his course.
Such being their temperaments, it was not to be wondered at when their procedure soon became decidedly irregular, their intimacy becoming the common talk and gossip of Mauchline.
A few months before Robert returned to Mossgiel farm Jean had received an invitation from her god-parents, Lord and Lady Glencairn, to visit Edinburgh, which she had accepted with eagerness, for she was becoming tired of her latest conquest and longed for the gay life of the capital.
Robert saw her leave Mauchline with no pangs of regret at her inconstancy and caprice. He was in a state of profound melancholy at the time, the thoughts of how he had fallen from the paths of truth and virtue, the thoughts of the pure love of his sweetheart at home, filling his heart with grief and remorse. He was thinking of all this as he approached the stile. How wretchedly weak and sinful he had been to forget his sworn vows to Mary, he thought remorsefully. “May no harping voice from that past ever come to disturb her peace of mind,” he prayed fervently.
Jean watched him, drawing ever nearer, with eyes filled with sudden shame and dread at what she had to tell him. Why had her brief infatuation for the poverty-stricken farmer led her into such depths of imprudence and recklessness? she thought angrily. As he reached the bottom of the stile she softly spoke his name, and noted with chagrin his startled look of surprise and annoyance as he raised his eyes to hers.
“Jean Armour?” he cried in amazement.
“Aren’t you glad to see me?” she asked coquettishly, his presence exercising its old fascination for her.
“What has brought ye to Mossgiel?” he asked abruptly, ignoring her outstretched hand.
“An accident,” she replied flippantly. “I was on my way home and would have been there ere this had it not been for a fortunate mishap.”
“Fortunate mishap?” he repeated questioningly.
“Yes,” she retorted amiably, “otherwise I should have missed seeing you,” and she smiled down into his pale startled face.
“I dinna understand why ye left Edinburgh,” he began, when she interrupted him.
“Because I thought you were still in Mauchline,” she explained quickly. He look at her questioningly. “I left Edinburgh for the sole purpose of seeing you, Robert,” she announced quietly, making room for him to sit beside her, but he did not accept the invitation.
“Well, noo, that was very kind of ye, Jean,” he replied a little uneasily. “But I’m not so conceited as to believe that. I ken the charms o’ Edinburgh town, with its handsome officers, soon made ye forget the quiet country village, and a’ your old flames, including your bashful humble servant,” and he made her a mocking bow.
His tone of satirical raillery made her wince. “Forget?” she cried passionately, jumping to her feet. “I wish to heaven I might forget everything, but I cannot—I cannot.” The sudden thought of her predicament caused her haughty, rebellious spirit to quail, and covering her face with her hands, she burst into a paroxysm of tears and sank heavily down upon the step.
He regarded the weeping woman silently. Was her attachment for him stronger than he had believed? Could it be possible she still entertained a passion for him? he asked himself anxiously. But no, that couldn’t be; she had left him two months ago with a careless word of farewell on her laughing lips. Yet why these tears, these wild words she had just uttered? A wave of pity for her swept over him as he realized, if such were the case, that he must repulse her advances gently but none the less firmly. He had done with her forever when he said his last farewell. There could be no raking over of the dead ashes.
Jean angrily wiped away her tears. She must not give way to such weakness. She had an errand to perform which would need all her courage. He was evidently waiting for some explanation of her strange behavior, she told herself with a vain effort to steel her heart. Now was the time to tell him all, she thought fearfully, peeking out from behind her small linen ’kerchief, with which she was dabbing her eyes, at his cold, wondering face. The sooner it was done the sooner she would know what to expect at his hands. How should she begin? After a long, nervous pause she faltered out, “Have you forgotten the past, Robert, and all that we were to each other?”
“Nay, Jean, I remember everything,” he answered remorsefully. “But let us not speak of that noo, please. Ye ken that is all ended between us forever.” He turned away pale and trembling, for her presence, her looks and words recalled many things he wanted to forget, that shamed him to remember.
“Ended?” she repeated, an angry flush rising to the roots of her black hair. She looked at him in amazement. He, the poverty-stricken farmer, had repulsed her, the belle of Mauchline? Could she have heard aright? He who had always been at her beck and call, two months ago her willing slave, could it be that he was over his infatuation for her? She had not thought of that possibility. She had expected him to be humble, gratefully flattered by her condescension in seeking him out. If he should refuse the proposal she had come so far to make! she thought in trepidation. “He must not refuse, he shall not refuse,” and her face grew hard and set. But perhaps he was piqued because she had left him so unceremoniously two months ago, because she had not written him. Her tense lips relaxed into a smile. Oh, well, she would be nice to him now; she would make him think she was breaking her heart for him, work on his sympathy, then perhaps it would not be necessary to confess her humiliating plight. No farmer doomed to lifelong poverty would be averse to winning the hand of the daughter of the rich Squire Armour. These thoughts, running through her mind, decided her next move, and with a fluttering sigh she rose from her seat and descended the step. She drew close to him and looking languishingly up into his face, murmured, “Why should it be ended, Robert? I love you just the same as I did in the past,” and she threw her arms about his neck, clinging to him passionately. “You do love me a little, tell me you do.”
