CHAPTER XI

Ever since the morning she had received her marriage lines Jean had been

trying to summon up sufficient courage to tell her father the whole truth

about her secret marriage to Robert, to throw herself upon his mercy,

but each time when she had approached him in fear and trembling, her

courage had ignominiously failed her. She knew only too well her father’s

irascible temper and uncertain moods. And so days passed into weeks and

still she procrastinated, but she knew she could not conceal from his

observing eyes her condition much longer. But whether to confess all and

run the risk of being thrown from her father’s door like some abandoned

outcast, or to contrive some excuse to leave home to pay a visit to

some friend, and then, when it was all over, to return, that was the

question which disturbed her waking thoughts. If she did the latter, she

thought, she could easily have her marriage annulled and no one would be

the wiser. But did she really want to have her marriage annulled? she

asked herself thoughtfully. She didn’t understand herself at all these

days. He had strangely stirred her heart at their last meeting, to its

very depths. She knew he did not love her, that he loved the little

dairymaid, but almost imperceptibly a great change was taking place in

her feelings toward him. At times a great longing came over her to go

to him, throw herself at his feet and beg to share his hardships, his

poverty, with him. But she had not the courage, and so she battled with

the conflicting emotions that constantly beset her day and night. Her

temper soon became moody and uncertain, she was in constant fear of her

mother’s anxious, watchful eyes, and yet she felt she would go daft if

she remained alone in her chamber with her disturbing thoughts. So day

after day she could be found in her saddle madly galloping over the

country, trying to get away, far away, from her trouble. But all in vain;

it was always before her; there was no escaping it. But at last the day

came when she knew she must make her decision, and almost in desperation

she decided on her course of procedure. Hastily galloping home, she left

her horse at the door, and going to her room, scribbled a short note to

her father and left it on the table in his study. Then she had slipped

guiltily past the room where her mother sat peacefully sewing, and sped

swiftly along the hall to the door. As she reached it, it burst inward

and she staggered back half fainting, for there on the threshold stood

her father, his face white with rage, his jaw set and determined. He

seized her roughly by the arm, and thrusting her back into the house,

had taken one understanding look at her figure in its tight-fitting

habit, then with an outburst of bitter anger and shame he cursed her

and the author of her disgrace, cursed her like a madman, cursed her

till he was spent with the force of his passion. She tried to explain,

to tell him the truth, that she was a wife, but the words froze on her

lips. His words and manner struck terror to her very soul; she feared

for her very life’s safety. With all her despairing strength she freed

herself from his clutch and stood cowering, panting, her hands raised to

shield herself from the blow she expected every moment to fall on her

defenseless body from the insane man. As he approached her with hand

upraised, she gave one quick shriek, one wild look around and darting

under his arm reached the door. Quickly she opened it and sped like a

swallow to the side of her waiting horse. With one bound she was on his

back, and away she galloped like the wind, leaving her astonished father

standing in the doorway shaking his fist after her in impotent anger.

She had given rein to her horse, not heeding or caring where he took her.

Her one and only thought was to get away, far away; so she rode on and

on, over brook and brush, through bog and mire till gradually her fear

had subsided, and, reining in her horse, she looked around, and with a

thrill of joy and wonder she saw Mossgiel Farm in the distance. Surely

fate had guided her horse’s footsteps in this direction, she thought

eagerly. Her course was clear now, she would go to him, to her husband,

he would protect her. So she had continued her journey to the cottage,

where she brought naught but misery and sorrow to its inmates.

As Mrs. Burns left the room Jean gazed after her in bitter silence. She

wished she had not come. She knew she was not welcome. Far better to have

faced her father’s anger. “But the die is cast. I have made my bed,”

she told herself wearily. She realized how futile it was to repine over

the past, and she felt too exhausted, too miserably unhappy to think of

the future. She would stay here perhaps a night, then she didn’t know,

couldn’t think what would happen. At all events she could never return

to her father’s home now. He had spurned her from him, and she was not

wanted here. Nobody wanted her now. Her lips quivered convulsively and

big tears of self-pity rolled quietly down her pale cheeks.

Gilbert looked uneasily from his brother’s grief-stricken face to the

weary, wan face of the bride. How long were they going to sit there

side by side without a word to each other? he thought uneasily. He felt

a great wave of pity well up in his heart for the unwelcome, unloved

addition to their family. True she was mostly to blame for her present

misfortune. Her imprudence, her misconduct had been well known to many,

before his brother had gone to Mauchline to live. He felt sorry for

Robert, too, even while he bitterly reproached him for being the author

of Mary’s unhappiness. They must make the best of things now, he thought

philosophically. “Ye had better take off your bonnet, lassie,” he said

kindly, breaking the oppressive silence. “Ye’ll be staying here the

night.” She raised her head and looked at him with flashing eyes.

“Full well I know that all here hate and despise me,” she burst forth

bitterly, not heeding his request.

Robert slowly raised his head and looked at her. There was sorrow and

compassion in his dark melancholy eyes. “Jean,” he said quietly, “our

lives have been linked togither by a stern, inexorable fate. We have both

been guilty of a grievous sin, and noo we must face the results bravely.”

He rose and walked to her and stood humbly by her side. “I hope ye’ll

forgive me, Jean, for wreckin’ your life and plungin’ ye into sae much

misery.”

Slowly Jean bowed her head, her face flushing guiltily. Surely she had

the more need to ask his forgiveness. She had not expected to find such

nobility of character, and it moved her deeply.

“There is naught to forgive,” she cried in a low stifled voice. “I alone

am to blame. I am unfit, unworthy to be your wife. Oh, I’m so miserable,

so unhappy,” and she burst into tears.

Souter led old Donald silently out of the room. There was nothing either

one could say to the wretched couple, so they sat outside and talked

it all over in the way old men have. They had not been seated long,

however, when they espied coming toward them, at a furious gallop,

a horse and rider. As they drew near Souter perceived with sudden

apprehension that it was none other than Squire Armour. He rose anxiously

to his feet.

“Do ye ken wha’ it is, Souter?” inquired Donald in a quavering voice.

“It’s Squire Armour himsel’,” whispered Souter cautiously.

“Ma certie!” ejaculated Donald, shaking his white locks in mild alarm.

“I’d better warn the lass,” said Souter hastily, as the Squire drew up to

the gate. Going to the door he quickly told them of the newcomer, then

turned to intercept the irate visitor, who was coming swiftly up the walk.

“Heavens, my father here!” cried Jean in a frightened whisper. “Oh,

I dare not face his wrath. Protect me, Robert,” and she clung to him

fearfully.

“Out o’ my way, mon!” they heard the harsh voice of Squire Armour

shouting. “Out o’ my way,” and pushing aside the courageous little man he

strode wrathfully into the room.

“Weel, I’ll stay and see the fun through,” said Souter to himself grimly.

“So, my lass,” cried the old Squire triumphantly, “I’ve found ye just

where I expected ye’d be, in the arms o’ your dissolute lover. Come awa’,

ye shameless bairn.”

He started toward her, but Robert passed her quickly behind him.

“Keep back, Squire Armour,” he said firmly. “I’m nae a mild-mannered man,

an’ ye may learn it to your cost.”

Squire Armour glanced at him savagely. “Dinna ye dare talk to me, ye

libertine, ye blasphemous rhymster. Ye dare to stand there wi’ my

daughter, proclaiming her dishonor to my very eyes?”

“There is no dishonor, Squire Armour,” replied Robert calmly, “for your

daughter is—my wife.”

“Your wife!” echoed the old man, staggering back in amazement. “I’ll nae

believe it. It’s a lie. I’d rather see my daughter disgraced forever than

be your wife.”

“Father, are you mad?” gasped Jean in horrified accents.

“An’ ye an Elder in the Kirk, a so-called ‘God-fearin’ man’!” cried

Robert scathingly, his eyes blazing with scorn. “I tell ye, Squire

Armour, she is my wife, an’ all your bitter, unreasoning hatred o’ me

canna’ alter that unhappy fact.”

For a moment the old man stood gazing at them in helpless rage. Then he

turned to Jean, his voice trembling with suppressed emotion. “What proofs

have ye?” he asked hoarsely.

“I have my marriage lines, father,” she answered quickly.

“Where were ye married?”

“Why, father, we——” began Jean hesitatingly.

“Was it in the Kirk?” he interrupted sternly.

“No,” she faltered. “It was——”

“Not in the Kirk?” he cried, his voice rising menacingly. “Who was the

minister? Who married ye?”

“There was no minister, father.”

“Nae minister!” he exclaimed in horror.

“Wait, father, you don’t understand,” cried Jean quickly; “’twas a Scotch

marriage; ye ken what that is—and,” she bowed her head guiltily, “why it

is. And here are my lines signed by Robert acknowledging me as his wife.”

She took from the bosom of her gown a folded paper which she handed to

her father.

He read it through carefully. “This is na legal or binding,” he exclaimed

angrily.

“’Tis perfectly legal, Squire Armour,” replied Robert calmly, “even if it

is irregular, and is as binding as though we were married in Kirk.”

“It shall be set aside,” fumed the old man. “I will not have it so. Ye

shall both renounce it, I tell ye.”

“Oh, father,” cried Jean tearfully, going to his side. “’Tis too late

now; would you shame me in the eyes of the world?”

“Do these few written lines make your shame any the less?” he shouted

wrathfully. “Will not all the neighbors know why he had to give them to

ye? Ye would throw awa’ your life on this poverty-stricken, shiftless

rhymster, but ye shall not do it; ye must give him up, do ye hear?” and

he raised his arm menacingly.

“No, no, no, father,” she exclaimed frantically, falling on her knees

beside him; “I cannot give him up now, I cannot.” After all the weary

weeks of anxious fears and doubts she knew at last that she had found

her heart, and now asked no greater happiness than to be allowed to

remain with her husband to share his humble life, to be the mother of his

family. All the old ambitious thoughts were gone forever. She wondered

that they ever existed.

“Ye shameless bairn, ye must an’ shall!” he replied fiercely. “This is

the end o’ it all,” and he vindictively tore into little bits the paper

Jean had given into his hands. “We’ll hear nae mair of that, my lass, an’

I swear ye shall never see Robert Burns again, make up your mind to that.”

With a cry of despair Jean sank half fainting into a chair.

As he witnessed Squire Armour’s fiendish act Robert’s heart gave a great

bound that sent the blood coursing madly through his veins. The marriage

lines were destroyed; then he was free, free! Oh, the music in that word!

Free to do as he wished. A sob of anguish caused him to look around at

the kneeling figure of the unfortunate girl. Quickly the eager light died

out of his face as he noted her suffering. Going to the kneeling girl

he raised her gently to her feet, and holding her by the hand faced the

inhuman father. “Squire Armour, ye would condemn your ain flesh an’ blood

to shame an’ disgrace because o’ your hatred for me,” he said quietly,

“but it shall not be. I defy ye. Come, Jean, we will go to the Kirk at

once and Daddy Auld will marry us.” They turned to go, but the old man

stepped between them and the door, his arms upraised, his eyes wild and

glaring.

“I’d sooner see her in her grave than bear the accursed name of Robert

Burns,” he cried with solemn intensity. “Great though her imprudence

has been, she can still look to a higher, an’ better connection than a

marriage with ye.” Turning to Jean he continued sternly, “Speak, lass,

say that ye’ll obey me, or the bitter curse o’ your parents will haunt

an’ follow ye all the rest o’ your days.”

“Think of the disgrace, father,” wailed the unhappy girl, clinging to his

arm beseechingly.

“We’ll forget and forgive it all if ye’ll come back,” he replied, the

great love for his child revealing itself in his eager tones. “Ye’re nae

longer that man’s wife. Come an’ none will ever know o’ your dishonor.”

“My God, mon!” exclaimed Robert in horrified accents, “where is your

father’s pride, your ain honor, your manhood!”

