In a sequestered spot beside the brook which runs through the lower end
of the big field at Mossgiel farm, Robert sat dreamily watching the
shallow brook at his feet slowly trickle along over the stones. He had
left the field, his heart filled with anger against his brother, who had
been reproving him for his thoughtlessness, his absent-mindedness; but
gradually his temper had melted, and removing his bonnet from his fevered
brow, he had given himself up to his reveries. A little later Gilbert
found him there, his loose unbleached linen shirt open at the neck,
eagerly writing on a scrap of paper he held in his hand.
The last few weeks Gilbert had thrown off his cloak of habitual reserve,
and had treated his brother with less harshness, less severity. He had
watched the slowly drifting apart of the lovers with wonder and delight.
Could it be that they were tiring of each other? he asked himself over
and over again. If that were so then perhaps some day—but he would not
permit himself to think of the future. He would be happy in the present.
For he was comparatively happy now, happier than he had ever expected to
be. Since Robert’s avoidance of her, Mary had again turned to him for
sympathy, and once more they were on their old friendly footing. True she
was a sad, despondent companion, but he was blissfully happy just to walk
beside her from kirk, to listen to the sound of her sweet voice, even
though his brother was the only topic of conversation, to feel the touch
of her little hand as he helped her over the stile. He thought of all
this now as he regarded his brother in thoughtful silence. Presently he
called his name. Receiving no answer, he strode through the overhanging
willows and touched him quietly on the shoulder.
With a start Robert looked up into his brother’s face, then he turned
slowly away. “What is wrong noo, Gilbert?” he asked bitterly. “It seems I
will be doing nothing right o’ late.”
“Nothin’ is wrong, lad,” replied Gilbert, his face reddening. “I—I only
came to tell ye I am sorry I spoke sae harshly to ye just noo.”
“Say no more, brother,” replied Robert quickly, rising with outstretched
hand, his face bright and smiling. So ready was he to forgive any
unkindness when his pardon was sought. “’Tis all forgot. I ken I do try
your patience sore wi’ my forgetfulness and carelessness, but I couldna’
help it. The voice of the Goddess Muse, whom I adore, suddenly whispered
in my ear and I forgot my work, my surroundings, and stood enraptured,
entranced behind my patient steed, catchin’ the thoughts and fancies that
were tumblin’, burstin’ from my brain, eager to be let loose, and this
is the fruit o’ my inspiration almost perfected.” He handed his brother
the paper on which he had been writing.
“Is it a song of harvesting?” asked Gilbert sarcastically without
glancing at it.
“Nay,” replied Robert softly. “’Tis called the ‘Cotter’s Saturday Night,’
an’ ye will recognize, no doubt, the character and the theme, for ’tis
partly of our own and of our father’s life I have written. ’Tis my best
work, Gilbert, I ken truly.” He eagerly watched his brother’s face as he
slowly read the verses through.
“May the light of success shine on it,” he said kindly, when he had
finished. “But it seems o’er doubtful noo that the world will e’er see
this, or any of your verses, for not a word hae ye heard from Edinburgh
since ye sent Sir William Creech your collection of poems.”
Robert raised his head and regarded his brother in despairing
hopelessness. “I ken it weel, brother,” he replied. “And my heart grows
sick and weary, waitin’, waitin’, for tidings, be they good or bad. Two
lang months have passed since I sent him my collection, an’ still not a
word, not a sign. Nae doubt they were thrown in a corner, overlooked an’
neglected.” For a moment he stood there gazing across the fields, his
vision blurred by the tears of disappointment which filled his eyes. “Oh,
why did Lord Glencairn raise my hopes so high?” he cried passionately,
“only to have them dashed to the ground again.” Gilbert remained silent,
his eyes cast down. The sight of his brother’s misery touched him keenly.
But there was nothing he could say. “I believed him and trusted to his
honor, his promise,” continued Robert dejectedly, “an’ for what?” He put
on his bonnet and clasping his hands behind him in his characteristic
attitude, slowly walked toward the cottage, a prey to his gloomy thoughts.
