They had finished their meager supper, and now sat comfortably around the
fire, Mrs. Burns and Mary busy with their knitting, the men contentedly
smoking, while old Donald discordantly tuned up his fiddle.
“Noo, Donald,” said Souter briskly, “play us something lively.”
“Aye, I’ll play ye the Highland Fling, Souter Johnny, an’ ye can dance.
Come alang noo,” and he started to play vigorously, keeping time with his
foot.
“Aye, get out on the floor, Souter,” said Gilbert, pulling him out of his
chair.
“Nay, nay, lad,” expostulated Souter fretfully, “I be too old to fling
the toe noo.”
“Go alang wi’ ye, mon,” retorted Mrs. Burns encouragingly; “a Scotsman,
and a Highlander besides, is ne’er too old to——”
“To learn,” interrupted Gilbert brightly, swinging the old man to the
middle of the floor. “Let her go.”
“I havena danced for years,” said Souter apologetically. Carefully
knocking the ashes out of his pipe he deposited it in the pocket of his
capacious waistcoat and proceeded to divest himself of his coat. “Ye ken
I was the champion dancer of my clan, Clan McDougal, when I was a young
lad,” he announced boastingly. “An’ mony a time I have cheered an’ amused
the lads, while tentin’ on the fields of Culloden, before the big battle.
An’ that reminds me o’ a guid——”
“Never mind the story,” said Gilbert impatiently. “Gie us a dance.”
After a few preliminary movements Souter caught the swinging measure of
the dance, and once started he limbered up surprisingly. On he danced
nimbly, and untiringly, soon ably proving to his delighted audience
that he had not forgotten his old-time accomplishment. “I’ll show these
Lowlanders what a Highlander can do,” thought the old man proudly.
Panting with excitement and eagerness he failed to hear the metallic
patter of horses’ hoofs drawing near the cottage. Nearer and nearer they
came unheeded by all save one.
From his seat by the fireplace, where he sat in melancholy silence,
Robert heard the sound, but gave it no heed. Suddenly it ceased. He
raised his head to listen. Someone had surely stopped at the gate, he
thought, straining his ears eagerly, but the noise of the fiddle and the
dancing drowned all sound from without. He glanced quickly at the smiling
faces of the others as they good-naturally watched the dancer. “I must
hae been mistaken,” he muttered uneasily. Suddenly he leaned forward,
grasping his chair hard; surely he had heard his name faintly called.
He listened intently. Yes, there it was again; this time the voice was
nearer. A woman’s voice, too. What could it mean? He rose to his feet,
his heart thumping fiercely, his muscles alert and tense, his eyes fixed
on the door, his mind filled with gloomy presentiment.
At that moment an imperative knock sounded loudly through the room, and
almost at the same time the door flew open violently, and Jean Armour
impetuously dashed in. Closing the door quickly behind her she leaned
back against it, pale and exhausted. Her riding habit of green and gold
was splashed and discolored with mud. The large hat with its gleaming
white plume hung limply over her shoulder, while her black disheveled
hair streamed over her face and down her back in bewildering confusion.
She had evidently ridden fast and furious, for she stood there with her
eyes closed, her hand on her heart, gasping for breath.
Quickly Mrs. Burns led the exhausted girl to a seat. In a few moments
she raised her drooping head and with wild frightened eyes searched the
room till her gaze fell on Robert, who was leaning white and speechless
against the fireplace, a great fear in his heart.
She rose quickly and going to him said in a tense, rapid whisper,
“Robert, my father knows all, but through no fault of mine. Some idle
gossip reached his ear to-day, and when he returned home and learned my
condition his rage was terrible. He cursed you like a madman, and would
have done me bodily harm had I remained within sight. But I feared for my
life, and fled before I had explained the truth to him. I have come to
you to protect me.”
He listened to her in stony silence. The blow had fallen so suddenly, so
unexpectedly, it found him totally unprepared to ward off its paralyzing
effects. He tried to speak, but the words refused to leave his parched
tongue. He felt benumbed and cold, all the blood in his body seeming to
have suddenly congealed. As he stood there with the eyes of all riveted
upon him he felt like the veriest criminal that walked the earth.
For a moment there was a tense silence. Jean stood there anxiously gazing
into Robert’s stricken face, as he vainly strove to utter a sound. Mary
had watched the little scene before her in growing wonder and alarm and
now leaned back against the wall, her heart beating with some unknown,
nameless fear. What did this highborn lady want with her laddie? she
asked herself jealously.
[Illustration: “‘She is my wife, mither.’”]