But Squire Armour heeded him not. “Come, my daughter, come,” he said

tenderly, leading the weak, wavering girl to the door.

“Ye canna expect to keep this a secret from the world, Squire Armour,”

cried Robert indignantly. “Matters have gone too far for that; soon your

daughter’s name will be blasted irretrievably, while mine will be coupled

with that of blackguard. It must not be. Ye must let Jean go to the Kirk

wi’ me this very night or I shall inform the Elders in the Kirk.”

“Ye’ll have no time to turn informer, my laddie,” snarled Squire Armour,

turning on him fiercely; “for I mean to have ye brought before the

Kirk sessions, an’ ye’ll be punished as ye deserve for the sin ye have

committed, an’ ye shall sit on the cutty stool, where all your friends

an’ neighbors can jeer an’ scoff at ye. This very night will I send the

parish officers after ye, Robert Burns. Ye can take this warning or no,

just as ye please, but I hope they find ye here. Come, lass, we’ll go

hame to your mither, noo.” He drew the terrified, half-fainting girl

firmly through the door and down the path to the road.

“Ye’re an old hypocrite!” hooted Souter, following them to the gate,

where he stood shaking his fist angrily after the departing visitors, and

shouting his frank opinion of the Squire in no mild or flattering terms.

“I alone am to blame,” cried Robert despairingly, as he watched them

gallop madly away into the threatening night. “An’ only the bitterest

sorrow, the most poignant grief will I know until that wrong is righted.”

“What will ye do noo, lad?” asked Mrs. Burns, breaking in upon the

melancholy sadness which enveloped him like a pall. (She had entered the

room in time to hear Squire Armour’s parting injunction.) “Ye heard what

the Squire threatened. Oh, dinna disdain the littleness of prudence, my

son.”

“I willna, mother,” replied Robert dully, after a pause. “I have decided

to go awa’ from Mossgiel.”

“Go awa’?” she repeated fearfully. “Nay, nay, laddie, ye mustna! I fear

for ye in your present state o’ mind.”

“I must, mother,” he answered wildly. “I willna sit on the cutty stool

to be made the laughing stock o’ the whole neighborhood, to bring shame

on ye all.” He walked restlessly up and down the room as he continued

feverishly, “I willna stay here to skulk from covert to covert under all

the terrors of a jail, for I ken that in a little while the merciless

pack of the law will be baying at my heels like bloodhounds.” He turned

to her suddenly, “Mother, I mean to leave Scotland, perhaps forever.”

“Oh, nay, nay, my bairn; I canna, I willna, let ye go,” answered his

mother, clinging to him passionately.

“There, there, mither, dinna make it harder for me.” He put his arm

around her tenderly and pressed her to him for a moment. “Noo, mother,”

he said quietly, “will ye pack my chest? I have nae time to spare,” and

he led her gently to the door.

“Where will ye be goin’?” inquired Gilbert.

“To the Indies, to Jamaica,” replied Robert quickly. “Ye ken Dr. Douglas

has a place for me there as overseer of his plantation. He has offered it

to me mony times.” He turned in nervous haste to his mother, who stood

in the doorway anxiously watching him. “Hurry, mither, please, I am in

torture o’ mind.”

“Very well, laddie,” she answered sorrowfully. “God will direct your

footsteps aright,” and she closed the door behind her and quickly made

her way to his chamber.

“Will ye see Mary before ye go, Robert?” asked Gilbert.

He felt an infinite pity for his brother, who was leaving behind him

everything he held dear.

“If she will come to me,” faltered Robert. “Tell her I’m goin’ an’ that

I will go wi’ a lighter heart if she bids me godspeed. Watch o’er an’

protect her, Gilbert,” he continued, placing his hand on his brother’s

shoulder. “An’ I hope one day she may forget faithless Robert Burns,

an’—an’ ye, Gilbert, will be made happy.” He turned away as he finished,

grief gnawing at his heart.

An eager light flashed in Gilbert’s eyes as he answered fervently, “I

would lay doon my life to serve her,” and with a quick look into the

averted face he quietly left the room.

Mechanically Rob took his bonnet from the peg and throwing his long plaid

around him went out into the air, and silently, sorrowfully he stood

there watching the gloomy clouds that hung low in the heavens through

eyes misty with tears. His soul was filled with unutterable sorrow at

the coming parting, with dread of the unknown future to be passed alone

in a strange, inhospitable foreign land. Oh, the agony of that thought,

alone! Suddenly there came floating softly, peacefully, borne on the

back of the south wind, which was blowing gently against his face, the

alluring, seductive voice of the Goddess Muse. Insistently she urged her

way into the dulled and listless ear of the grief-stricken man. Not for

long was she denied admission, however. With a cry of joy, that even in

that dreaded hour of parting his Goddess had not deserted him, he eagerly

opened the book he held in his hand, his favorite book, “Tristam Shandy”

by Sterne, and wrote quickly, lovingly on the flyleaf the impassioned

words which were being whispered in his ear. Hungrily the pencil sped

over the paper, till, with a sigh of regret, he dropped his hand, the

voice was hushed, the message was finished. As he stood there eagerly

reading his verses by the light which streamed through the window, the

door softly opened and Mary came swiftly to his side, her pure face

pitiful in its childlike sorrow.

“Is it true ye are gang awa’ frae Scotland, Robbie?” she asked

breathlessly. He bowed his head. “Oh, my heart beats heavy for ye,

laddie.” There was infinite compassion in her voice. “But ye maun be

brave noo if ever ye were.” She nestled her little hand in his. He

clasped it fervently.

“O, Mary, my Highland lassie!” he cried passionately, “I want to hear ye

say before I go that ye forgive me for the sorrow I have brought into

your pure young life.”

“Hush, laddie,” she answered softly, “there is naught to forgive; ye had

to do your duty like an honorable mon. I hae been very happy wi’ ye,

laddie, an’ the memory o’ that happiness will be wi’ me always.” She

leaned against him for a brief moment, then slowly drew herself away

and looked tenderly up into his face. “In this sad parting hour,” she

faltered, “I can tell ye without shame that I love ye wi’ a’ my being,

an’ will until I dee.”

“Heaven bless ye, Mary,” he whispered brokenly. “The thought of your love

will gie me courage to bear my exile bravely.”

“Exile!” she repeated shuddering. “Oh, what a drear word, to think ye

must be exiled in your noble youth, that ye maun leave your hame, your

country, to live alone in some foreign clime.” The tears streamed down

her pallid cheeks. “We will a’ miss ye sair, lad,” she continued bravely,

“and we will pray for ye, an’—an’—oh, ’twill be sae hard to say good-by,

perhaps forever.” She threw her arms about his neck and clung to him

passionately.

He held the weeping child in his strong, loving embrace, his face close

to hers. “Oh, why was I born, only to bring sorrow, pain an’ disgrace to

those I hold dear?” he cried in an agony of grief and remorse. “Bitterly

am I atonin’ for my act o’ imprudence; an exile, a failure,” he gave a

mirthless little laugh; “aye, a failure, for e’en the hopes of success

held out to me have a’ vanished in disappointment. Oblivion has enveloped

me in its darkening pall, for whichever way I turn naught but darkest

gloom, with not e’en a ray of light, meets my wretched gaze.” A flash of

lightning pierced the darkness, followed shortly by a heavy, prolonged

roll of thunder. She nestled closer to his side.

“Be not discouraged, laddie,” she said; “’tis always darkest before dawn,

an’ who kens what may yet happen?”

“Ah, nae, nae,” he interrupted with a despairing shake of his head, “e’en

the elements conspire against me, for I maun face this coming storm on

foot to reach Greenock. ’Tis all a part of my just punishment.” The wind

had risen and with it a driving mist which soon enveloped them in its

damp embrace. But they heeded it not.

“Bide a wee, dinna go to-night,” she pleaded, while the wind tossed her

tangled curls seductively around his neck and in his sorrowing face.

“Listen to the wind. Oh,’tis a bad night to start on a journey,” and she

clung to him tighter, her skirts flapping about his limbs like some live

thing, thrilling him by their touch.

“Before ye came out, lassie,” he replied quietly, stilling the tumult

in his heart, “I wrote some verses in this book as a parting song; how

appropriate they are for this occasion ye will see. Listen,” and holding

the book up to the light he began to read:

“The gloomy night is gathering fast,

Loud roars the wild inconstant blast;

Yon murky cloud is foul with rain,

I see it driving o’er the plain;

Chill runs my blood to hear it rave,

I think upon the stormy wave,

Where many a danger I must dare,

Far from the bonnie banks of Ayr;

’Tis not the surging billows’ roar,

’Tis not that fatal deadly shore,

Tho’ death in every shape appear,

The wretched have no more to fear;

But round my heart the ties are bound,

That heart transpierced with many a wound;

These bleed afresh, these ties I tear,

To leave the bonnie banks of Ayr.”

The wind had risen rapidly and the old beech tree was shrieking and

groaning overhead as its branches strove like maniac arms with the

tempest. The Ayr could be plainly heard roaring its diapason on its rocky

banks in the darkness below, while the thunder crashed overhead and the

lurid glare of lightning ever and again lit up the yard.

Unheeding its warning he continued, his melancholy sonorous voice, with

its mournful cadences, floating out with passionate longing, filling his

listener with unutterable sadness:

“Farewell, old Coila’s hills and dales,

Her heathy moors and winding vales;

The scenes where wretched fancy roves,

Pursuing past unhappy loves.

Farewell my friends, farewell my foes,

My peace with thee, my love with those;

The bursting tears my heart declare,

Farewell the bonnie banks of Ayr.”

As his voice died away he heard the sound of sobbing, and looked up, to

see his mother standing in the doorway.

“Come awa’, lad, come in out of the night air!” she called tenderly,

controlling her sobs.

Silently they entered the cottage. Robert crossed the room to his

brother’s side.

“Gilbert,” he said quietly, “ye take the songs an’ verses ye will find

on my table an’ send them to Mr. Aiken. Mayhap they will bring you in a

bit o’ money to help ye in your struggle wi’ poverty, an’ forgive me

that I maun leave ye to battle wi’ misfortune alone.” Turning to Mary he

continued, lovingly, “Mary, lass, will ye accept my Bible as a parting

gift?” She looked at him with shining eyes. “Ye’ll find it in the oak box

with the glass lid in the attic.”

“I’ll prize it for aye, Robert,” she sobbed gratefully, pressing his

hand, “an’ our prayers will follow ye to that far distant land, where I

hope success awaits ye.”

He drew her to him gently and pressed a kiss on her pure brow. “Farewell,

lassie, may ye be happy,” he breathed fervently. Turning again to Gilbert

he spoke rapidly, “Farewell, brother, give my love to the dear brothers

an’ sisters when they come hame.” He shook his hand warmly.

“God keep ye, Robert,” answered Gilbert quietly.

Gently Robert drew his weeping mother into his arms. Tenderly he pulled

down the apron which she had flung over her head to hide her sorrow, and

wiped away her tears. “Noo, mother,” he whispered brokenly, “I—I maun say

good-by; the day has drawn to its close an’ I maun start on my journey to

Greenock. Dinna greet, dear mither.” He let her weep on unconstrainedly a

few moments.

Finally her bitter sobbing ceased and looking up into his face she cried

passionately, “I canna give ye up, my son, never to see ye again.” She

took his cheeks lovingly between her hands.

“Ye’re making it hard for me to go, mither,” he cried, utterly

distracted. “But the die is cast, my hands are on the plow, an’ I canna

turn back noo. Ye ken there is naught but disappointment an’ disgrace

to look forward to here, an’——” Suddenly a loud cheer from outside the

cottage interrupted him. They listened in silent wonder. Above the noise

of the wind, which had risen to a gale, and the swish of the rain, which

now beat in swirling gusts about the cottage, came the voices of Souter

and Donald shouting and cheering like boys on a frolic. Quickly they

opened the door. A gust of wind dashed the rain fiercely in their faces.