“Be patient, Rob, yet a while,” said Gilbert encouragingly, as he walked
along beside him. “Who kens what the morrow will bring forth?”
“The morrow?” repeated Robert grimly. “Methinks I’ll ne’er know peace an’
tranquillity again on this earth.”
They strode on in silence. As they neared the cottage Gilbert laid his
hand on his brother’s shoulder, bringing him to a standstill. “Robert,”
he said quietly and firmly, “I want to speak to ye about Mary.”
Robert turned his head away abruptly. “What of her?” he asked in a low
voice.
“What are your intentions toward her?” demanded Gilbert earnestly. “Do ye
intend to marry her, or are ye but triflin’ idly wi’ her affections?”
Robert turned on him quickly. “Triflin’?” he repeated indignantly. “Nay,
Gilbert, ye wrong me deeply.”
“Forgive me, but ye ken Mary is not like other lassies to think lightly
o’,” said Gilbert, his eye searching his brother’s face keenly.
“Heaven forbid,” ejaculated Robert in a low, tense voice.
“I canna’ understand your conduct o’ late,” continued Gilbert earnestly.
“I fear your stay in Mauchline is responsible for the great change in ye,
for ye are not the same lad ye were when ye left hame. I fear ye have
sadly departed from those strict rules of virtue and moderation ye were
taught by your parents, Robert.”
“What mean ye, Gilbert?” inquired Robert, startled.
“Ah, Rob,” responded Gilbert, shaking his head sadly, “I ken mair than ye
think; reports travel e’en in the country.”
The thought that his wild escapades were known to his narrow-minded
though upright brother, and perhaps to others, filled Robert with sudden
shame. “Weel, Gilbert,” he replied, trying to speak lightly, “Ye ken that
I have been fallin’ in love and out again wi’ a’ the lassies ever since
I was fifteen, but nae thought of evil ever entered my mind, ye ken that
weel.”
“Aye, I ken that,” answered Gilbert quickly, “until ye went to Mauchline.
And noo ye have come back a changed lad, your vows to Mary forgotten. If
I thought ye would try to wrong her——” he stopped abruptly, for Robert
had faced him, white and trembling, his eyes flashing indignantly.
“Stop, Gilbert!” he commanded, intensely calm. “Mary Campbell’s purity is
as sacred to me as an angel’s in heaven. I would sooner cut my tongue out
by the roots than to willingly say aught to cause her a moment’s misery
or sorrow. Ye cruelly misjudge me, Gilbert.” He turned away, feeling hurt
and angry that he should be so misunderstood by his brother, and yet was
he misjudging him, was he not indeed causing her much sorrow? he asked
himself bitterly.
Soon the whole guilty truth must be disclosed, his faithlessness, his
unworthiness. If she suffered now, what would be her misery when she
learned that an insurmountable barrier had arisen between them, cruelly
separating them forever. The thought filled him with unspeakable anguish.
“Forgive me, Rob, for my hasty words,” said Gilbert remorsefully. “But ye
ken Mary is very dear to—to us all; that is why I spoke so plainly.”
At that moment the door of the cottage opened and the object of their
discussion stepped into view. The poor little moth could not help
fluttering around the candle, and so she was to be found at Mossgiel
whenever her duties would permit her to steal away.
“Oh, here ye are, lads,” she called out to them, her face brightening.
“Will ye be comin’ in to tea noo?” They did not answer. “My, what long
faces ye both have,” she continued, smiling. “This isna’ the Sabbath Day,
so there’s no need of such sorrowful faces.”
“I didna’ ken ye were here,” answered Gilbert, going toward her.
Robert sat down by the well, the look of pain on his melancholy face
deepening as he listened to her gentle voice. He closed his eyes wearily
and leaned back against the curbing, the paper held loosely in his hand.
It was so hard to realize that never again would he press that form to
his aching heart, that he must renounce her utterly. Oh, if he could only
die now, how much better it would be for them all, he weakly told himself.
“I’m going to stay here to tea wi’ ye this night,” said Mary wistfully.
