Jean left the house filled with terrified dismay. Robert going to
marry another? then what would become of her? She would be disgraced
and ruined. The thought drove her frantic. “He shall not marry her; he
shall give me the protection of his name, for the time being at least,”
she said to herself angrily. Afterward, the marriage could be easily
annulled; she did not want him. She did not want to be tied for life to
any farmer, not she. She would then return to Edinburgh. But suppose he
would not consent to such an arrangement? Well she would scare him into
it. He was as much to blame as she was anyway. She would not wait to
write him after all; she would tell him now. There was nothing to fear.
She would wait until the others had started, then come back and force her
claim. If they went on without her, it did not matter much; it was not
far to the Inn, she mused determinedly. She stopped in her rapid walk and
retraced her steps. As she neared the cottage the door opened and her
god-parents came out, and with them were Robert and the others. Before
they could perceive her, however, she slipped quickly behind an old beech
tree back of the well and nearest the house. Breathlessly, impatiently,
she waited while they talked, and talked, till she thought they would
never go. Then when the coach came and the attendant excitement of its
departure, like a guilty creature she stole noiselessly across the
intervening space to the cottage, slipped through the open door, and hid
herself behind the fireplace, where Mary had concealed herself some weeks
before.
After Mrs. Burns left the room Jean came boldly out from her hiding place
and stood before the startled couple, who gazed at her in amazement. She
looked at them insolently, a sneer on her full lips.
“Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Burns,” she interrupted sarcastically. The
color slowly faded from his ruddy face. Was she going to expose that
shameful page in his past history to this innocent child? Would she dare,
could she be so reckless, so shameless? he asked himself fearfully.
“I thought ye had gone,” he said, dangerously calm, stepping up to her.
“I could not go till I had delivered a message,” she explained, dropping
her eyes before the determined light in his.
“What is it?” he asked, puzzled by her tone and manner.
“It is of great importance and for your ears alone,” she replied glibly.
“I’m sure this lady—Miss Campbell, is it not?—will not mind leaving us
for a moment,” and she smiled amiably into Mary’s innocent inquiring
face.
He led Mary gently to the door. “It’ll be only for a moment, Mary,” he
said quietly.
“I dinna’ mind,” she answered brightly. “’Tis near time for me to be
going hame, ye ken,” and with a smile she left them together.
“Noo, then, what is your message?” he said with calm abruptness, as the
door closed.
“This!” and she threw back her head defiantly. “You must give up this
Mary Campbell.”
He looked at her in amazement. “What do ye mean?” he gasped, opening his
eyes in bewilderment.
“I mean you must make me your wife.” Her pale and agitated face made him
wonder if she had gone quite daft. Before he could answer she continued
stridently, “You must marry me now, before it is too late, too late to
save my name from dishonor and disgrace. Now do you understand?”
A look of incredulous horror slowly blanched his face to ashy whiteness.
Had he heard aright? Surely she was jesting; it could not be possible—and
yet, why not? His haggard eyes searched her colorless face as though he
would read her very soul. Calmly she bore the scrutiny and then, with a
groan of anguish, he sank into a chair, weak and trembling. “I canna, I
willna, believe,” he muttered hoarsely. “It’s a lie, it’s a lie, Jean
Armour!”
“It’s the truth, I tell you,” she cried passionately, wringing her hands.
“What else think you would force me, the rich Belle of Mauchline, to
humble my pride and stoop to plead to a poverty-stricken farmer to wed
me?” She laughed wildly.
“Can it be true, can it be true?” he whispered to himself dully. He felt
dazed by the suddenness, the total unexpectedness, of the blow. He closed
his eyes wearily. What was it she wanted him to do, he could not think.
He sat dumbly waiting for her to speak again.
“You must write out an acknowledgment and sign your name to it,” she
continued, her voice low and insistent. “It is an irregular marriage I
know, but it will save me from my father’s wrath, when I can keep my
plight from him no longer.” He still remained silent, his face hidden
in his hands. “Will you do this?” she demanded anxiously, “or,” and
her voice grew hard and threatening, “or shall I appeal to the Parish
officers to help me save my good name from disgrace?” Quickly he raised
his head. At his look of indignant scorn she winced and turned away,
flushing angrily.
