HIGHLAND MARY
[Illustration: “Highland Mary.”]
HIGHLAND
MARY
The Romance of a Poet
A
NOVEL
By
CLAYTON MACKENZIE LEGGE
Illustrated by
WILLIAM KIRKPATRICK
[Illustration]
1906
C. M. CLARK PUBLISHING CO.
BOSTON
Copyright, 1906.
THE C. M. CLARK PUBLISHING CO.,
Boston, Mass.
Entered at
Stationer’s Hall, London.
Dramatic and all other
RIGHTS RESERVED.
TO
THE REV. DR. DONALD SAGE MACKAY, D.D.,
_Pastor of the Collegiate Church_,
NEW YORK CITY.
I RESPECTFULLY DEDICATE THIS BOOK
FOREWORD
With apologies to Dame History for having taken liberties with some of
her famous characters, I would ask the Reader to remember that this story
is fiction and not history.
I have made use of some of the most romantic episodes in the life of
Robert Burns, such as his courtship of Mary Campbell and his love affair
with Jean Armour, “the Belle of Mauchline,” and many of the historical
references and details are authentic.
But my chief purpose in using these incidents was to make “Highland Mary”
as picturesque, lovable and interesting a character in Fiction as she has
always been in the History of Scotland.
CLAYTON MACKENZIE LEGGE.
HIGHLAND MARY
CHAPTER I
In the “but” or living-room (as it was termed in Scotland) of a little
whitewashed thatched cottage near Auld Ayr in the land of the Doon, sat a
quiet, sedate trio of persons consisting of two men and a woman. She who
sat at the wheel busily engaged in spinning was the mistress of the cot,
a matronly, middle-aged woman in peasant’s cap and ’kerchief.
The other two occupants of the room for years had been inseparable
companions and cronies, and when not at the village inn could be found
sitting by the fireside of one of their neighbors, smoking their pipes
in blissful laziness. And all Ayrshire tolerated and even welcomed Tam
O’Shanter and his cronie, “Souter Johnny.”
Tam was an Ayrshire farmer, considered fairly well-to-do in the
neighborhood, while Souter (shoemaker) Johnny was the village cobbler,
who seldom, if ever, worked at his trade nowadays. All the afternoon
had they sat by the open fireplace, with its roomy, projecting chimney,
watching the peat burn, seldom speaking, smoking their old smelly pipes,
and sighing contentedly as the warmth penetrated their old bones.
Mrs. Burns glanced at her uninvited guests occasionally with no approving
eye. If they must inflict their presence on her, why couldn’t they talk,
say something, tell her some of the news, the gossip of the village? she
thought angrily; their everlasting silence had grown very monotonous to
the good dame. She wished they would go. It was nearing supper time, and
Gilbert would soon be in from the field, and she knew that he did not
approve of the two old cronies hanging around monopolizing the fireplace
to the exclusion of everyone else, and she did not want any hard words
between them and Gilbert. Suddenly with a final whirl she fastened the
end of the yarn she was spinning, and getting up from her seat set the
wheel back against the whitewashed wall.
Then going to the old deal dresser, she took from one of the drawers a
white cloth and spread it smoothly over the table, then from the rack,
which hung above it, she took the old blue dishes and quickly set the
table for their evening meal. At these preparations for supper the
old cronies looked eagerly expectant, for none knew better than they
the excellence of the Widow Burns’ cooking, and a look of pleasant
anticipation stole over their sober faces as they perceived the platter
of scones on the table ready to be placed on the hot slab of stone in the
fireplace.
Knocking the ashes from his pipe, Tam rose unsteadily to his feet, and
standing with his back to the fire, he admiringly watched the widow as
she bustled to and fro from table to dresser. “Ah, Mistress Burns, ye’re
a fine housekeeper,” he remarked admiringly. “An’ ye’re a fine cook.”
Mrs. Burns turned on him sharply. “So is your guidwife,” she said
shortly, glancing out through the low, deep, square window to where her
second son could be seen crossing the field to the house. She hoped he
would take the hint and go.
“Aye, Mistress, I ken ye’re recht,” replied Tam, meekly, with a dismal
sigh. “But it’s a sorry bet o’ supper I’ll be gang hame to this night,
an’ ye ken it’s a long journey, too, Mistress Burns,” he insinuated slyly.
“Sure it’s a lang, weary journey, Tam,” said Souter Johnny,
commiseratingly. “But think o’ the warm welcome ye’ll be haein’ when ye
meet your guidwife at the door,” and a malicious twinkle gleamed in his
kindly but keen old eyes.
