“Ah, Souter Johnny, how are ye, mon?” cried Robert heartily, as his eyes
rested on the beaming face of the old man. “Faith, an’ I thought I’d find
ye here as of old. ’Tis almost a fixture ye are.”
“Ah, weel,” replied Souter nonchalantly, as he shook Robert’s
outstretched hand, “ye ken the Scripture says, ‘an’ the poor ye have
always wi’ ye.’” Robert laughed merrily at the old man’s sally.
“Thank goodness, they’ve gone at last,” said Mrs. Burns with a sigh
of relief, as she entered the room. “Why, laddie, ye had half the
ne’er-do-weels of Mossgiel a-following ye. They are only a lot of leeches
and idle brawlers, that’s a’,” and her dark eyes flashed her disapproval.
“I’m sure they have kind hearts, mither, for a’ that,” replied Robert
reproachfully.
“Ye’re so popular wi’ them a’, Robbie,” cried Souter proudly.
“Aye, when he has a shillin’ to spend on them,” added Mrs. Burns dryly.
“But sit doon, laddie; ye maun be tired wi’ your lang walk,” and she
gently pushed him into a chair beside the table.
“I am a wee bittie tired,” sighed Robert gratefully as he leaned back in
the chair.
“I’ll soon hae something to eat before ye,” replied his mother briskly.
“I’m nae hungry, mother,” answered Robert. “Indeed, I couldna’ eat a
thing,” he remonstrated as she piled the food before him.
“’Tis in love ye are,” insinuated Souter with a knowing look. “I ken the
symptoms weel; ye canna’ eat.”
“Ye’re wrong there,” replied Robert with a bright smile. “Love but
increases my appetite.”
“Aye, for love,” added Souter _sotto voce_.
“Ah, mother dear, how guid it seems to be at hame again, under the old
familiar roof-tree,” said Robert a little later, as he leaned back
contentedly in his chair and gazed about the room with eager, alert
glances. As he sits there with his arms folded let us take a look at
our hero. Of more than medium height, his form suggested agility as
well as strength. His high forehead, shaded with black curling hair
tied at the neck, indicated extensive capacity. His eyes were large,
dark, and full of fire and intelligence. His face was well formed and
uncommonly interesting and expressive, although at the first glance his
features had a certain air of coarseness, mingled with an expression of
calm thoughtfulness, approaching melancholy. He was dressed carelessly
in a blue homespun long coat, belted at the waist, over a buff-colored
vest; short blue pantaloons, tucked into long gray home-knit stockings,
which came up above his knee, and broad low brogans, made by Souter’s
hands. He wore a handsome plaid of small white and black checks over one
shoulder, the ends being brought together under the opposite arm and tied
loosely behind.
“’Tis a fine hame-comin’ ye’ve had, laddie,” cried old Souter proudly.
“Faith, it’s just like they give the heir of grand estates. We should hae
had a big bonfire burnin’ outside our—ahem—palace gates,” and he waved
his hand grandiloquently.
“Dinna’ ye make fun of our poor clay biggin’, Souter Johnny,” cried Mrs.
Burns rebukingly. “Be it ever so poor, ’tis our hame.”
“Aye, ’tis our hame, mother,” repeated Robert lovingly. “An’ e’en tho’
I have been roaming in other parts, still this humble cottage is the
dearest spot on earth to me. I love it all, every stick and stone, each
blade of grass, every familiar object that greeted my eager gaze as I
crossed the moor to this haven of rest, my hame. And my love for it this
moment is the strongest feeling within me.”
His roving eyes tenderly sought out one by one the familiar bits of
furniture around the room, and lingered for a moment lovingly on the
old fireplace. It was there he had first seen Mary Campbell. She had
come to the cottage on an errand, and as she stood leaning against the
mantel, the sunlight gleaming through the window upon her golden hair,
he had entered the room. It was plainly love at first sight, and so he
had told her that same day, as he walked back to Castle Montgomery with
the winsome dairymaid. The course of their love had flowed smoothly and
uneventfully; he loved her with all the depth of his passionate emotional
nature, and yet his love was more spiritual than physical. She was an
endless source of inspiration, as many a little song and ode which had
appeared in the Tarbolton weekly from time to time could testify. How
long the year had been away from her, he mused dreamily. To-morrow,
bright and early, he would hurry over to Castle Montgomery and surprise
her at her duties.
[Illustration: “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:
“We have plighted our troth, my Mary,
In mutual affection to join,
And cursed be the cause that shall part us,
The hour and moment o’ time.”
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.”