Through the mist and gloom they could vaguely make out the outlines of a

coach standing at the gate, which had approached unheard in the storm.

“Robert, Robert!” cried Souter, looming up out of the darkness and

looking decidedly weatherbeaten. “’Tis news I have, great and glorious

news.”

“News?” they all repeated in wonder.

“What is it, mon?” asked Rob, trembling with excitement.

“It can speak for itsel’,” replied Souter gleefully, “for here it is.” He

pointed behind him. They looked down the path and saw rapidly approaching

the door a tall man, enveloped in a long cloak, escorted by a servant in

livery. At that moment the light fell on his wet face and they started

forward in amazement.

“Lord Glencairn?” cried Robert incredulously, his heart throbbing with a

strange new-born hope.

“Aye, my lad, and near drowned,” laughed the visitor genially. Robert

grasped his outstretched hand and drew him to the door.

With words of welcome and delight they made room for him to enter.

Quickly he removed his wet cloak from his shoulders and threw it to his

servant, who hung it beside the fire, while descanting on the inclemency

of the weather. Nervously and anxiously they waited for the great man to

speak his errand.

Presently he turned from the fireplace, and, addressing Robert, he said

brightly, “Well, Mr. Burns, you see I have not forgotten you.”

“Oh, my lord,” faltered Robert, his face white with suppressed feeling,

“I—I had despaired of seein’ you mair; do ye—bring me—hope? Is it—am

I——” his faltering voice stopped abruptly, but his eager eyes continued

to search the noble face which was looking so kindly into his, as if he

would draw the news from him.

“It is good news,” answered Lord Glencairn, smiling brightly, “and you

are famous; yes, my lad, your poems are at last published and already

have become the rage in Edinburgh; the name of Robert Burns is on the

tongue of all, high and low, prince and peasant.”

“Thank God,” cried Mary softly, a look of rapture on her face.

Mrs. Burns turned excitedly to her son, her hands clasped nervously. “Oh,

laddie, laddie, ye’re a great mon, noo!” she exclaimed proudly.

For a moment Robert stood there speechless, a look of incredulous wonder

on his face. “My lord,” he faltered at last, “can it be true, what you’re

telling me, that my songs are—accepted, read an’—praised in Edinburgh?”

Lord Glencairn bowed. “Oh, sir,” he continued, with a nervous catch in

his voice, “it seems too good to be true, too good.”

Gradually the warm color came back to the pale face, the hurried

breathing, which seemed almost to smother him, became calmer, the

nervous, excited tension relaxed, and, with a smile of rapture and

content on his upturned face, he exclaimed fervently, “At last my hopes

and ambitions are realized, the bright sunlight of success has crowned my

efforts; my verses are known an’ loved in Edinburgh! Oh, do ye hear that,

my loved ones?” He stretched out his arms lovingly to them. “Nae mair

poverty for us noo, mither, nae—nor disappointments.” He turned to Lord

Glencairn, who was being assisted into his cloak. “Oh, sir, I canna tell

ye what is in my heart,” he continued earnestly, “but ’tis overflowing

wi’ love an’ gratitude to ye.”

“There, there, my lad, time is precious,” replied Lord Glencairn kindly,

buttoning up his cloak. “’Tis late and we have far to go and the

postchaise is awaiting us. I came here not only to bring you news, Mr.

Burns, but to take you back with me to Edinburgh.” He laughed heartily at

the look of startled amazement that appeared on the faces before him.

“To Edinburgh!” gasped Robert unbelievingly.

“Aye, lad,” replied his lordship earnestly, his eyes flashing with

admiration for the modest young genius. “To Edinburgh, where fame and

fortune await you, where society stands with outstretched arms to receive

you as a conquering hero come to claim his own. To the capital city,

where all unite in paying homage to the wonderful genius of Robert Burns,

our Scottish Bard. Will you come?” and he held out his hand invitingly to

the wondering lad, who was gazing at him, his soul in his eyes.

“Am I dreaming?” he cried slowly, looking about him for some confirmation

of his fears. “Go to Edinburgh wi’ ye, sir, as the Bard of Scotland? O

God, can this be true? My wildest hopes ne’er held out such dreams o’

greatness, such happiness.” His voice vibrated with feeling. He paused

and took a deep breath, then he continued joyfully, all the sorrows of

the past forgotten in his excitement, “A few moments ago, my lord, I

was bidding farewell to these, my loved ones, forever. I was about to

start for the Indies, a wretched exile, a disappointed failure, and noo

fate once mair alters my destiny.” With a glad laugh he seized Lord

Glencairn’s outstretched hand, and, turning to his loved ones, he cried,

his voice ringing out clear and strong, a conscious thrill of pride

running through it, “Nae more tears, mither, except those of happiness,

nae more sorrow or care, for I can leave ye all wi’ a light heart noo,

wi’ joy instead o’ sadness. ’Tis true I go from here an outcast, but I’ll

return to ye a hero.”

BOOK II

CHAPTER XII

The scene that opened on our hero in Edinburgh was altogether new, and in

a variety of other respects highly interesting, especially to one of his

disposition of mind. To use an expression of his own, he “found himself

suddenly translated from the veriest shades of life,” into the presence,

and indeed into the society, of a number of persons previously known to

him by report as of the highest distinction in his country. From those

men of letters in general his reception was particularly flattering.

And they interested themselves collectively and individually in the

cultivation of his genius.

In Edinburgh literature and fashionable society are a good deal mixed.

Our Bard was an acceptable guest in the gayest and most elevated circles,

and received from female beauty and elegance those flattering attentions

above all others most grateful to him. A taste for letters is not always

conjoined with habits of temperance and regularity, and Edinburgh at this

period contained perhaps an uncommon proportion of men of considerable

talents, devoted to social excesses, in which their talents were wasted

and debased.

Robert entered into several parties of this description with his usual

vehemence. His generous affections, his ardent eloquence, his brilliant

and daring imagination fitted him to be the idol of such associations.

The sudden alteration of his habits of life operated on him physically as

well as morally. The humble fare of the Ayrshire peasant he had exchanged

for the luxuries of the Scottish metropolis, and naturally the effect of

this change could not be inconsiderable. He saw the danger, and at times

formed resolutions to guard against it, but he had embarked on the tide

of dissipation and was borne along its stream. Some six months after

his triumphant entrance into the city he had returned to Mossgiel for a

fleeting visit to his home, and to assist his brother, who had taken upon

himself the entire support of their aged mother, and who was struggling

with many difficulties on the farm of Mossgiel. It will easily be

conceived with what pleasure and pride he was received by his mother, his

sisters, and brothers. He had left them poor and friendless; he returned

to them high in public estimation and easy circumstances. He returned to

them unchanged in his ardent affections, and ready to share with them

to the uttermost farthing the pittance that fortune had bestowed. He

had been keenly disappointed not to find Mary there. He learned, to his

sorrow, that she had gone back to the Highlands shortly after he left

for Edinburgh. He felt that she was lost to him now forever, for, while

his heart prompted him to hurry to her side, reason told him that the

visit would but fill her cup of sorrow to the brim. For, believing as he

did, that he was still bound to Jean in spite of the destruction of her

marriage lines, he knew he would only have to part from her again, to

leave her there with her sad thoughts, her loneliness, while he returned

to the gay life, where it was so easy to forget or at least to still the

voice of sorrow. Having remained with them a few days he proceeded again

to Edinburgh, first stopping off at Mauchline to call at the home of

Squire Armour, only to be met with curses and to be driven from the door

by the stern, unyielding man.

Robert returned to Edinburgh, his heart filled with bitterness and

sorrow. For a while he brooded over his troubles, which threatened to

plunge him into a state of extreme melancholy. But at last resentment

and anger crowded out all other thoughts, and it was not long before

he succeeded in drowning recollection in the midst of the society and

dissipation of the metropolis.

A year passed by, during which time he had vainly tried to get word to

Jean Armour. He had heard that she had given birth to twins, and the

thought that they were without the protection of a father’s name filled

him with grief and remorse. Time and again he had written her, only to

have his letters returned unopened. Finally he had received a letter

from her father, stating that “the children were dead and that Jean

had quite forgotten him, and was about to be joined in wedlock with a

neighboring rich farmer; that now he hoped Robert would leave him and his

daughter in peace,” etc., etc. He laid down the letter with a thrill of

joy stirring his blood. Free at last! He had done his duty as a man of

honor, and now, after all the bitter heartache and the long separation,

he was free to marry his little sweetheart. “Oh, thank God!” he cried

aloud, in an ecstasy of joy. “Thank God, the miserable tangle in our

lives will soon be straightened.” He had long entertained a desire to

visit those parts of his native country which were so celebrated in the

rural songs of Scotland, and he would now gratify that desire with Mary’s

home as the objective point. As soon as arrangements could be made he

started for the Highlands on horseback, accompanied by a friend, one Will

Nichol, and, his fame having preceded him, they were royally entertained

on their journey through the country. Finally they arrived in Dornoch,

where Mary was living quietly with her sister, and soon the long parted

lovers were clasped in each other’s arms. Later that day he told her the

glorious news of his release, his freedom from all ties, told her of

his undying love, and swore that never again should they be parted in

this life. And Mary with a prayer of thankfulness in her faithful heart,

blushingly gave her willing consent to a speedy marriage. The next day

they all returned by easy stages to Edinburgh. Mrs. Dunlop, an old friend

of Robert’s, took the country maiden under her protecting wing and gave

her a home until the marriage could be solemnized, the date having been

set one month from the time of their arrival.

CHAPTER XIII

John Anderson, the proprietor of the “Bull’s Head,” stood gazing

wrathfully upon the scene of disorder which met his eyes as he opened

the door of the sitting-room of his distinguished lodger’s apartments.

It was early evening, and still that lodger remained in bed, although he

had been called at different intervals throughout the day by the irate,

though kind-hearted, landlord himself. “Dear—dear—dear,” he muttered to

himself, as he arranged the furniture, “I’ll just give Robbie a bit o’

my mind.” He went to the door of the sleeping apartment and looked in.

“Sleepin’ like a bairn,” he said softly, “an’—an’ wi’ his boots on. Ma

certie!” He raised his hands in horror. “Weel, I’m glad ye’re nae under

the bed. Ah, weel, young blood must hae its course. I mind I was young

mysel’, an’ if I do say it I could drink mair whusky than any mon in the

toon. Oh, those were happy days,” and he sang softly to himself, as he

continued his work about the room:

“We are na fou’

We’re nat that fou’,

But just a droppie in our ee.

The cock may craw,

The day may daw’,

An’ ay we’ll taste the barley bree.”

A knock on the door interrupted his song.

“Weel, who is it?” he called impatiently.

“Open the door,” replied a female voice eagerly.

“A lassie,” exclaimed John in amazement. “Oh, Robbie, ye devil.” He

swung open the door and stood back to allow the gorgeously dressed lady

to enter the room. Her dress of rich purple brocaded silk, cut in the

extreme of fashion, rustled stiffly over the polished floor. Her head

with its powdered wig was held haughtily erect as she surveyed the room

with sparkling black eyes that nervously took in her surroundings,

through the tiny holes in the black mask which concealed her face.

“I—I thought—isn’t Mr. Burns at home?” she stammered uneasily.

“Weel, what may ye be wantin’ wi’ Mr. Burns?” asked John cautiously. He

had been bothered to death with answering the questions of the silly

women who flocked to the parlors of the inn in hopes of seeing their idol.

The lady turned on him sharply. “None of your business, my good man,” she

retorted haughtily. “How dare you question me, sirrah?”

John was quite taken aback by the imperious tones, but he still had his

suspicions. “Weel, I thought perhaps ye were one o’ the artless bonnie

wenches who were here last night wi’ the lads makin’ merry till the wee

sma’ hours. If ye are——” he paused significantly.