With a mirthless little laugh he retorted with bitter emphasis, “Your
good name, indeed!”
She turned on him defiantly. “I was no worse than other girls,” she
flippantly retorted. “Only more unfortunate. Will you do what I ask?
Quick, tell me, someone is coming!” She nervously caught his hand. He did
not speak. His face grew haggard and old-looking as he stood motionless,
forming his resolution. It seemed to her an eternity before he answered
her.
“So be it,” he answered hoarsely, drawing his hand away from hers
and moving slowly to the door. “I’ll send ye the lines by the posty
to-morrow.”
With a cry of delight she gratefully held out her hand to him. But he
quietly opened the door, and, without a word or look at her, stood
silently holding it back, his head bowed low on his bosom, his face
cold and repellent. Slowly Jean walked past him out into the deepening
twilight. She felt a dawning pity in her heart for the wretched lad. She
could not quite forget those old, happy days, those stolen walks and
trysts along the banks of the Ayr. No one could make love so ardently as
he, she thought with a sigh. Of all her lovers he had been the favorite,
he was so ingenuous, so trustful and confiding, and yet so reckless, so
imprudent and weak. She knew well he had never really loved her, and the
thought had made her strive all the harder to win him. He was flattered
by her open preference for him, and soon became an easy victim, a slave,
to her seductive charms and sophisticated fascinations, for he was only
human. And now the heart of that little dairymaid would be broken. A
quick pang of shame and regret stole over her, but she instantly stifled
it. She must think of self first, she told herself uneasily. Anyway she
only wanted the marriage lines in case people should point an accusing
finger at her. Later—well, the marriage could be annulled privately, and
no one be the wiser, for marriages were easily annulled in Scotland. She
walked briskly to where the coach was standing, for they were waiting for
her, determined to cast all gloomy, depressing thoughts from her for the
time at least.
Robert mechanically closed the door behind her and walked slowly to the
dresser. Taking from it a bottle of ink and a quill, he carried them to
the table, and placing them upon it, sank heavily in a chair. Long he sat
there, pen in hand, the victim of the profoundest melancholy, the deepest
despair. The thought that it was his own fault, his indifference to
consequences, his recklessness, his weak, sinful folly, that had plunged
himself and others into the awful abyss of grief and sorrow, was like the
bitterness of death to him. As he sat there with drawn and haggard face,
while bitter regret gnawed deeply at his conscience, the plaintive tones
of Mary’s voice came through the window, singing softly:
“Ye banks and braes of bonnie Doon,
How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair?”
A groan of agony escaped the grief-stricken man at the sound of the
voice, which was sweeter than all else in the world to him.
“Mary, my lost Highland Mary!” he cried aloud, “how can I give ye up
forever?” and throwing himself across the table he wept bitter tears of
anguish and remorse.
“How can ye chant, ye little birds,
An’ I sae weary, fu’ o’ care?”
continued the sweet voice in mournful cadence. Softly the words floated
to the ears of the sorrowing man, like the echo of his own harrowing
thoughts.
As Mary reached the open window she paused and gazed into the room
eagerly. As she sees her lover sitting there so silent and alone, her
smile is very sweet and tender.
“Dear laddie; asleep,” she whispers softly. “He must be o’er tired after
his hard day’s work. God bless my laddie,” and with a smile of ineffable
sweetness, she wafted a kiss to the bowed head and quickly passed on,
wending her lonely way back to Castle Montgomery, while the man sitting
there in agonized silence, with clenched teeth and tense muscles, slowly
raised his head to listen, in heart-broken silence, to her sweet voice
floating back to him in silvery melody, as she took up the broken thread
of her song:
“Thou’lt break my heart, thou warbling bird,
That wantons thro’ the flow’ring thorn.
Thou minds me o’ departed joys,
Departed, never to return.”
The song died away in the distance.
“God pity her, God pity me,” he murmured brokenly.