“How is your guidwife, Tam O’Shanter?” inquired Mistress Burns, as she
placed some scones on the hot hearthstone to bake.
“She’s a maist unco woman, Mistress,” replied Tam sorrowfully. “There’s
no livin’ wi’ her o’ late. She’s no a help or comfort to a mon at a’!”
he whined. Here Tam got a delicious whiff of the baking scones, and his
mouth as well as his eyes watered as he continued pathetically, “If
she could only cook like ye, Mistress. Oh, ’twas a sorry day for Tam
O’Shanter when he took such a scoldin’ beldame for wife,” and Tam sat
down, the picture of abject distress.
Souter regarded his cronie with a grim smile. He had no pity for Tam, nor
for any man, in fact, who would not or could not rule his own household.
(Souter, by the by, had remained a bachelor.) However, he did his best to
console Tam whenever his marital troubles were discussed.
“Never mind, Tam,” he said sympathetically, helping himself to a scone
while Mistress Burns’ back was turned. “Ye ken where ye can find all the
comfort and consolation ye can hold, if ye hae the tippence.”
Tam wiped away a tear (tears came easily to the old tyke in his constant
state of semi-intoxication) and gave a deep, prolonged sigh. “Aye,
Souter, an’ I feel mair at home in the Inn than I do with my guidwife,”
he answered mournfully. “I dinna mind telling ye, she’s driven me to the
Deil himsel’, by her daur looks an’ ways. The only friend I hae left is
Old John Barleycorn,” and he wailed in maudlin despair.
“He’s your best enemy, ye mean,” retorted Souter dryly, relighting his
pipe, after having demolished, with evident relish, the last of his
stolen scone.
“Waesucks, mon,” he continued, assuming the tone of Dominie Daddy Auld,
who had tried in vain to convert the two old sinners, much to their
amusement and inward elation. “Your guidwife told ye weel. Ye’re a
skellum, Tam, a blethering, blustering, drunken blellum,” and the old
rogue looked slyly at Mistress Burns to note the effect of his harangue.
“Aye, ye’re right, Souter Johnny,” said the good dame, nodding approval
to him, and going up to Tam, who was still sitting groaning by the
fireside, she shook him vigorously by the shoulder. “Stop your groaning
and grunting, ye old tyke, and listen to me,” she said sharply. “Take
your friend’s advice and gi’ old John Barleycorn a wide berth.” Here her
voice dropped to a whisper, “or some day ye’ll be catched wi’ warlocks in
the mire, Tam O’Shanter.” He stopped his noise and straightened up in his
chair.
“Aye, and ghosties and witches will come yelpin’ after ye as ye pass
the auld haunted kirk at Alloway,” added Souter sepulchrally, leaning
over Tam with fixed eyes and hand outstretched, clutching spasmodically
at imaginary objects floating before Tam’s suspicious, angry eyes. Tam,
however, was not to be so easily frightened, and brushing Souter aside,
he jumped to his feet. “Souter Johnny, dinna ye preach to me, mon,” he
roared menacingly. “Ye hae no reght. Let Daddy Auld do that! I dinna fear
the witches or ghosties, not I.” He staggered to the window and pointed
to an old white horse standing meekly by the roadside.
“Do ye see any auld faithful Maggie standin’ out there?” he cried
triumphantly. Not waiting for their answer, he continued proudly,
“Nae witches can catch Tam O’Shanter when he’s astride his auld mare’s
back, whether he is drunk or sober,” and he glared defiantly at his
listeners. At that moment the door from the “ben” opened, and Gilbert
Burns entered the room. An angry frown wrinkled his forehead as his gaze
fell upon the two old cronies. A hard worker himself, he could not abide
laziness or shiftlessness in another. He strode swiftly up to Tam, who
had suddenly lost his defiant attitude, but before he could speak the
bitter, impatient words which rushed to his lips, his mother, knowing his
uncertain temper, shook her head at him remonstratingly. “Ah, lad, I’m
fair ye hae come in to rest a while, an’ to hae a bit o’ supper,” she
hurriedly said. “Set ye doon. I hae some scones for ye, an’ Mollie has
some rabbit stew. Noo gie me your bonnet and coat, laddie,” and taking
them from him she hung them on the peg behind the door, while Gilbert
with a look of disgust at the two old cronies sat down and proceeded to
butter his scones in moody silence. Tam and Souter, however, did not
appear in any wise abashed, and perceiving they were not to be invited to
eat with Gilbert, they resumed their seats each side of the fireplace and
heaved a disconsolate sigh.