She flashed him an angry look. “Make your mind easy on that score, my

good fellow,” she retorted icily. “I have called to interview Mr. Burns

on an important matter. Is he at home?”

“Aye; he is in there asleep,” replied John, pointing to a door beside the

large book cabinet, which nearly occupied one side of the room.

“Asleep!” she repeated incredulously. “Lud, he retires uncommon early for

a gallant,” and there was a note of disappointment in her deep contralto

voice.

“Early is it?” said John, with a knowing smile. “Faith, he hasna been up

this day.”

“What?” she ejaculated in horror. “Not all day? Then you must awaken him

immediately. I must have speech with him at once,” and she spread her

voluminous draperies over the wide lounge and calmly seated herself. “Do

you hear?” she cried impatiently, as John made no move.

“I hae excellent hearin’, mum,” replied John carelessly, “but I ken when

I’m well off, an’ I hae nae desire to feel the toe o’ Robert’s boot.”

“A pest on your stubbornness, fool,” she cried angrily, springing to her

feet.

“An’ I hae my doubts o’ a lass who comes to a mon’s lodgings at night,”

continued John, resenting her impatience. “It’s na respectable.”

She looked him over insolently, then shrugged her shoulders. “I protest,

landlord,” she replied, in a mocking tone, “I am quite respectable, even

if I am here unchaperoned. But, Lud, I like not conventionalities, and

this adventure suits my madcap spirit well.” She walked to the door of

the sleeping chamber and was about to open it, when his voice arrested

her.

“I ken it all the time,” he cried indignantly. “Ye’re a brazen hussy.”

“Landlord!” she gasped in astonishment.

“An’ ye can leave my inn,” continued John, now thoroughly aroused. “We

are respectable, if ye are na.”

“Peace, fool!” she exclaimed furiously. “I am Lady Glen——” she stopped

and bit her lips angrily at the indiscreet slip of her tongue. Suddenly

a daring thought entered her mind. One glance at his face told her that

he had not caught the name. To think was to act with my lady. Then she

continued glibly, “I am Lady Nancy Gordon, daughter of the Duke of

Gordon, of Gordon Castle. It will be all over town in a day,” she thought

with malicious satisfaction.

John staggered back as though he had been shot. “Ye Lady Nancy?” he

gasped in amazement. “Oh, my lady, I ask your pardon.”

“’Tis not easily granted, numskull,” replied the imperious beauty, her

black eyes flashing dangerously. The sound of a carriage rolling over the

cobble stones suddenly arrested her attention. For a moment she listened

intently, then, with a startled exclamation, she turned to John and said

in a frightened whisper, “’Fore heaven! if it should be my husband—my

father, I mean, in pursuit of me.” She ran hastily to the window from

where a view of the street could be obtained and threw open the casement.

“It would serve ye right, my lady,” said John to himself.

“Great heavens! ’tis my uncle, Sir William Creech!” she gasped. Then she

said aloud, “Landlord, ’tis my father, as I feared! Oons! what a scrape

I’m in.” She closed the shutter hastily.

“’Twill ruin your reputation to be found here at night, my lady,” cried

John concernedly, trotting nervously to the window.

“O Lud,” she replied airily, “I’m not concerned over my reputation, ’tis

already torn to ribbons by my dear friends. ’Tis my—my father’s wrath I

fear. He is like to do some mischief.” An imperious knocking sounded on

the door below.

“He has found ye, lassie,” cried old John excitedly. “Go down to him;

dinna let him find ye here in Robbie’s chamber. Ye ken the blame will all

fall on the lad,” and he sought to escort her to the door, but she evaded

his outstretched hand with laughing unconcern.

“Nay, nay, my good fellow. I protest, I will not see him,” she exclaimed,

with reckless abandon. She would keep up the impersonation till the end.

Another such chance to blast her enemy’s reputation would not come to her

in a lifetime, she thought wickedly. “Listen,” she cried impetuously. “My

father, the Duke of Gordon, while he admires the poetry of Mr. Burns,

does not admire the man himself, consequently he did not send him an

invitation to attend the masked ball which is given at Gordon Castle

to-night,” she explained glibly. “’Twas a monstrous insult to the Bard

of Scotland, and I told my father so, and that I would not countenance

it. Then I stole away, as I thought, unobserved, and came here to induce

Mr. Burns to return with me. Once inside the castle my father will be

forced to receive him graciously. Now, hurry, landlord, tell him to dress

and we’ll slip out quietly, and, with your connivance, elude my—father’s

vigilance.” She watched him narrowly to note the effect of her story.

“My lady,” replied John proudly, “the lad goes to Athol Castle to-night,

so ye had better gang hame wi’ your father.” She gave a quick start

of delighted satisfaction. So he was going after all. If she had only

known that and felt sure of it, she might have spared herself this

nerve-racking experiment, she thought impatiently.

The pounding had kept up incessantly, and now a stern, commanding voice

called out for the landlord.

“He’s calling me,” said John nervously; “ye’d better go doon an’ explain

a’ to him,” he told her pleadingly.

“Landlord, where the devil are you?” They could hear the heavy tread of

feet walking about the rooms below.

“He’s inside the house,” whispered John, wringing his hands.

“O Lud, he seems most angry, doesn’t he?” she said in a subdued voice.

She had suddenly grown tired of the deception, and was eager now to get

away. “I—I think perhaps ’twould be best if he—er—my father didn’t find

me here after all,” she admitted. “I—I really dare not face his anger.”

She jumped up quickly, all her bravado vanished. “Get me out of this

place, landlord, quick, quick!” she gasped, clinging to him. Oh, why had

she come? Sir William would make such a disagreeable scene if he found

her here.

“Into that room wi’ ye!” cried John quickly, pointing to a small door

in the opposite side of the room; “an’ I’ll get your father out o’ the

house.”

“Why couldn’t the old fossil have stayed at home?” she said to herself

angrily. “This promised to be such a romantic adventure, landlord,” she

said aloud, poutingly. “And now ’tis all spoiled. Plague take it. Hurry,

landlord, and get my—father away, for I must return to the ball before

my absence is noticed.” She went into the room, her heart filled with

apprehension, and closed the door, which John promptly locked.

“Thank the Lord,” he muttered with a sigh of relief. “I breathe easier.”

Going to the door leading to the hall, he listened for a moment. From

below came the sound of clinking glasses. He closed the door quickly. The

coast was clear now. His guidwife was waiting on the customer. He hurried

across the room and was about to release his prisoner, when he heard the

door of Robert’s chamber open. He turned quickly and found his lodger

yawning in the doorway.

“Well, John Anderson, my Jo John,” said he lazily, “what’s all the row

here, eh?”

John looked up guiltily. “Are ye up, laddie?” he stammered.

“Nay, John, I’m walkin’ round in my bed,” retorted Robert dryly. “Dinna

ye think it’s time for me to be up?” he asked. “What’s the matter, mon?

stand still, ye make me dizzy.”

John was uneasily walking up and down, casting surreptitious glances at

the door of the room which held the fair captive. “Oh, Johnny, my Jo

John,” laughed Robert as he caught sight of the old man’s lugubrious

countenance, “ye’ve been drinkin’ too much Usqubaugh.”

“Too much what, Robbie?” he asked nervously.

“Usqubaugh. Dinna ken what that is? It’s whisky, whisky, whisky.”

“Oh, I ken, laddie,” replied John, smiling grimly. “Ye needna’ repeat it;

one whisky is enough.”

“Not for me,” laughed Robert, slapping him on the shoulder. “Ye dinna ken

my capacity.” The noise of a chair overturning in the next room arrested

his attention.

“What’s that?” he asked quickly.

“It’s n—nothing,” stammered John.

“There’s somebody in that room,” exclaimed Rob, putting his ear to the

crack in the door. “I hear her walking around.”

“Nay, nay, Rob, it’s nobody,” protested John, pushing him away.

“Oh, oh, John Anderson, my Jo John!” cried Rob, pointing an accusing

finger at the flushed, embarrassed face of the old man, “I’m on to ye.”

“For shame, Robbie, an’ me wi’ an old wife below stairs,” he answered

indignantly.

“Faith, I’ll just find out who it is,” chuckled Rob, going toward the

door.

“Nay, nay, lad!” remonstrated John, holding him back. “Wait, I’ll tell ye

who it is.”

“Ah, I knew it,” ejaculated Rob triumphantly. “Who is it?”

“It’s—it’s the Bailie,” faltered John.

“The Bailie? what’s he doing in there?”

“Weel, he—he came to arrest ye for debt,” glibly lied the old man. “So I

told him to wait in there till ye came hame, an’ noo he’s my prisoner;

that’s a’, Robbie.”

Rob grasped his hand gratefully. “Ye’re a true friend, John Anderson. Let

me see, how much do I owe him?”

John backed quickly away from him. “Nay, nay, laddie!” he said decidedly.

“I havena anither penny.”

“Neither have I,” laughed Rob ruefully. “So I’ll leave ye to get him out

the best way ye can; he’s your prisoner, not mine. I’d like to pitch

him down stairs. Come on, John, between us we ought to manage the old

Shylock.”

“Nay, nay, Robbie,” he retorted dryly. “Take my word for it, we’d hae our

hands full.”

“Weel, I’ll get into the rest of my clothes, for I’m due in society,”

yawned Rob, going to his room. “Get rid of him, John; do what ye like

with him; he’s no friend of mine,” and he went in and closed the door

behind him.

John softly followed him to the door and turned the key in the lock.

“I’ll take nae chances,” he said grimly.

“Good-evening,” said a sweet voice timidly. He turned around and with

a gasp of astonishment beheld a young girl standing in the doorway.

Suddenly he gave a great start. Could his eyes deceive him? Was that

beautiful creature in the long white opera cloak, her golden locks piled

in a gorgeous mass high upon her little head, really the barefooted lass

he had seen only a few days ago, in her short skirt of plaid?

“Mary Campbell, is it yoursel’, lass?” he finally gasped.

“Aye, ’tis really me,” laughed Mary happily. “I’m goin’ to the ball at

Athol Castle with Mrs. Dunlop. I wanted Robbie to see me in my gown

before I went, so Mrs. Dunlop left me here, while she drove over to pick

up Mrs. McLehose; then she’ll return for me. Where is Robbie, John?”

“He’s in there dressing, Mary, but whist, I’ve something to tell ye

first.”

“About Robbie?” she asked anxiously.

“Aye, there’s the devil to pay here, Mary.” The old man’s face looked

gloomy and perturbed. “There’s a—a lady in that room.”

“A—a lady!” gasped Mary in amazement, looking at the door of Robbie’s

chamber.

“Aye, Lady Nancy Gordon hersel’.”

“Then it’s true,” cried Mary, sinking into a chair, a great fear tugging

at her heart. “It’s true, then, all the stories I hear, that Robert is

be—bewitched wi’ her. I wouldna’ believe it before. Mrs. Dunlop says it

isna’ true, that Robbie hasna’ changed, but noo what can I think? Oh,

laddie, oh, laddie!” and she sank back pale and trembling.

“There, lassie, Robert doesna’ care a penny for that lass,” he said

tenderly. “She is only a heartless coquette, o’er fond of adventure,”

and he laid his wrinkled hand caressingly on the golden head. “Noo look

here, Mary, ye mustna’ expect Robert to be an angel all the time. He

thinks only of ye, and he loves ye just as fondly, e’en if he does smile

and make love to the ladies who throw themsel’s at his feet. He would

lose his popularity, ye ken. ’Tis only an amusin’ pastime, lassie, an’

but gives him inspiration for his poetry, so dinna’ take it to heart.

Ye ken Rob is highly sensitive, a most temperamental lad, who is very

susceptible to the charms of the fair sex, but whist, Mary, he isn’t

marrying any of them. There is only one lassie who will be his wife noo,

and she’s nae far away from me this moment.” And he nodded his head

sagely.