Mrs. Burns stood grimly waiting for some explanation of the scene she
had just witnessed, but had not heard nor understood. “Robert, my son,”
she said finally, her voice cold and firm, “what does Squire Armour’s
daughter want of ye?” There was no answer. “What is she to ye, Robert?”
she sternly insisted. Slowly he raised his head. As she saw his wild and
haggard face, from which all the life and youth had fled, she started
back in horror, a startled exclamation on her lips.
With a despairing, heart-broken look at Mary’s wondering face, he bowed
his head and falteringly uttered the fatal words, “She is my wife,
mither.”
Had a thunderbolt from a clear sky unroofed the humble cot, it would not
have created the consternation, the terror which those few words struck
to those loving hearts.
Mrs. Burns was the first to rally from the shock. “Your wife?” she
repeated incredulously, looking from one to the other.
With a cry of grief and pain Mary sank weak and trembling into a chair,
like a deer wounded unto death. She gazed at them heart-brokenly, while
her little hands nervously fluttered about her face. No, no, he could not
mean it. They were only joking, surely. “Not that, Robbie, ye dinna mean
that, dearie?” she gasped piteously, holding out a beseeching hand to
him. His bowed head bent lower.
“Do ye mean ye have legally married this lass?” asked Gilbert eagerly.
Mary would be free then, he thought wildly. Free to be wooed and won.
“We were married a few weeks ago,” answered Robert dully. “I had not the
courage to tell ye before.”
“Besides,” interposed Jean, arranging her disordered toilet, “I wished to
keep the marriage from my father for a—a time.” She blushed crimson.
“I willna believe my son ever married ye of his own free will,” cried
Mrs. Burns bitterly, “fine rich lady that ye are. He loves only that
sweet lass, Mary Campbell.” Quickly she reached Mary’s side, and, raising
the stricken child in her motherly arms, she kissed her tenderly and
pressed the golden head gently against her loving heart.
Jean looked at them, a look of resentment in her flashing eyes. “I know
that full well,” she answered sullenly. “I know Robert hasn’t married
me because he wanted to, but because——” she looked down shame-faced.
“Because there was no alternative. Now you know the truth,” she concluded
bitterly.
“Ye shameless creature!” cried Mrs. Burns, her eyes blazing with
indignation. “Ye have trapped him into this marriage, but ye shall na
stay beneath this roof, ye limmer,” and she glared at the flushed defiant
girl in righteous anger.
“Mither, mither!” cried Robert distractedly, “dinna, for God’s sake; she
is my wife in truth, an’ she must stay wi’ me noo till I can prepare
anither hame for her. Dinna make it harder for me.” He gazed pleadingly
in his mother’s stern and angry face.
Mary pressed her lips to the quivering cheek. “Mistress Burns,” she said
softly, “what is to be, will be. I forgive them both wi’ all my heart.”
She paused and sighed with gentle resignation. Then she continued,
“An’—an’ I hope they will both find peace in their new life.” She turned
quietly to Jean, who was nervously tapping her whip against her skirt.
“I ken ye’ll make Robert a good wife,” she said earnestly. “So dinna let
any thought o’ me sadden your heart, or—or yours, Robert.” She turned and
looked at him tenderly. “I—I forgive ye,” she whispered. Turning to Mrs.
Burns again, she continued pleadingly, “Ye must welcome Robert’s wife to
her new hame, Mistress Burns. We all maun make this a merry hame-comin’
for—the—bride.” Her plaintive voice broke abruptly, and the burning tears
welled up to her eyes, but she dashed them quickly away and continued
bravely, a pathetic little smile hovering about her trembling lips, “I’ll
go out noo an’ make some fresh tea for ye, and ye’ll all stay right here,
till I come back, an’ Donald shall play for ye again—an’ we’ll—all—be—sae
merry—won’t w-we? I’ll bring it w-when—it’s quite—ready.” She smiled at
them through her tears. Then she took the teapot from the dresser and
softly left the room.
“God bless her brave and noble heart,” breathed Robert brokenly.
As she left the room Mrs. Burns drew herself sternly erect, and after a
moment’s hesitation turned slowly to Jean. “I bid ye welcome to Mossgiel
Farm,” she said coldly. “I am sorry I spoke so bitterly to ye just noo.
I—I will try to love ye as Robert’s wife, but noo I—I can only think o’
Mary an’ her sorrow. I’ll leave ye for a bit; Mary may need me.” Her
voice faltered and broke, and with a sob of grief she hurriedly left the
room.