Mrs. Burns, who had left the room for a moment, now entered bearing a
large bowl of the steaming stew, which she set before her son, while
directly after her appeared old Mollie Dunn, the half-witted household
drudge. The time was when Mollie had been the swiftest mail carrier
between Dumfries and Mauchline, but she was now content to have a home
with the Burns family, where, if the twinges of rheumatism assailed her,
she could rest her bones until relief came. She now stood, a pleased grin
on her ugly face, watching Gilbert as he helped himself to a generous
portion of the stew which she had proudly prepared for the evening meal.
“Molly,” said her mistress sharply, “dinna ye stand there idle; fetch me
some hot water frae the pot.”
Molly got a pan from the rack and hurried to the fireplace, where Tam was
relighting his pipe with a blazing ember, for the dozenth time. Molly had
no love for Tam, and finding him in her way, she calmly gave a quick pull
to his plaidie, and Tam, who was in a crouching position, fell backward,
sprawling on the hearth in a decidedly undignified attitude. With the
roar of a wounded lion, he scrambled to his feet, with the assistance
of Souter, and shaking his fist at the laughing Molly, he sputtered
indignantly, “Is the Deil himsel’ in ye, Molly Dunn? Ye’re an impudent
hussy, that’s what ye are.” Molly glared at him defiantly for a moment,
then calmly proceeded to fill her pan with hot water, while the old man,
bursting with indignation, staggered over to the dresser where Mistress
Burns was brewing some tea.
“Mistress Burns,” he remonstrated almost tearfully, “ye should teach
your servants better manners. Molly Dunn is a——” but he never finished
his sentence, for Molly, hurrying back with the hot water, ran into him
and, whether by design or accident it was never known, spilled the hot
contents of the pan over Tam’s shins, whereupon he gave what resembled
a burlesque imitation of a Highland fling to the accompaniment of roars
of pain and anger from himself and guffaws of laughter from Souter and
Molly. Even Mrs. Burns and Gilbert could not resist a smile at the antics
of the old tyke.
“Toots, mon,” said Molly, not at all abashed at the mischief she had
done, “ye’re no hurt; ye’ll get mair than that at hame, I’m tellin’ ye,”
and she nodded her head sagely.
“Molly, hold your tongue,” said Mistress Burns reprovingly, then she
turned to Tam. “I hope ye’re nae burnt bad.” But Tam was very angry, and
turning to Souter he cried wrathfully, “I’m gang hame, Souter Johnny.
I’ll no stay here to be insulted; I’m gang hame.” And he started for the
door.
“Dinna mind Molly; she’s daft like,” replied Souter in a soothing voice.
“Come and sit doon,” and he tried to pull him toward the fireplace, but
Tam was not to be pacified. His dignity had been outraged.
“Nay, nay, Souter, I thank ye!” he said firmly. “An’ ye, too, Mistress
Burns, for your kind invitation to stay langer,” she looked at him
quickly, then gave a little sniff, “but I ken when I’m insulted,” and
disengaging himself from Souter’s restraining hand, he started for the
door once more.
“An’ where will ye be gang at this hour, Tam?” insinuated Souter slyly.
“Ye ken your guidwife’s temper.”
“I’m gang over to the Inn,” replied Tam defiantly, with his hand on the
open door. “Will ye gang alang wi’ me, Souter? A wee droppie will cheer
us both,” he continued persuasively.
Souter looked anxiously at Gilbert’s stern, frowning face, then back to
Tam. “I’d like to amazin’ weel, Tam,” he replied in a plaintive tone,
“but ye see——”
“Johnny has promised me he’ll keep sober till plantin’ is over,”
interrupted Gilbert firmly; “after that he can do as he likes.”
“Ye should both be ashamed o’ yoursel’s drinkin’ that vile whisky,” said
Mrs. Burns angrily, and she clacked her lips in disgust. “It is your
worst enemy, I’m tellin’ ye.”
“Ye mind, Mistress Burns,” replied Souter, winking his left eye at Tam,
“ye mind the Scriptures say, ‘Love your enemies.’ Weel, we’re just tryin’
to obey the Scriptures, eh, Tam?”
“Aye, Souter,” answered Tam with drunken gravity, “I always obey the
Scriptures.”
“Here, mon, drink a cup of tea before ye gang awa’,” said Mrs. Burns, and
she took him a brimming cup of the delicious beverage, thinking it might
assuage his thirst for something stronger. Tam majestically waved it away.