“Why dinna’ they leave him alone?” sighed Mary disconsolately. “’Tis very

unmaidenly in them to seek for his favor so openly.”

“Noo, lassie,” said John seriously, “we maun get Lady Nancy out o’ this

scrape, for the house is watched noo by her father, who suspects her

presence here.”

He walked up and down the room for a few moments plunged in deep thought.

All at once his face brightened.

“I have thought o’ a scheme, lassie,” he said suddenly. “Let Lady Nancy

take this long cloak of yours; ’twill cover her o’er entirely; then she

can walk boldly out past her father; he will think ’tis ye, Mary, and

will na’ stop her. Ye’re both of a height,” and he regarded her with

anxious eyes.

“Why should I help her?” said Mary, her heart still heavy and sore.

“For Robbie’s sake,” pleaded John. “Her father will blame the lad for it

all; perhaps he will shoot him, and he an innocent man. Why, lassie, he

doesna’ even ken the lass is in the house.”

“Doesna’ ken it?” repeated Mary, smiling incredulously. “Why, John,

Robert isna’ blind. If she is in his room——”

“But she isna’ in his room, Mary,” interrupted John. “She’s in there,

scared to death,” and he pointed to the door opposite.

“Oh!” comprehended Mary with a sigh of relief. “That’s different. I’ll

help her noo, John,” and she jumped eagerly to her feet, her face flushed

and earnest.

“That’s the girlie,” replied John heartily. Going to the door, he opened

it and whispered to Lady Nancy to come out.

“Lud, I thought you were never coming,” she flashed as she hastily

entered the room. She stopped short upon seeing Mary.

“This lady will help ye get away,” said John, looking angrily at the

bogus Lady Nancy.

[Illustration: “Mary quickly divested herself of her mantle and threw it

about the bare shoulders of the disdainful lady.”]

“Where have I seen that face before?” Lady Glencairn asked herself

nervously, looking closely into Mary’s flushed, innocent face, that

reminded her so guiltily of Lady Nancy Gordon herself.

Mary quickly divested herself of her mantle and threw it about the bare

shoulders of the disdainful lady, who hastily drew the large hood over

her elaborate court wig, entirely concealing it within its voluminous

folds.

With a quick careless word of thanks to Mary, she walked to the door, and

calling to John, who was quietly turning the key in Robert’s door, to

show her the way out, she swiftly left the room, and with wildly beating

heart, passed her uncle at the outer door, and mingled her presence with

the stream of gallant courtiers and laughing, gayly-dressed ladies that

wended its boisterous way along the crowded thoroughfare.

CHAPTER XIV

When Mary found herself alone she sat down pensively in the big leather

chair, feeling very sad and thoughtful. Of course she trusted Robert

absolutely, but how could he really love such an ignorant little country

girl like herself, when there were so many grand, rich, beautiful ladies

surrounding him all the time and suing for his favors, even seeking him

out in his own rooms? But her face brightened as she thought of what

John had told her. “It isna’ his fault if the women lose their hearts

over him,” he had said, and in her heart she felt she could not blame

anyone for loving Robbie. She rose and softly approached his door. Then

she paused. No, she would wait till he came and found her himself. But

she did wish he would hurry and finish dressing before Mrs. Dunlop came

back. She strolled aimlessly about the room looking with listless eyes

at the collections of souvenirs and bric-a-brac which filled the mantels

and covered the tables. She noted with wonder the profusion of ladies’

gloves, ’kerchief, scarfs, a slipper or two and a motley collection of

other articles littering the table. She picked up a beautiful pink mask

and idly turned it over; on the back she read, “Dropped by Lady Nancy at

the Charity Ball given in honor of the Prince of Wales.” She put it down,

her lips trembling. He must prize it very highly, she thought with a

pang of jealousy; but as she read the various inscriptions on the back

of a number of the others, she smiled and told herself what a silly she

was. Of course he couldn’t be in love with all the owners of those many

favors. She picked up the mask again and held it before her eyes. How

funny to cover one’s face in such a manner, she thought. She fastened the

elastic behind her ear, and with a woman’s curiosity wondered how she

looked in it. She quickly spied the large cheval mirror in the cabinet.

“How funny I do look,” she said to herself with a little amused laugh,

as she caught sight of her reflection. “Nobody would ever know me.” As

she drew closer to the mirror in pleased wonder her dancing eyes slowly

wandered from the top of the glittering coil of her golden hair, dwelt

for an instant in blushing modesty on the gleaming, bare shoulders,

and rested in loving, blissful content on her simple trailing robe of

ivory-tinted embroidered silk. She looked angelically lovely as she stood

there innocently admiring her winsome reflection.

“Is that really the Highland Mary who used to wander barefooted through

the glens and vales, the simple dairymaid who made butter for Colonel

Montgomery?” she asked herself dreamily. “Am I awake, I wonder? How

Souter Johnny would open his eyes if he could only see me noo in this

beautiful gown, carrying a fan an’ wi’ my hair done up high.” She laughed

gleefully but softly at the thought. “Wouldna’ they be proud to see me

such a grand lady.” She walked stiffly across the room with all the

dignity she could command, her chin held high and taking quick little

pleased glances over her shoulder at her reflection. It was Mary’s

first long gown, and it was not to be wondered at, when in turning

quickly around a chair she easily became entangled in her train, and

with a little frightened gasp she suddenly found herself on her knees

endeavoring to extricate her feet from the clinging mass of silk and

linen in which they were enmeshed. Finally she succeeded in regaining

her feet, but not until she had with extreme care seated herself did she

breathe a sigh of relief. She eyed her train ruefully. “If I should fall

doon before all the great people at the ball, I should be so ashamed,”

she said, sighing dismally. “They would all laugh at me. But Robert says

I am nicer than anyone in all the world.” She reveled in that thought an

instant, then her face lengthened. “But I ken there is a difference, a

great difference; I am only a simple country lass without any learnin’

whatever, while Lady Nancy is——” she rose suddenly as a thought occurred

to her, her hands clasped tightly together. “Suppose he should grow

ashamed of his ignorant little country wife,” she whispered with

trembling lips; “it would break my heart in twain.”

She held out her hands passionately toward her unseen lover. “Ye

willna’ ever regret makin’ me your wife, will ye dear?” she whispered

imploringly. “Ye willna’ be sorry in years to come.” Quickly her loving,

trustful faith reasserted itself. “Nay, nay, my heart tells me ye

willna’, so I’ll be foolish nae more. I’ll tell him what a silly lass

I’ve been an’ how he’ll laugh at my doubting fears.” She took a step

toward his door, when it opened and Robert came quickly into the room,

dressed for the ball, looking very handsome in his plain and unpretending

dress of blue homespun, for he still retained the same simplicity of

manner and appearance that he brought with him from the country. He

stopped in amazement as he came face to face with his unexpected visitor.

Mary with a thrill of joy at the sight of her lover waited eagerly for

the words of praise which she knew her appearance would elicit, and for

which she hungered, but as he stood looking at her so calmly, so coldly,

her joy turned to wonder and fear. What was the matter? Didn’t she please

him? With a little gasp she put her hand nervously to her face. As it

came in contact with the mask, which she had forgotten to remove, her

heart gave a quick bound of relief. Of course! He didn’t know her. “He

doesna’ ken who I am at all,” she thought gleefully.

As his eyes rested upon the pink mask, Robert gave a sudden start, then

glanced quickly at the table. No, it wasn’t there. So then this was Lady

Nancy herself. He recognized her hair, her figure, and above all the

mask. “So my haughty lady thinks it safer to play wi’ fire incognito,

eh?” he thought grimly. “Weel, I’ll teach ye a lesson, my fine lady; ye

need one badly.” Then aloud, “I’m indeed honored, madam, by your presence

here to-night,” he said, bowing low before her.

Mary courtesied deeply. Oh, it was so exciting to be talking with her

Robbie, and how surprised he would be when she unmasked.

“Haven’t ye a word to say to me, fair lady?” continued Robert softly, as

she stood silently before him.

“He’ll sure ken my voice,” she thought in trepidation; “if I could only

talk like a lady.” She wondered if she could imitate the haughty tones of

Lady Nancy Gordon herself. She’d try. She seated herself languidly. “Then

you don’t recognize me?” she asked, disguising her lyric voice, as near

as possible, in the lazy drawl of Lady Glencairn’s voice.

He started and looked at her intently. It didn’t sound like Lady Nancy at

all, but who else could she be? he thought blankly. “Your voice sounds

like—but nae, I maun be mistaken,” he said doubtfully. “Nay, madam, I do

not recognize you. Will you not remove——”

“What, my face?” laughed Mary. She had marvelously lost all trace of her

country intonation. “Oh, nay, sir! I’m too much attached to it.”

“Well ye might be, fair lady!” replied Robert, “but why do ye hide your

beauty so jealously?” He reached out his hand to lift the mask from her

face, but, with a rippling laugh, she eluded him, and from behind the

high-backed settle made reply.

“Be not impatient, Mr. Burns,” she said saucily; “you shall see my face

in good time, I warrant ye!” It must be Lady Nancy after all, he told

himself.

“’Tis a promise of paradise, madam!” he cried fervently, entering into

the spirit of adventure.

Mary looked at him reproachfully. Did he think she was really Lady

Gordon? she wondered. The thought gave her pause. Well, she would find

out how much he really cared for her, how much truth there was in the

gossip she had heard. “Rumor sayeth, Mr. Burns, that ye are in love with

the beautiful Lady Nancy Gordon; is that so?” she asked, fanning herself

languorously.

He smiled quizzically into her face. “Rumor hath many tongues, fair lady,

and most of them lying ones. The lady doesna’ suit my taste; even her

money couldna’ tempt me, an’ I need the money badly. That will take her

conceit down a peg I’ll warrant,” he thought grimly.

“But she is very beautiful, I hear,” said Mary, filled with delight at

his answer.

“That I grant ye. Mistress Nancy is most adept in the use of the

hare’s foot an’ of the paint box. I’ll wager she can teach even our

incomparable actress, Mrs. Siddons, a few tricks in the art of makeup.

Oh, but ye should see the lady in the early morning. ’Fore heaven, she

resembles damaged goods!” Now would come the explosion of wounded pride

and outraged dignity, he thought calmly, but his amazement was unbounded

when the seeming Lady Nancy jumped up and down, ecstatically clapping her

hands in a very undignified manner. “Ye seem o’er pleased at my remark,”

he exclaimed with a puzzled frown.

“I am, I am pleased!” she cried joyfully.

“What?” he stammered taken aback—“why, I—I thought ye were——” He stopped,

flushed and embarrassed.

“Were Lady Nancy Gordon!” she finished. “O Lud, if I were, I wouldn’t

feel complimented at all the flattering things I’ve heard!” and she went

off in a peal of merry laughter.

“Who are ye then, who comes to my chamber at night?” he asked curtly,

chagrined at his mistake. She shook her head and laughed softly.

“Ye shall know in good time,” she replied coquettishly. “I—I must make

certain that ye dinna’ love—me.” She smiled, but her heart was beating

wildly.

“I love only one maiden, an’ I make her my wife within a week,” he

answered with dignity.

“An’ ye’ve no regrets for Lady Nancy, nor for Mrs. McLehose, nor—nor

any o’ the grand ladies ye’ll be givin’ up to marry the little country

maiden?” she asked softly, forgetting in her eagerness her lapse into her

natural speech.

“None, my lady,” he replied firmly. “Noo, lets call a truce to this

masquerade! I am at a loss to understand your errand here to-night,

but do not press ye for an explanation, and as I am due at the Duke of

Athol’s, I must bid ye good-night.” He bowed coldly, and started to leave

her.

But with a cry of joy, which thrilled him to the heart, she drew near to

him with outstretched arms. “Robbie, lad, canna’ ye guess who I am?” she

cried. “I’m nae a grand lady at all, I’m only your Highland Mary.” With a

quick movement, she tore off the mask from her flushed and radiant face

and threw it far from her.