Why didn’t Robert speak to her just one word of greeting? she thought
sadly. “Your mother bade me tell ye supper is waiting whenever ye are
ready.” She took a few halting steps toward the well. “Are ye comin’ in,
Robert?” she inquired timidly.
“In a wee,” he answered quietly, without looking at her. “After I have
finished my poem.” Mary turned back, crushed to the heart by his apparent
coldness.
“Weel, lads,” cried Mrs. Burns brightly, stepping out on the low, broad
stoop followed by Souter, who held a cup of steaming tea in one hand and
some oatcakes in the other, on which he nibbled with evident relish.
“I heard your voices and couldna’ stay within,” and she beamed on them
lovingly.
“Ye’re at it again, I see, Robert,” observed Souter tactlessly. Robert
flushed angrily. He was easily irritated in his present state of mind.
“Ye’ll write yoursel’ into the grave, mon; ye’re not lookin’ very peart
the noo.”
Mrs. Burns regarded her eldest son with anxious eyes. “Aye, I fear,
laddie, ye are too intent on your rhymin’,” she said solicitously.
His abstracted moods, his melancholy moroseness had filled her loving
heart with gloomy forebodings. “Sae much livin’ in the clouds, my son,
is unhealthful, an’ does but make ye moody an’ uncertain in temper. Is
it worth while to wreck body, mind an’ soul to gain a little fame an’
fortune, which, alas, seem so very far off?” she asked, putting her hand
lovingly on his bowed head.
“Ye dinna’ understand, mither,” he replied sadly. “I love to write. ’Tis
my very life; thought flows unbidden from my brain.” He rose to his feet
and pointing to the stream, which could be faintly seen at the foot of
the hill, continued with mournful finality, “Why, mother, I might as well
try to stop the waters of yonder rushin’ brook as to attempt to smother
the poetic fancies that cry for utterance. Nay, ’tis too late noo to
dissuade me from my purpose,” and he turned and watched the setting sun
slowly sink behind the distant hills in a flood of golden splendor.
Souter noticed with uneasiness the gloom which had settled upon them all
as the result of his careless words. Why was he such a thoughtless fool?
Ah, well, he would make them forget their troubles.
“Och, Mistress Burns,” he cried, smacking his lips with apparent relish,
“’tis a mighty fine cup of tea, a perfectly grand cup. It fair cheers the
heart of mon,” and he drained it to the bottom.
“An’ where do ye think the oatcakes were made, Souter?” asked Mary
brightly.
“Weel, I’m no’ a good hand at guessin’,” he answered, thoughtfully
scratching his head; “but by their taste an’ sweetness, I should say that
Mistress Burns made them hersel’.”
The good dame regarded him witheringly. “I didna’ ken that oatcakes were
sweet, Souter,” she retorted.
Mary laughed softly at his discomfiture. “Weel, they come frae my sister
in Applecross.”
“Applecross!” he repeated, his face lighting up with pleasure. “Noo I
mind they did have the Highland flavor, for true.”
“Aye, an’ ye finished the last one for that reason, no doubt,” replied
Mrs. Burns wrathfully. “Ye’re a pig, mon. Come awa’, lads, your supper
will be gettin’ cold,” and she led the way inside, followed meekly by
Souter. Gilbert waited for Mary to enter, but she stood wistfully gazing
at Robert. With a sigh he left them together, and Robert entered the
cottage.
Mary slowly approached Robert as he stood looking across to the distant
hills, and patiently waited for him to speak to her, but he stood there
in tense silence, not daring to trust himself to even look at the pure
flower-like face held up to his so pleadingly.
“Robbie,” she said timidly after a pause, which seemed interminable to
them both, “willna’ ye let the sunlight enter your heart an’ be your old
bonnie sel’ once mair? It will make us all sae happy.” She put her hand
on his arm lovingly. “Why are ye sae changed, laddie? Dinna’ ye want me
to love ye any mair?”