“Jean, ye must be daft,” he panted, vainly trying to disengage himself from her embrace.
But she continued softly, alluringly, “Think of the old days, when I lay in your arms like this, Robbie. Think of those happy hours we spent together on the banks of the Doon. You were not cold to me then. Oh, let us live them all over again. How happy we will be. Kiss me, Rob,” and she lifted her flushed, piquant face, her crimson lips pursed temptingly, close to his. The warmth of her seductive body, the white bare arms in their short sleeves, which embraced his neck, the half-closed passionate eyes gazing invitingly, languorously into his own, fired his naturally ardent blood, making his senses to reel from the contact. Slowly his arms, which had been restraining her amorous embrace, tightened their hold on her, drawing her closer and closer, while the drops of sweat poured down his white, yielding face, as with wild bloodshot eyes he battled with the temptations which beset him so wantonly, so dangerously. With a thrill of elation not unmixed with desire she felt him yielding to her embrace, and knew that she had won him again. With a cooing cry of delight she was about to press her warm lips to his, when suddenly a bird-like voice singing in the distance arrested her impulse.
rang out the voice of the singer plaintively. With a cry of brief and horror Robert tore the clinging arms from about his neck and threw her madly from him. “What is the matter, Robert?” she cried fearfully, looking at him in amazement.
“I think ye had better go noo, Jean,” he answered harshly, not looking at her. “’Twill be best for us both. Oh, how I despise my weakness, I had no right, no right noo.” And there was an agony of shame and remorse in his voice.
“Do you mean,” she asked white with rage. “That you are not free to do as you like?” He remained silent a moment.
Then his face grew calm and peaceful. “The lass whom ye hear singing is Mary Campbell, my betrothed wife,” he answered simply. “We are to be married when the plantin’ is done. We have been sweethearts for years, and if I have in my weakness forgotten my sworn vows to her, by God’s help I’ll strive to be more faithful in the future.” His voice vibrated with intense feeling as he made the resolution. Then he continued softly and tenderly, “And the love I bear my faithful Mary will never cease as long as this crimson current flows within me.” A mocking laugh greeted his words as he finished.
“I tell you, Robert Burns,” cried Jean threateningly, “she shall never be your wife, for I will——” But the angry words died suddenly on her lips at an unlooked-for interruption.
“Jean, Jean,” called a lazy voice. Turning quickly she saw with apprehension Lady Glencairn standing in the open doorway of the cottage, beckoning leisurely to her. Had she heard her imprudent words? she asked herself in terror. But no, that were not possible. She had not raised her voice. For a moment she hesitated, not knowing what to do. Should she tell him the truth now? It would only mean a hurriedly whispered word or two, but as she looked at him standing there so proudly erect, the angry, puzzled flush which her last hasty words had occasioned still mantling his swarthy face, she felt her courage slipping away from her. Why not wait and write him? she temporized; that would be much better than creating a scene now, with the sharp eye of Lady Glencairn fastened upon them. Yes, she would do that, she decided hastily. She turned calmly and mounted the stile and without one backward glance descended to the other side. “Are you coming?” she asked indifferently over her shoulder, and without waiting for his answer walked quickly toward the house. Robert after a moment’s indecision gravely followed her, the look of puzzled concern still wrinkling his forehead.
“Oh, I beg your pardon; I didn’t know you were indulging in a tête-à-tête,” said Lady Glencairn frigidly as they reached the door.
“Lady Glencairn, this is Mr. Robert Burns,” stammered Jean nervously, with a flush of embarrassment at her ladyship’s sarcastic smile.
“Oh, indeed, delighted I’m sure,” said her ladyship, with a careless nod, which changed to surprised interest as Robert with simple, manly dignity removed his Tam O’Shanter and bowed low before the haughty beauty. “What an air for a peasant,” she mused. “What dignity,” and she surveyed him critically from the top of his head, with its black clustering locks which gleamed purple in the sunshine, to the tip of his rough leather brogans; noting with admiration his stalwart frame, the well-shaped head and massive neck, the strength suggested in the broad shoulders, the deep chest, the herculean limbs with the swelling muscles displayed to such advantage within the tightly fitting breeches of doe skin. “What a handsome creature,” she thought with a thrill of admiration, as she took the mental inventory of his good points. “And decidedly interesting, I’ll wager, if not dangerous,” she added, smiling contemplatively as she caught the look of respectful admiration which gleamed in his wonderfully magnetic eyes.