“Mary, is it ye?” he gasped, almost speechless with surprise. He could

scarcely believe his senses. This radiantly beautiful lady his Highland

Mary? was such a metamorphosis possible?

She made him a little courtesy. “Aye, ’tis Mary!” she answered, her heart

beating fast with pleasure. Quickly she told him how she had come, why

she had come, and how long she had waited, just to hear his words of

approval. “Do I please ye, laddie?” she asked shyly.

For a moment he could not speak. Her wonderful perfection of beauty

startled him. He drew her closely into his arms, kissing her with almost

pathetic tenderness. “Mary, my love, my sweet lass!” and his voice

trembled. “Pleased! Good Heavens, what little words those are to express

my feelings. I can tell ye how you look, for nothing can ever make ye

vain! Ye’re the most beautiful lassie I’ve ever seen! Ah, but I’m proud

of ye this night. Ye’re fit to wear a coronet, Mary lass! I ken there

will not be a grand lady at the ball to-night who will look half sae

bonnie, nor hae such sweet, dainty manners, as my country sweetheart.”

He held her off at arm’s length and glanced with affectionate adoration,

from the fair, golden-crowned head down to the point of the small

pearl-embroidered slipper that peeped beneath the edge of the rich,

sheeny white robe.

“It seems so strange to be here in Edinburgh, decked out in all this

finery,” she murmured dreamily, “and on my way to a real ball. Is it

really me?”

“Aye, ’tis ye, Mary, I’ll swear to that!” he cried heartily, kissing

the sweet, ingenuous face raised to his so wistfully. She blushed with

pleasure, and bashfully turned her head away. “Ye dinna’ think I look

awkward, do ye laddie?” she inquired in a low, timid voice.

“Nay, ye’re grace itself, sweetheart!” he replied reassuringly, raising

her chin till her drooping eyes met his.

“An’ ye wouldna ken I was only a dairymaid if it werena for my speech,

would ye?” she interrogated, with pathetic hopefulness. Her concerned,

anxious little face and wistful manner touched him deeply.

“I wouldna have ye changed for all the world, Mary!” he told her

tenderly, pressing his lips to the one little curl which hung unconfined

over her snowy shoulder. “Be your own pure, sweet self always, for ye’re

the fairest of all God’s creatures to me noo.”

She gave a deep sigh of absolute content, and leaned against him silently

for a moment. Then she looked up at him brightly. “This fine dress makes

me quite a grand lady, doesna’ it?” she prattled innocently.

“Aye! every inch a queen!” and he made her a deep bow.

“But it isna mine, Robbie,” she whispered confidentially. “I borrowed it

for the night only, like Cinderella in the fairy book, to make my début

into fashionable society,” and she laughed gleefully, like a little child

telling a wonderful secret. “It’s Mrs. Dunlop’s wedding gown, Robbie;

isna it just sweet?” She passed her hand gently over the folds of the

silk and there was awe and reverence in the touch. “Oh, how I love to

smooth it, ’tis so soft an’ rich an’ glossy; it isna’ wrong to love the

beautiful things, is it, laddie?” she asked earnestly.

“Nay,” replied Robert, smiling tenderly at her naïveté. “Love the pretty

things all ye like, dearie, for hereafter ye shall have the finest gowns

in town. Ye shall select whatsoever your fancy pleases—dresses, bonnets,

mits, boots,” and he enumerated on his fingers all the articles he could

remember so dear to a woman’s heart.

“Shall I really, really?” she gasped as he finished, looking at him with

wondering eyes. “I hae never bought a pretty thing in a’ my life, ye ken,

an’ oh, won’t it be just sweet? We’ll go to the shops to-morrow, an’ Mrs.

Dunlop will help me select my—my wedding gown.” She held her head away

bashfully, blushing pink before the sudden fire that gleamed in the dark

eyes bent on her so devotedly.

“Your wedding gown?” he repeated, with dreamy softness. “Let it be silk,

Mary, white, soft and shimmering, to float around ye like a cloud of

sunshine. An’ ye must have a bridal veil too, lassie, one sae fine an’

transparent that it will cover ye o’er like the morning mist.”

“I would be afraid to buy so much,” she replied gravely. “’Twould be too

costly, an’ ye canna’ afford to waste sae much money to deck me out like

a lady,” and she shook her head in firm disapproval.

He laughed heartily at her sober face and air of housewifely prudence.

“My dear,” he whimsically told her, “dinna’ ye mind the cost. A weddin’

doesna’ often happen in one’s lifetime, sae we’ll make it a grand one

this time.”

“Ye’ll spoil me, Robbie,” she answered, smiling happily.

“Nay, ye’re too sweet and lovely to be spoiled.”

“Well, ye ken,” she replied demurely, “sweet things spoil the quickest.”

Before he could reply, the rattle of a carriage over the pavement sounded

loudly through the room. As it stopped at the door, Mary gave a little

sigh of regret. “It’s Mrs. Dunlop, returning for me at last,” she said.

She secretly hoped the sharp old eyes would not miss the cloak.

“Aye, like the good fairy godmother,” smiled Robert, as he led her out of

the room and down the stairs.

“I feel as if I were in a dream,” she murmured softly, picking up her

train, and lovingly holding it over her arm, as she walked daintily

across the sidewalk to the waiting carriage. “If I am, laddie,” she

continued earnestly, “I hope I may never awake from it; I want to dream

on forever.”

CHAPTER XV

When Lady Glencairn, after her arrival at the Duke of Athol’s, found that

Robert had not come—indeed she and Lord Glencairn and Sir William Creech,

her uncle, had been the first to arrive—she decided recklessly to visit

him at his chambers, so she had easily stolen away unnoticed by all save

one, on her indiscreet journey. Sir William had seen her as she slipped

guiltily out through the conservatory window and had followed her with

growing suspicions to the door of Robert’s chamber, where he waited in

impotent wrath for her to reappear, after having questioned the guidwife

within the inn. And he was not deceived when she came out, wrapped in

the disguising cloak and mask. He followed her like a grim servitor till

she reached the castle, and as she was noiselessly reëntering by the

conservatory window, he called to her to wait. With a startled gasp she

turned, and as her eyes rested on her uncle’s accusing face, she gave a

little laugh, half scornful, half defiant, and leisurely throwing off her

cloak and mask, stood waiting for him to speak.

“Ye foolish woman!” he told her angrily. “How could ye be so imprudent,

reckless mad, as to visit a man’s chamber at night?”

“Don’t preach to me, uncle,” she answered sullenly. “No one knows of my

being there, not even Mr. Burns himself.”

“But what were ye thinkin’ of to do such a reprehensible act?” he

demanded sternly. She turned on him suddenly.

“Because I love him!” she exclaimed passionately, casting prudence to the

winds. “I went there to tell him of my love, to give myself to him, to

beg him to take me away from here, to take me anywhere, only to let me be

near him, to stay with him. But I was forced to come away without seeing

him, thanks to you.”

For a moment he regarded the reckless woman in silence, amazement, shame,

and anger struggling for the mastery.

“Alice, of what are you thinking?” he ejaculated finally, catching

her roughly by the arm. “You must control yourself. I speak for your

own good. Think no more of this idle poet, for only shame, ruin and

unhappiness can come to ye and your husband, unless ye give up this

unholy passion.”

She laughed scornfully. “My husband!” she cried bitterly. “Don’t remind

me of that fossil! You, and the rest of my family, are to blame for my

being fettered, tied to a man I do not love. If it were not for that, I

could find the happiness I crave.”

“Sh! be calm!” he continued, looking anxiously around. “You may be

overheard. Foolish woman! do you forget that Robert Burns, as well as

yourself, is married.”

“He is not!” she flashed impetuously. “That was no legal tie. Some

foolish chit of a country lass flung herself at him, with the usual

result. Any man would have done as he did, but unlike most men, he,

out of pity and from a high sense of honor, married her; but it was an

irregular marriage, which was speedily annulled by the girl’s father. He

is free now, free as ever he was. The girl has given him up, poor fool. I

only am the shackled one, a prisoner for life, unless——” An eager light

flashed in her deepened eyes.

“Unless Robert Burns elopes with ye!” he finished sarcastically. “I

warn ye, Alice, not to play with edged tools;’tis o’er dangerous. Be

more careful or others will suspect what I already know.” She smiled

disdainfully and shrugged her shapely shoulders.

“Do not force me to open your husband’s eyes!” he retorted, angered by

her irritating indifference. She looked at him, her heart filled with

sudden fury. How she would like to hit him in the face with her fan, how

she hated him and his interference, his unwelcome advice. “Already,” he

continued irritably, “you have given that scandalmonger, Eppy McKay,

cause to suspect your too warm and ardent affection for Mr. Burns, by

openly showing jealousy of Lady Nancy Gordon.”

“I jealous of Nancy Gordon?” she repeated, with airy scorn, walking

toward the door of the conservatory. “Huh, not I, uncle; I am not so

unconscious of my own charms,” and she drew her magnificent figure

up to its full height, then smiled insolently into his perturbed and

nervous face. “I thank you for all your advice,” she murmured sweetly as

they traversed the long hall, “but remember, hereafter, that I mean to

steer my own canoe, whether it leads me into safe waters or through the

rapids.” And with a radiant smile upon her sensuous lips she entered the

drawing-room, leaning affectionately upon the arm of her outraged but

speechless relative. Quietly she took her place by her waiting husband’s

side, her dark eyes full of a bewitching and dangerous softness, for her

thoughts were on the one guest whose very name had the power to move her

so completely.

Never had she appeared so dazzlingly beautiful, as she stood there

meeting her friends and acquaintances with a deep ceremonious courtesy

for the distinguished ones, a smile and a nod for her intimates, and an

air of high-bred insolence and extreme self-satisfaction pervading her

whole appearance.

No one was ever bored at the Duchess of Athol’s brilliant “at homes.”

One always felt sure of meeting at least three or four justly celebrated

personages under her hospitable roof. And to-night society was a-gog,

for it was to welcome the farmer-poet, Robert Burns, who had returned

from his triumphant tour through the Highlands. Soon the capacious

drawing-rooms were crowded. There was the rustle of silk and satin, rare

and delicate perfumes shaken out of lace kerchiefs, while the heavy scent

of the many bouquets oppressed the warm air to the point of suffocation.

There was an interminably monotonous murmur of voices, only broken at

rare intervals by a ripple of mild laughter. Over by the large windows

that overlooked the terrace stood a group of people gazing earnestly out

beyond the gardens at some object, which had arrested their attention,

with various degrees of interest.

“Whatever is happening below on Princes Street?” suddenly inquired one

of the ladies, nervously clutching the arm of the man nearest her. Eppy

McKay was an eccentric maiden lady of questionable age and taste. Of more

than ordinary height naturally, she looked a giantess in her powdered

wig, which towered fully a foot in the air, and which was decorated

profusely with waving plumes, rosettes and jewels. Her lowcut gown of

crimson satin, over a petticoat of quilted green silk, was cut extremely

low, revealing a vision of skin and bones, powdered to a ghastly

whiteness. Her affectations, her simperings, and her poses accorded

society much amusement, of which fact she was blissfully unconscious.

“There is a crowd gathered around a carriage, but farther than that I

cannot make out,” replied Mr. Mackenzie, the famous author and publisher.

A prolonged shout from below increased the restlessness of the timid

Eppy. “Oh, dear!” she gasped. “If it should be an uprising of the

Jacobites,” and she looked fearfully into the amused faces of her

companions.

With a disgusted grunt, Sir William Creech shook his arm free from her

clawlike clutch. “Nonsense, woman, ye’re daft!” he answered impatiently.

“Well, upon my word!” she murmured in injured surprise.

“The mob is increasing—’tis coming nearer!” exclaimed Mr. Mackenzie,

stepping out upon the wide balcony.