“Nay, I thank ye, Mistress Burns, I’ll no’ deprive ye of it,” he answered
with extreme condescension. “Tea doesno’ agree with Tam O’Shanter.” He
pushed open the door. “I’m off to the Inn, where the _tea_ is more to my
likin’. Guid-day to ye all,” and, slamming the door behind him, he called
Maggie to his side, and jumping astride her old back galloped speedily
toward the village Inn. The last heard of him that day was his voice
lustily singing “The Campbells Are Coming.”
After he left the room Mistress Burns handed Souter the cup of tea
she had poured for Tam, and soon the silence was unbroken save by an
occasional sigh from the old tyke as he sipped his tea.
Presently Gilbert set down his empty cup, rose and donned his coat. “Here
we are drinking tea, afternoon tea, as if we were of the quality,” he
observed sarcastically, “instead of being out in the fields plowing the
soil; there’s much to be done ere sundown.”
“Weel, this suits me fine,” murmured Souter contentedly, draining his
cup. “I ken I was born to be one o’ the quality; work doesno’ agree wi’
me, o’er weel,” and he snuggled closer in his chair.
“Ye’re very much like my fine brother Robert in that respect,” answered
Gilbert bitterly, his face growing stern and cold. “But we want no
laggards here on Mossgiel. Farmers must work, an’ work hard, if they
would live.” He walked to the window and looked out over the untilled
ground with hard, angry eyes, and his heart filled with bitterness as
he thought of his elder brother. It had always fallen to him to finish
the many tasks his dreaming, thoughtless, erratic brother had left
unfinished, while the latter sought some sequestered spot where, with
pencil and paper in hand, he would idle away his time writing verses. And
for a year now Robert had been in Irvine, no doubt enjoying himself to
the full, while he, Gilbert, toiled and slaved at home to keep the poor
shelter over his dear ones. It was neither right nor just, he thought,
with an aching heart.
“Ye ken, Gilbert,” said Souter Johnny, breaking in on his reverie,
“Robert wasna’ born to be a farmer. He always cared more, even when a wee
laddie, for writin’ poetry and dreamin’ o’ the lasses than toilin’ in the
fields, more’s the pity.”
Mrs. Burns turned on him quickly. “Souter Johnny, dinna ye dare say a
word against Robert,” she flashed indignantly. “He could turn the best
furrough o’ any lad in these parts, ye ken that weel,” and Souter was
completely annihilated by the angry flash that gleamed in the mother’s
eye, and it was a very humble Souter that hesitatingly held out his cup
to her, hoping to change the subject. “Hae ye a wee droppie mair tea
there, Mistress Burns?” he meekly asked.
Mrs. Burns was not to be mollified, however. “Aye, but not for ye, ye
skellum,” she answered shortly, taking the cup from him and putting it in
the dishpan.
“Come along, Souter,” said Gilbert, going to the door. “We hae much to do
ere sundown and hae idled too long, noo. Come.”
“Ye’re workin’ me too hard, Gilbert,” groaned Souter despairingly. “My
back is nigh broken; bide a wee, mon!”
A sharp whistle from without checked Gilbert as he was about to reply.
“The Posty has stopped at the gate,” exclaimed Mistress Burns excitedly,
rushing to the window in time to see old Molly receive a letter from that
worthy, and then come running back to the house. Hurrying to the door,
she snatched it from the old servant’s hands and eagerly held it to the
light. Molly peered anxiously over her shoulder.
“It’s frae Robbie,” she exclaimed delightedly. “Keep quiet, noo, till I
read it to the end.” As she finished, the tears of gladness rolled down
her smooth cheek. “Oh, Gilbert,” she said, a little catch in her voice,
“Robert is comin’ back to us. He’ll be here this day. Read it, lad, read
for yoursel’.” He took the letter and walked to the fireplace. After a
slight pause he read it. As she watched him she noticed with sudden
apprehension the look of anger that darkened his face. She had forgotten
the misunderstanding which had existed between the brothers since their
coming to Mossgiel to live, and suddenly her heart misgave her.
“Gilbert lad,” she hesitatingly said as he finished the letter, “dinna
say aught to Robert when he comes hame about his rhyming, will ye,
laddie?” She paused and looked anxiously into his sullen face. “He canna
bear to be discouraged, ye ken,” and she took the letter from him and
put it in her bosom. Gilbert remained silent and moody, a heavy frown
wrinkling his brow.