“Oh, James,” she called languidly reëntering the room, “here is the young man who has so kindly assisted in repairing the coach—the young man who has just returned from Mauchline,” she added significantly.
“Nay, your ladyship, ’tis my brother Gilbert you must thank for his assistance, not me,” replied Robert, flushing. As the deep tones of his sonorous voice fell on her ear she felt an indefinable thrill of emotion steal over her that startled her. She looked at him wonderingly. What peculiar magnetism was there in this farmer’s voice that could so easily move her, who had always prided herself on her coldness, her indifference to all men, including her husband, who was blissfully unconscious of his beautiful wife’s sentiments regarding him?
“Your brother had no easy task, I fear, Mr. Burns,” remarked Lord Glencairn genially. Then he turned smilingly to Jean, who was standing impatiently in the doorway. “What have you been doing all this time, my dear Jean?” he asked lightly.
“Ask Mr. Burns,” insinuated Lady Glencairn with an odd little smile at Jean’s embarrassed countenance. He looked inquiringly at the surprised face of the young farmer.
“Miss Armour has done me the honor of listening to some of my rhyming,” quietly replied Robert with a quick glance at Jean, his ready wit coming to her rescue.
“So then you are a poet,” murmured Lady Glencairn, with a smile. “Do you write love sonnets to your sweethearts, or does the muse incline at this season to songs of springtime?”
“Aye, my lady, he has the gift indeed,” spoke up Mrs. Burns deprecatingly. “But I dinna’ ken if it amounts to aught.”
“My mother doesna’ care for my poetry,” said Robert simply, turning to her ladyship.
“Dinna’ say that, laddie,” replied his mother earnestly. “Ye ken I’m o’er fond of those verses to Highland Mary, but——”
“‘Highland Mary’? what a dear name,” interrupted Lady Glencairn sweetly, smiling at Robert. “Who is she, may I ask?” and she leaned forward questioningly in her chair.
“She is a—a friend,” he replied, flushing to the roots of his hair. Then he continued, softly, his eyes lighting up with love and devotion, “An’ she is as sweet and fragrant as a sprig of pure white heather plucked from her native Highlands.”
“Aye, and she’ll make a fine wife for Robert,” added Mrs. Burns complacently.
“Aye, finer than I deserve, mither,” he replied, looking uneasily at Jean, who had started violently, then quickly leaned back against the door post, pale and trembling.
“Marry her? Never! He cannot, he must not,” she muttered to herself, frantically.
“Why, Jean!” cried Lady Glencairn, going to her in sudden alarm. “What ails you, why do you look so wild?”
“I—I’m—a pain gripped my heart most suddenly,” she faltered. “I find it over warm here,” she gasped. “I’ll await you without,” and she left the room, a strange, frightened look on her pale face.
With a puzzled frown Lady Glencairn turned and sank thoughtfully into a chair. Looking up suddenly, she caught Robert’s eye fastened upon her face in eager scrutiny. “Let me see, what were we speaking about?” she inquired indifferently.
“Ye were kind enough to ask me about my poetry,” answered Rob quietly. Jean’s queer behavior troubled him. What did it all mean? He feared she had aroused suspicion in her ladyship’s mind.
“Oh, to be sure, and I vow I’m curious,” she replied brightly. “I should like to read one of your poems, Mr. Burns, if you have one at hand.”
“He has bushels of them in the attic, your ladyship,” eagerly spoke Mrs. Burns.
“Aye, mother,” laughed Robert, “all waiting for the publisher. Here is one I but this day scribbled off, if—if ye really care to read it,” he added bashfully, taking a scrap of paper from the pocket of his loose shirt and handing it to Lady Glencairn.
She took it with a smile of amused indifference. A farmer and a poet! the idea was absurd. With an almost imperceptibly sarcastic lifting of her delicate eyebrows she read the title, “‘Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes.’” Then she read the verse in growing wonder and astonishment. She had thought to please him with a word of praise, even if they were laughably commonplace and prosaic; but it was with genuine enthusiasm that she heartily cried, “Really, ’tis a gem, Mr. Burns, so charming withal, such beautiful sentiment, and writ in most excellent style. Read it, James,” and she handed it to Lord Glencairn, who carefully perused it with apparent delight in its rhythmic beauty of composition.