“So it is,” affirmed Eppy, retreating behind the heavy curtains. “Lady

Glencairn!” she called as her ladyship approached the window. “Listen to

those murmurs! Oh, dear! it makes me so nervous.”

Lady Glencairn stepped out upon the balcony, followed by the timid Eppy,

and stood contemplating the scene in the brightly lighted street below

them.

“It sounds not ominous,” she said quietly, after a moment. “Lud, what

a throng! They have unhitched the horses from a carriage, and are

themselves drawing it hither.”

“Who is in the carriage, can you see?” eagerly asked Eppy, straining her

eyes.

“A gentleman, who is evidently addressing the people,” answered Lady

Glencairn slowly. She gazed intently at the figure silhouetted against

the light of the street lamps. Surely she knew that form. At that moment

he turned, and with a flush of surprise, a thrill of joy, she suddenly

recognized him.

“Upon my life,’tis Robert, Robert Burns!” she cried excitedly.

“Aye, I recognize him now,” said Mr. Mackenzie.

“And you say they are drawing him hither?” inquired Sir William

incredulously, turning to his niece.

“Aye, and why not?” she replied brightly, turning to the others. “They

should carry him on their shoulders, for he deserves all homage.”

“And ’tis said the Scots are not demonstrative,” ejaculated Mr.

Mackenzie, as another burst of applause and cheers, followed by laughter,

reached their ears.

“You hear how demonstrative they can be when occasion demands

enthusiasm,” replied Lady Glencairn stanchly, “when genius knocks at the

door of their hearts. See how Edinburgh has utterly lost control of its

conservative old self, and all over the poetic genius of Robert Burns.”

“True, he has indeed stirred the hardest-hearted Scot by his fascinating

poetry,” mused Mr. Mackenzie admiringly.

“How I shall love him,” sighed Eppy dreamily. “In sooth I do now,” and

she simpered and dropped her eyes like a love-sick school girl.

“And she has never met the man yet!” cried Sir William in amazement. “The

woman’s daft,” he muttered, turning away.

“I do wish he would come,” sighed Eppy. “I want to tell him how much I

admire him and his poetry. Oh, I have the dearest little speech, that

Sibella, my sister, composed, all prepared to say when I am presented to

him.” She rolled her eyes up ecstatically.

“I shall also recite one of his odes to him,” she continued, in the tone

of one who is about to confer a great favor. “I know ’twill please him

greatly,” and she fanned herself languidly.

“What have you selected?” inquired Lady Glencairn, laughing openly. The

woman’s vanity amused her.

“Such a sweet conceit,” simpered Eppy.

“Is it ‘Tam O’Shanter’s Tale’?” inquired Mr. Mackenzie, interestedly.

“No, oh, no!” she replied, shaking her head. “’Tis monstrous long to

recite.”

“An ode to a calf,” said Sir William grimly, “would be more appropriate.”

“Perhaps ’tis the tale of ‘The Twa Dogs,’” hazarded Lady Glencairn. Eppy

laughed gleefully and shook her head.

“Tell us the name, madam; we’re no children!” roared Sir William, glaring

at her like an angry bull.

“You’re so gruff,” pouted Eppy reproachfully. “Do you all give it up?”

They nodded. “Well, then, don’t be shocked,” and she shook her finger

at them coquettishly; then leaning forward she whispered loudly, “’Tis

entitled ‘To a Louse.’”

“Heaven, preserve us!” ejaculated Mr. Mackenzie, laughing heartily.

“She’s touched here!” cried Sir William commiseratingly, putting his

finger to his head.

“Why did you choose that?” gasped Lady Glencairn, in amazement.

“Because ’tis a beautiful conceit,” answered Eppy soulfully. “I protest,

I mean to recite it.”

“I vow ’tis a most singular selection.”

“I don’t see why,” snapped Eppy spitefully. “’Twas written round a fact.”

“Really, I hadn’t heard of that,” answered her ladyship, coolly turning

away.

“I wonder at that,” cooed Eppy innocently, although a little malicious

twinkle appeared in her eyes. “You of all people should know everything

pertaining to Mr. Burns and his verses.” Lady Glencairn stiffened

suddenly, and cast a quick look at the stern face of her uncle.

“What do you mean by that?” inquired Sir William aggressively, turning to

Eppy.

“Oh, nothing, nothing!” she hastily replied, frightened by what she had

said.

“Everything concerning Mr. Burns, my husband’s protégé, and my friend,

my dear friend, I may call him, does interest me mightily, Miss McKay.

Pray tell me the story connected with the poem, if you care to!” and Lady

Glencairn turned her glittering eyes, which were narrowed dangerously,

upon the face of the crestfallen Eppy.

Sir William gave a snort of anger. “Ye couldn’t stop her; she is dying to

tell all she knows!” he said crustily.

Eppy cleared her throat vigorously. “Well, it was this way,” she began

confidentially. “Mr. Burns was sitting behind a lady in Kirk, one

Sabbath, who had on a new bonnet, of which she seemed most proud. As he

was admiring its beauty, his keen eyes detected this horrid little animal

crawling over the gauze and lace.”

“How fascinating,” murmured Mr. Mackenzie in mocking rapture.

“And it immediately inspired his pen to write the verses which have

made such a sensation in town,” concluded Eppy, looking eagerly at her

listeners for some look or word of approval.

“What a—a creepy story,” said Lady Glencairn, with a little shiver of

repulsion.

She turned to her quickly. “’Tis said, my dear, and I ask you not to

repeat it, for I promised not to tell, that the lady in question was

Agnes McLehose, the beautiful grass widow, who is such an ardent admirer

of Mr. Burns, you know.”

“Really!” murmured Lady Glencairn coldly.

“And the airs she put on!” cried Eppy, with lofty indignation. “Why, do

you know——”

But Lady Glencairn interrupted her sharply. “I do not care to speak of

Agnes McLehose,” she retorted frigidly, “and I never indulge in scandal,

especially before my friends, so let us not disgust them with any woman’s

gossip.”

“You are quite right,” affirmed Eppy affably. “I do not believe in it

myself; it always comes back to one.”

“Who can understand a woman?” grunted Sir William aloud.

“Well, it’s most easy to understand men,” retorted Eppy quickly.

With a sigh of impatience, Lady Glencairn took Mr. Mackenzie’s arm and

silently they reëntered the drawing-room. They wended their way through

the groups of people standing about, for the largest and most brilliant

portion of the assemblage were standing, the sofas, ottomans, and chairs

being occupied by the puffy old dowagers, who were entertaining each

other with choice bits of scandal; and, finally, came to a standstill

beside the grand piano. For a moment they remained quiet, listening to

the glorious voice of Madame Urbani, who from the great drawing-room

above was trilling forth an aria from grand opera. From her position

Lady Glencairn commanded a good view of the large arch through which the

guests entered the drawing-rooms. Anxiously she watched for the handsome

face and curly black hair of the poet above the crowd that surrounded

her. “Why does he not come? what can be detaining him?” she asked herself

for the hundredth time. Perhaps he was with Lady Nancy Gordon, she

thought jealously, looking about the vast room. She was sure she had

not yet been announced. It looked very suspicious that neither she, nor

Robert, had arrived. And her heart was consumed with bitter jealousy,

although her smiling face bore no traces of the raging fire within. How

she hated that doll-faced beauty for being single and free! How she would

delight in trampling her in the dust, she thought cruelly. Nearly a month

had elapsed since Robert left Edinburgh, since she had seen him. A month

filled with vain longing and unrest. And since his return, she could

scarcely restrain her intense longing to see him. Day after day she would

drive slowly past his lodgings, hoping to catch a glimpse of his glowing,

dark face, which had such power to thrill her to the very depths of her

intense and passionate nature. That longing had taken possession of her

to-night, when she had slipped out and stolen away to his rooms, and she

would have willingly given her body and soul to him, for the asking; but

her good angel had protected her from her own indiscretion, and saved

her unsuspecting victim from a great remorse. The gurgling voice of Eppy

McKay broke in abruptly on her disturbing revery.

“Oh, dear, I wish Mr. Burns would come,” she said plaintively.

“He is usually very punctual,” answered Lady Glencairn, opening her large

fan of ostrich plumes and fanning herself indolently.

“Genius is never governed by any rules of punctuality or propriety,”

observed Mr. Mackenzie.

“Then he is exempt,” replied her ladyship, smiling brightly. “Ah! you

truant. Where have you been?” she demanded of her husband, who joined

them at that moment.

“Incidentally getting a breath of fresh air, my dear,” replied Lord

Glencairn, smiling lovingly into his wife’s face. “But in reality, I was

listening to the ovation which Robert was receiving as he drove through

Princes Street.” Her eyes suddenly brightened.

“How I wish I could have heard his speech to the masses,” she cried

enthusiastically. “For I must confess, James, that no man’s conversation

ever carried me off my feet so completely as that of Robert Burns.”

“Indeed, my lady!” he retorted in mock alarm. “Then it behooves me to

keep my eye on you hereafter.”

She joined in the laugh that followed, then remarked audaciously, “But, I

vow, a little flirtation is really most exhilarating now and then.” She

flashed her brilliant eyes mockingly upon the horror-struck countenance

of Eppy McKay.

“How indiscreet!” exclaimed Eppy in amazement, “and you are a married

woman, too.”

“’Tis perfectly shocking, isn’t it?” mimicked her ladyship insolently.

Eppy pursed her thin lips, while a little spot of color dyed her

parchment-like cheeks. “Well, I do not approve of married women

flirting,” she replied primly, and as she caught the look of amusement

which passed between her ladyship and Mr. Mackenzie, she added sourly,

“Especially in public.”

“Oh! Then you do approve of it in private,” replied her ladyship sweetly,

innocently opening her eyes to their widest.

Eppy gave a gasp of horror. “Mercy, no!” she cried indignantly, “I should

say not.” And she tossed her head in virtuous anger.

“Robert Burns!” announced the footman at this juncture.

There was a sudden hush, a movement of excitement, and the group around

the door fell back, and everybody made way for the most important guest

of the evening, who for the last hour had been the all-absorbing topic

of conversation. Lady Glencairn started violently, as she heard the name

announced. For a brief instant she closed her eyes, feeling faint, and

trembling in an ecstasy of joy. He was here at last! Her heart throbbed

so violently it stifled her.

“How noble he looks!” exclaimed Eppy in an awestruck tone, as she watched

the tall figure in a polite but determined manner coolly elbowing a

passage among the heaving bare shoulders, fat arms, the long trains, and

bulging bustles and paniers that seriously obstructed his way. “And to

think that man is but a lowly-bred peasant,” observed Mr. Mackenzie, as

he watched him bending low over the hand of their hostess.

“A man’s a man, for all that!” murmured her ladyship, worshipful pride

in her voice and in her dazzling eyes, as she watched him approach,

bowing right and left. She drew herself up with the conscious air of a

beauty who knows she is nearly perfect, and with a smile she extended her

jeweled hand. “I’m so glad to see you here to-night,” she says sweetly,

although a glance like fire seen through smoke leaps from beneath her

silky eyelashes, but Robert saw it not; he was bending low over her fair

hand. “Welcome back to Edinburgh!” she continued, pressing his hand

warmly.

A bright smile lighted up his dark visage. “Thank ye,” he returned

simply. Then he turned to Lord Glencairn with outstretched hand. “My

lord!” he said warmly, “how glad, how delighted, I am to again press the

hand of my patron, my friend.”

“The pleasure is mutual, my lad!” he replied. A kindly smile lighted up

his noble face, as he perceived the ruddy glow of health in the full

cheeks, the flashing eyes of the young poet. “Ah, you return to us

looking bonnier than ever,” he continued. “Your triumphant tour through

the north with its Highland chieftains and lords at your feet, has not

turned your head after all.”

Robert laughed good-naturedly. “Not a bit of it,” he replied frankly.