At the gentle touch of her fingers an uncontrollable wave of passionate
love and longing came over him, sweeping away all resolutions
resistlessly. “Oh, my Mary, my Mary,” he cried hoarsely. “I do want your
love, I do want it noo an’ forever,” and he clasped her lovingly to his
aching heart. Blissfully she lay in his strong arms while he showered
her flushed and happy face with the hungry, fervent, loving kisses which
he had denied himself so long, and murmured little caressing words of
endearment which filled her soul with rapture and happiness. “How I love
ye, Mary,” he breathed in her ear again and again as he held her close.
“An’ how happy ye make me once mair, laddie,” she answered, nestling
against him lovingly.
“An’ how happy we will——,” he began, then stopped pale and trembling, for
grim recollection had suddenly loomed up before him with all its train
of bitter, ugly facts; and conscience began to drum insistently into his
dulled ear. “Tell her the truth now, the whole truth,” it said. But the
voice of the tempter whispered persuasively, saying, “Why tell her now?
wait, let her be happy while she may, put it off as long as possible.”
“What is it, Robbie?” cried Mary fearfully. “Tell me what is troublin’
ye; dinna’ be afraid.” His bowed head bent lower and lower.
“Oh, Mary, I’m sae unworthy, sae unworthy of all your pure thoughts, your
tender love,” he faltered despairingly, resolved to tell her all. “Ye
dinna’ ken all my weakness, my deception, and into what depths of sin I
have fallen.” She sought to interrupt him, but he continued rapidly, his
voice harsh with the nervous tension, his face pallid from the stress of
his emotions. “I have a confession to make ye——”
“Nay, nay, laddie,” cried Mary, putting her hand over his trembling
lips. “Dinna’ tell me anything. I want nae confession from ye, except
that o’ your love,” and she smoothed his cheek tenderly. “Ye ken that is
music to my ears at all times, but if ye are deceivin’ me, if ye have na
always been true to me, an’ your vows, why, laddie, keep the knowledge
to yourself’. I am content noo, and ye ken happiness is such a fleetin’
thing that I mean to cling to it as long as I can.” She took his hands
in both her own and held them close to her heart. “Ye ken, Robbie, ill
news travels apace and ’twill reach my ears soon enough,” she continued
with a mournful little quaver in her voice. “But no matter what comes,
what ye may do, my love for ye will overlook it all; I will see only your
virtues, my love, not your vices.”
Robert bowed his head in heart-broken silence. Grief, shame, and remorse
like tongues of fiery flames were scorching and burning into his very
soul. Quietly they sat there engrossed in their thoughts, till the voice
of Mrs. Burns calling to them from the cottage to come to supper roused
them from their lethargy.
“We’re comin’ right awa’,” answered Mary brightly. “Come, laddie, we
mustna’ keep the folks waitin’.”
She took his listless hand and drew him gently to the door and into the
cottage.
Silently they took their places at the table, around which the others
were already seated.
“By the way,” said old blind Donald, the fiddler, who had dropped in on
his way to Mauchline for a bite and a cup, “Poosie Nancy told me to tell
ye, Mistress Burns, that she wa drop in to see ye this night.”
“We’ll be glad to see her,” replied Mrs. Burns hospitably.
“And Daddy Auld says he’ll be along, too,” continued Donald, grinning
broadly. “That is, if he isna’ too busy convertin’ souls.”
“Convertin’ souls,” sneered Souter incredulously.
“Aye, ye should see the Jolly Beggars he was haranguin’. They were
jumpin’, an’ rantin’, an’ singin’ like daft Methodists.”
“The auld hypocrites!” cried Mrs. Burns, buttering a scone which she
placed in the old man’s tremulous hand. “They didna’ go to the manse for
conversion; ’tis a square meal they are after. They ken the kind old
heart o’ Daddy Auld.”
Souter leaned back in his chair and smiled reminiscently. “That reminds
me o’ a guid story,” he began, chuckling.
“Never mind that story noo,” remonstrated Mrs. Burns, who was in constant
dread of Souter’s risque stories. “That’ll keep.”
“I never _can_ tell that damn story,” ejaculated Souter wrathfully.