“Thank ye, my lady,” replied Robert, flushing. “Your praise is o’er sweet to my hungry ear.” She gazed at him in open admiration.
“Here, Robert, are some more,” cried Mrs. Burns, entering the room with a box, which she placed before her son. “Show his lordship these, laddie,” and she hovered nervously around, her face flushed with excitement, watching anxiously every look and expression that passed over the faces of their guests.
Robert opened the box and selected a few of the poems at random, which he handed to Lord Glencairn without a word.
“‘A man’s a man for a’ that,’ ‘Willie brewed a peck of malt,’ ‘Holy Willie’s Prayer,’ ‘The Lass of Balbehmyle,’” read Lord Glencairn slowly, glancing over their titles. Then he read them through earnestly, his noble face expressing the interest he felt; then with a sigh of pleasure he passed them to Lady Glencairn, who devoured the written pages eagerly, her face flushed and radiant. When she had finished, she leaned back in her chair and fixed her luminous eyes upon her husband’s beaming face.
“James,” said she decidedly, “you will please me well if you will influence some publisher to accept this young man’s poems and place them before the public. I’m sure he is most deserving, and—he interests me greatly.” There was a peculiar glitter in her half-closed eyes as she gazed intently at Robert with an enigmatic smile parting her red lips. The gracious lady with her high-bred air, her alluring smile, her extreme condescension, was a revelation to the country-bred lad, who was brought in close contact for the first time with one so far above his station in life. He felt his awkwardness more than he had ever thought possible as he felt her critical eyes fastened upon him and heard her honeyed words of praise and encouragement.
“Mr. Burns,” said his lordship earnestly, “your poems interest me greatly, and I declare such genius as you display should be given an opportunity to develop. It will afford me much pleasure to take these verses, with your permission, back with me to Edinburgh and submit them to Sir William Creech, who is the largest publisher there, and a personal friend of mine, and if he accepts these poems as a criterion of your artistic ability, without the least doubt your success will be at once assured.” He put them carefully in the large wallet he had taken from an inside pocket while he was talking, and replaced it within his coat.
Robert looked at him, hardly daring to believe his ears. “I—I canna find words to express my unbounded gratitude to you, my lord,” he faltered, his voice low and shaking.
“I’d advise you to make a collection of your poems, my lad,” continued Lord Glencairn quietly, touched by the sight of Robert’s expressive features, which he was vainly trying to control. “Chiefly those in the Scottish dialect; they are new and will create a sensation. Have them ready to forward to town when sent for.” There was a tense silence for a moment when he had finished.
Robert dared not trust his voice to speak, to utter his thanks. Finally he burst out. “My lord, how can I ever thank ye for this unlooked-for generosity to an absolute stranger!” he cried brokenly. “For years I have been praying for a publisher to edit my songs, but I could see no silver lining to the dark clouds of obscurity hanging over my unhappy, friendless head, clouds which threatened to engulf me in their maddening embrace. But now,” he continued eloquently, his voice ringing with gladness, “the bright sunlight is peeping around the fast disappearing cloud, warming my very soul with its joyous rays. Oh, my lord, if ever the name of Robert Burns should e’en become familiar to his countrymen,’twill be through your graciousness, your benevolence, to a poor unknown, humble plowman,” and his eyes filled with tears of love and gratitude for his noble benefactor.
Lord Glencairn took a pinch of snuff from the small oblong box he held in his hand, and used his handkerchief vigorously to conceal the tears of sympathy which had welled up in his eyes as he listened to the recital of Robert’s ambitions, his hopes and fears.
“My dear lad,” he said, trying to speak lightly, “I have done nothing as yet to deserve such fulsome words of thanks. ’Tis but a trifling thing I propose doing, and it pleases me, else perhaps I might not trouble myself to speak in your behalf.”
“Ah, noo, sir,” cried Mrs. Burns, wiping away the tears of joy, “’tis your big, noble heart which prompts ye to assist a struggling genius to something better, higher, and nobler in this life. God bless ye for it.”
The door opened, and Gilbert Burns quietly entered the room. Removing his Tam O’Shanter, he bowed respectfully to Lord Glencairn and said briefly, “Your Lordship’s coach is repaired.”
With a word of thanks Lord Glencairn rose and assisted his wife into her cloak.
“Thank goodness we can proceed on our journey while it is yet light,” she said animatedly, going to the door.
“I assure you, Mistress Burns, we have enjoyed your hospitality amazing well,” said Lord Glencairn, turning to their hostess. “Believe me, we’ll not forget it.”