“Perhaps all thoughts of poesy has left him since he has been among
strangers,” continued the mother thoughtfully. “Ye ken he has been doin’
right weel in Irvine; and it’s only because the flax dresser’s shop has
burned to the ground, and he canna work any more, that he decides to come
hame to help us noo. Ye ken that, Gilbert.” She laid her hand in tender
pleading on his sunburnt arm.
“He always shirked his work before,” replied Gilbert bitterly, “and nae
doot he will again. But he maun work, an’ work hard, if he wants to stay
at Mossgiel. Nae more lyin’ around, scribblin’ on every piece of paper he
finds, a lot of nonsense, which willna’ put food in his mouth, nor clothe
his back.” Mrs. Burns sighed deeply and sank into the low stool beside
her spinning wheel, he hands folded for once idly in her lap, and gave
herself up to her disquieting thoughts.
“Ye can talk all ye like,” exclaimed Souter, who was ever ready with his
advice, “but Robert is too smart a lad to stay here for lang. He was
never cut out for a farmer nae mair was I.”
“A farmer,” repeated Mrs. Burns, with a mirthless little laugh. “An’ what
is there in a farmer’s life to pay for all the hardships he endures?”
she asked bitterly. “The constant grindin’ an’ endless toil crushes all
the life out o’ one in the struggle for existence. Remember your father,
Gilbert,” and her voice broke at the flood of bitter recollection which
crowded her thoughts.
“I have na forgotten him, mither,” replied Gilbert quietly. “Nor am I
likely to, for my ain lot in life is nae better.” And pulling his cap
down over his eyes, he went back to the window and gazed moodily out
over the bare, rocky, profitless farm which must be made to yield them
a living. There was silence for a time, broken only by the regular
monotonous ticking of the old clock. After a time Mrs. Burns quietly left
the room.
“Oh, laddie,” whispered Souter as the door closed behind her, coming up
beside Gilbert, “did ye hear the news that Tam O’Shanter brought frae
Mauchline?”
“Do you mean about Robert an’ some lassie there?” inquired Gilbert
indifferently, after a brief pause.
“Aye!” returned Souter impressively, “but she’s nae common lass, Gilbert.
She’s Squire Armour’s daughter Jean, called the Belle of Mauchline.”
“I ken it’s no serious,” replied Gilbert sarcastically, “for ye ken
Robert’s heart is like a tinder box, that flares up at the first whisper
of passion,” and he turned away from the window and started for the door.
“I canna’ understand,” reflected Souter, “how the lad could forget his
sweetheart, Highland Mary, long enough to take up wi any ither lassie.
They were mighty fond o’ each ither before he went awa’ a year ago. I can
swear to that,” and he smiled reminiscently.
A look of despair swept over Gilbert’s face at the idle words of the
garrulous old man. He leaned heavily against the door, for there was a
dull, aching pain at his heart of which he was physically conscious.
For a few moments he stood there with white drawn face, trying hard
to realize the bitter truth, that at last the day had come, as he had
feared it must come, when he must step aside for the prodigal brother
who would now claim his sweetheart. And she would go to him so gladly,
he knew, without a single thought of his loneliness or his sorrow. But
she was not to blame. It was only right that she should now be with her
sweetheart, that he must say farewell to those blissful walks along
the banks of the Doon which for almost a year he had enjoyed with Mary
by his side. His stern, tense lips relaxed, and a faint smile softened
his rugged features. How happy he had been in his fool’s paradise. But
he loved her so dearly that he had been content just to be with her,
to listen to the sweetness of her voice as she prattled innocently and
lovingly of her absent sweetheart. A snore from Souter, who had fallen
asleep in his chair, roused him from the fond reverie into which he had
fallen, and brought him back to earth with a start. With a bitter smile
he told himself he had no right to complain. If he had allowed himself to
fall in love with his brother’s betrothed, he alone was to blame, and he
must suffer the consequence. Suddenly a wild thought entered his brain.
Suppose—and his heart almost stopped beating at the thought—suppose
Robert had grown to love someone else, while away, even better than he
did Mary? He had heard rumors of Robert’s many amourous escapades in
Mauchline; then perhaps Mary would again turn to him for comfort. His
eyes shone with renewed hope and his heart was several degrees lighter as
he left the house. Going to the high knoll back of the cottage, he gazed
eagerly, longingly, across the moor to where, in the hazy distance, the
lofty turrets of Castle Montgomery, the home of the winsome dairymaid,
Mary Campbell, reared their heads toward the blue heavens.