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.
“Oh where and oh where is my Highland laddie gone?”
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.
[Illustration: “Slipped quickly behind an old beech tree.”]