They left the house, followed by their admiring hosts. Suddenly Lady Glencairn gave a little cry of delighted surprise as her eyes rested on the drooping figure of Highland Mary, sitting disconsolately on a large rock beside the old well. “What a sweet, pretty flower of a lass!” she cried enthusiastically. “Come here, child,” she called aloud. Mary looked up quickly with a little gasp of surprise, for she had not noticed them come out. She rose bashfully to her feet and stood hesitating, her eyes timidly fixed on a piece of heather she was holding in her hand.
Lady Glencairn laughed amusedly. “I vow ’tis an uncommon modest shy wildflower truly,” she said to her husband. “Come here, child, I’ll not bite you,” and she held out her hands toward the wondering girl.
With a little silvery, timid laugh Mary walked quickly toward her. “I’m no afraid, my lady,” she replied quietly, but her heart was beating very fast, nevertheless, as she stood before the great lady, who was watching the flower-like face, with the delicate pink color coming and going, with such apparent admiration.
“That’s our Highland Mary,” triumphantly cried Souter, who had just come upon the scene.
“Oh, indeed,” replied her ladyship brightly. “So you are Highland Mary.”
“Yes, my lady,” answered Mary with a quaint little courtesy.
“Isn’t she a dear,” said Lady Glencairn aloud to her husband.
She turned to Robert, who was proudly watching Mary, with eyes aglow with love and happiness. “No wonder, Mr. Burns,” she said, a sigh involuntarily escaping her as she noted his rapt gaze, “that you have sought to portray in song and verse the sweet loveliness of this fair maiden.” Then she turned suddenly to Mary.
“You’re a very pretty child,” she said carelessly. “But I suppose you know that well ere this.” She laughed cynically and turned away.
“She isna used to such compliments, your ladyship,” said Robert, noticing the embarrassed blush that mounted to Mary’s cheek. “She’s o’er shy, ye ken.”
“That’s the kind we raise in the Highlands,” declared Souter with a satisfied air.
“Come, James, it grows late,” wearily said Lady Glencairn, taking her husband’s arm. “And here is the coach.” As the vehicle with its prancing black horses champing restlessly at their bits drew up to the gate, she turned to Mary and said condescendingly, “Good-by, child; I suppose some day, when Mr. Burns is the Bard of Scotland, we’ll see you in town with him. Be sure to come and see me at Glencairn Hall.”
“Thank ye, my lady,” replied Mary, courtesying deeply, fortunately not discerning the sarcasm in the tired tones of the great lady’s voice.
Lord Glencairn helped her into the coach, and then turned to Robert with outstretched hand. “My lad,” he said cordially, “you may expect to hear from me or Sir William Creech very shortly. Good-by.”
“Good-by, sir,” replied Robert, “and may Heaven bless you.”
“Oh, Lud,” cried Lady Glencairn as they were about to start, “we’re forgetting Jean.”
“The young lady strolled alang,” answered Gilbert quietly. “She said you would overtake her on the road.”
Lady Glencairn thanked him with a careless nod, and then leaned far out of the door to Robert. “Remember, Mr. Burns,” she said softly, pressing his hand, “I expect to see you in Edinburgh very soon, don’t forget,” and with another lingering look, full of meaning, she withdrew into the coach, and soon they were gone in a cloud of dust, while he stood there gazing after them like one in a dream with the last rays of the setting sun lighting up his dark, passionate face.
“Hurra! ’tis luck ye’re in, laddie,” shouted Souter in his ear. “The gentry have noticed ye. Ye should be dancing for joy, mon. I’m off to tell the lads of your good fortune,” and away he sped to the village, eager as any old gossip to spread the glorious news.
“Isna it all like a dream, Mary?” sighed Mrs. Burns rapturously, leading the way into the house, followed by the two lovers, who entered hand in hand and seated themselves in blissful silence on the high-backed settle under the window, their favorite seat. For a few moments they sat motionless, regarding each other with moist eyes. It almost seemed too good to be true. In a few weeks perhaps Robert would be a great man, thought Mary proudly. “Weel, I always did have faith in Robert’s poetry,” suddenly declared Mrs. Burns with conviction.
Robert smiled at his mother’s words. “They would all say that now,” he thought, but without bitterness, for it was only the way of the world after all.
“Ye’ll soon hae riches noo,” said Mary happily.
“Aye, then ye shall hae a fine new gown, and—and we will be married noo, instead of waiting,” answered Robert, taking her tenderly in his arms.
“’Tis a bonnie, bonnie pair ye make,” said Mrs. Burns lovingly. “May God bless ye,” and she softly stole away, leaving them to their feast of love.