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.