“Let me present Mr. Henry Mackenzie,” introduced Lady Glencairn at this

juncture.

Robert advanced eagerly to meet him, his hand extended, his eyes flashing

with delight. “The author of the ‘Man of Feeling,’ the first book I loved

and admired years ago!” he exclaimed in direct frankness. “It is an

unexpected pleasure, sir.”

“The pleasure is mutual,” replied Mr. Mackenzie, flushing at the

compliment. “We witnessed your triumphant progress up Princes Street, and

were delighted at the ovation you received.”

Robert laughed happily. “Was it not wonderful?” he answered in his

sonorous voice, which had such a thrilling richness in it. “I could

scarcely realize it was the once poor, humble Robbie Burns they were

cheering. I am indeed happy; my popularity has not begun to wane yet.” He

regarded the great publisher with kindling eyes. “That I am so favorably

known, is due to your kindly articles in your inestimable paper, _The

Lounger_, and your unbiased criticism of my poems, which brought me

before the public, and I thank you most heartily for that generous

criticism which was so judicious withal.” A little murmur of approval

from his listeners greeted his last words.

“’Twas a pleasure, believe me, Mr. Burns,” he answered quietly, “to lend

a helping hand to assist a struggling genius.”

“Thank ye,” said Robert, simply.

“I believe you have never met our esteemed contemporary, Mr. Sterne,

author of ‘Tristam Shandy,’” observed Mr. Mackenzie, and he quickly made

the introduction.

Robert turned quickly to the grave and dignified scholar. “Little did I

ever dream,” he said fervently, “that I would one day meet and converse

with my two favorite authors.”

A smile of gratified vanity overspread the rugged features of the

scholar. “I am proud indeed,” he observed pompously, “if my book has

found favor in your eyes, Mr. Burns.” And soon they had become engaged

in an animated conversation, much to the chagrin of one of his admirers,

who had been waiting patiently to be introduced. She had been mentally

rehearsing her little speech for some time, and was now waiting for the

opportunity to deliver it.

“No one would ever take him for a farmer,” she thought in open-mouthed,

worshipful adoration.

“He looks quite like a gentleman,” said a haughty voice near her, in a

tone of great surprise.

“Huh! he makes love to every woman he meets!” replied Sir William

spitefully.

With a thrill of rapture at the thought, Eppy attracted the attention of

Lady Glencairn, and whispered in that lady’s impatient ear, “Introduce

me, please; I see Mr. Burns is regarding me very closely.”

Presently a lull occurred in the discussion, and Lady Glencairn smilingly

introduced the garrulous old lady to the poet, as a “warm admirer of his

poems.” “And of you, too,” eagerly interrupted Eppy, clasping his hand in

both of her own. “Oh! I have longed for this moment, that I might clasp

the hand of Scotia’s Bard, and tell him how I love him,”—she broke off

with a smothered giggle. “I mean his poems; oh, they are too heavenly

for utterance,” and she rolled her little gray eyes till only the whites

showed. “Sibella—she’s my sister, and a dear creature if I do say so—and

I have had many a lovely cry over them,” she rattled on hardly pausing

for breath. “Ah, they have made us so happy. You must come and see her,

won’t you, she’s a writer also, and you can have a sweet talk over your

art. We belong to a literary family, you know. Rob Don, the Gaelic poet,

belonged to our clan. We take after him.” She smiled affectedly and

batted her little eyes in what she fondly believed a very fetching manner.

Robert had vainly tried to edge in a word, and now stood listening to the

silly prattle, a smile of amusement playing round his mobile mouth.

“A long way after,” observed Sir William dryly. Then he threw up his

hands in dismay, for Eppy had started off again.

“Here I am rattling off a lot of nonsense,” she gurgled, “but I do enjoy

your talking so much, Mr. Burns. I vow I could listen to it all day. I

shall always remember this happy occasion of our meeting.” She stopped,

out of breath, panting but happy.

Robert regarded her quizzically for a moment while an audible titter was

heard throughout the rooms. “You quite overwhelm me, Miss McKay,” he

drawled at last. “But I have nevertheless enjoyed conversing with you.

Really, madam, I felt quite eloquent and did myself full justice,” and he

bowed gravely.

“Oh, you flatterer!” tittered Eppy, slapping his arm coquettishly with

her fan. “But I am not madam yet.” She ventured a quick look at Sir

William.

“Robert, I have been requested to ask you to recite one of your favorite

poems; will you honor us?” asked Lord Glencairn, coming forward.

At once there was a chorus of inanely polite voices. “Oh, do recite, Mr.

Burns!” “Please give us ‘Tam O’Shanter’s Ride,’” etc., etc.

Robert slowly looked around him at the sea of faces, and suddenly a

feeling of resentment filled his heart. Must he parade himself before

these empty-headed noodles, who regarded him in the light of a curiosity,

a plaything, to amuse them by his antics? Why didn’t they ask Mr.

Mackenzie or Mr. Sterne or Dr. Blacklock, Mr. Ramsay, or any one of the

others to read from their books?

“I must ask ye to excuse me to-night,” he replied coldly. “I have been

speaking in the open air and my voice is tired.”

“Then I will recite in your stead,” cried Eppy, determined to make an

impression on the romantic young farmer.

They crowded around her, laughing and joking, for poor Eppy was the

innocent, unsuspecting butt of society.

“What is your selection?” someone asked seriously.

“’Tis about the cunning little animal Mr. Burns saw on the lady’s

bonnet,” replied Eppy. “The lady’s name was—er——” She paused and looked

inquiringly into Robert’s grimly amused face.

“Ye would be very much surprised, perhaps shocked and grieved, Miss

McKay,” he answered, “were I to mention the lady’s name here, so I’ll

spare your feelings. Please recite the poem.” Eppy made a deep courtesy,

blissfully unconscious that the lady in question was none else than

herself. And after arranging her dress to her satisfaction, cleared her

throat affectedly and made several ineffectual attempts to begin the

recitation. Gradually a look of comical despair puckered up her face, and

turning to Robert with an embarrassed giggle, she exclaimed poutingly, “I

cannot recall a single line. How provoking, and I protest. I knew every

line by rote this morning. Please start me on the first verse, Mr. Burns.”

The spectacle of this silly old woman making a fool of herself before

that heartless crowd both annoyed and embarrassed Robert. “The last verse

is my favorite,” he replied, frowning angrily at the amused titters which

reached his ears from all sides, and quickly he read the verse through:

“Oh wad some power the giftie gie us

To see ourselves as others see us.

It wad fra many a blunder free us, and foolish notion

What airs in dress and gait wad leave us, and e’en devotion.”

And none knew whether the shaft was pointed at them or at the object of

their mirth, who stood before him with clasped hands and a smile meant to

be winning on her weak face, listening with all her senses.

“How true that is,” murmured Lady Glencairn.

“Yes, indeed,” sighed Eppy soulfully. “What fools some people make of

themselves, and they never know it, which is the funny part of it.” She

darted a quick glance at Lady Glencairn, who returned the look calmly and

evenly, although she was saying to herself, “Is she the fool she appears,

or is she giving me a dig, I wonder?”

She turned to Robert. “Mr. Burns, will you find me a chair, please; I am

rather fatigued, standing so long.”

He offered her his arm. “It will be rather a difficult matter,” he

observed, looking about him vainly. “Still, I can try.” And he moved

through the swaying crowd and out upon the balcony, with her little

gloved hand resting lightly on his coat sleeve.

“I saw you this morning, Mr. Burns, on Calton Hill,” she observed

lightly, “but at a distance. Upon driving nearer I lost sight of you; you

must have vanished into the air.”

“Not at all,” replied Robert, sitting beside her on the low balustrade.

“I found a beautiful solitude amongst a luxuriant growth of willows,

which no doubt you overlooked.”

“To be sure,” she returned. “Now I remember. A sad scene occurred there a

few years ago; a lady from Loch Carron drowned herself in the little pond

they hang over, because the man she loved despised her.” Her voice was

soft and low. She drooped her eyes and sighed.

“Poor unhappy woman,” sighed Robert sympathetically.

She looked at him quickly, her face flushing, her eyes earnestly

searching his face. “Then you would have pitied her?” she asked almost

breathlessly.

“He cannot be a man who would not pity a woman under such circumstances,”

he replied simply and thoughtfully.

“She loved him devotedly, recklessly,” she continued, her voice trembling

with suppressed emotion; “but she had no moral right to do so,” she

continued. “She was a wife, a miserable, unhappy wife; she deserved much

pity, but he was pitiless and uncharitable. He despised her weakness,

and so—she drowned herself.” Her voice sank into a strained, unnatural

whisper.

“Poor unhappy woman!” he repeated compassionately. “She was over-hasty, I

fear.”

“You would not have consigned her to such a fate, would you?” she

faltered, laying her soft feverish hand on his.

He started violently and was silent for a time. Then, slowly, sorrowfully

he turned and looked into her tell-tale face; for a moment she gazed

at him, her eyes glittering with an unholy light, her bosom heaving

tumultuously. Then she slowly drooped her head.

“’Twould be a heavy load to have on one’s conscience,” he replied

constrainedly.

He rose from his seat and stood looking thoughtfully across to where

Edinburgh castle loomed up on the hill, so cold and gloomy, outlined

against the blue sky.

She glided swiftly to his side. “Robert, let me——” she began

passionately, when the cold voice of Sir William Creech rooted her to

the spot in terror. Out of the shadow walked her uncle, and ignoring her

presence he addressed himself to Robert.

“Well, Mr. Burns!” he said angrily, “perhaps ye’ll condescend to notice

me now, your publisher, Sir William Creech.”

“I hope ye’re well,” returned Robert indifferently.

Sir William quivered with rage. “Ye’ve been in town a week, and yet ye

have not called to notify me of your arrival,” he sputtered.

“I quite forgot, Sir William,” answered Rob repentently; “you see I’m not

a good business man. However, to-morrow I will call and we will arrange

our much neglected business matters.”

“And there is much to arrange. Why did ye refuse to write for my weekly?

I offered to pay ye well for it,” he snarled.

“Pay!” flashed Rob indignantly. “Do you think to buy the fruit of my

brain like so much merchandise, at so much a line for a penny newspaper?

I am not a penny journalist, I am a poet. Whenever I embark on any

undertaking it is with honest enthusiasm, and to talk of money, wage, or

fee would be a downright prostitution of the soul,” and his eyes flashed

dangerously.

“You do not despise money, Robert Burns?” retorted Sir William

sarcastically.

“Most certainly not!” replied Robert quickly. “’Tis a most necessary

commodity, but extremely elusive, and to show you that money has no

terrors for me, I shall expect a settlement to-morrow in full. Some £300

are due me from the sale of the last edition of my songs.” He returned

Sir William’s wrathful gaze, his eyes full of righteous anger and strong

determination.

“Just one word more, Mr. Burns!” he began belligerently, but Robert

raised his hand with a stately gesture.

“I’m in a sorry mood for business, Sir William Creech,” he warned him, a

steely glitter in his eye.

“Well, ye will hear what I’ve to say,” insisted Sir William doggedly. “Ye

are under contract to me, sir; but instead of living up to the terms of

that agreement, ye are scattering broadcast to every person that pleases

your fancy, a song or an ode or a poem, which diminishes the worth and

consequent sale of your collection.”

“Lud, uncle,” interposed Lady Glencairn quickly, “I’ll warrant it makes

not the slightest difference.”

“’Tis not fair to me,” sputtered Sir William, “and I warn ye, Mr. Burns,

ye must not do it again. I strictly forbid it.”

“Uncle!” gasped Lady Glencairn in amazement.

“Ye forbid?” repeated Robert in immeasurable scorn. “Ye nor any man

living can dictate to Robert Burns. I shall write when an’ for whom I

please. I will not barter an’ sell my soul like so much merchandise.

You published my collection of songs an’ have made money out o’ the

transaction, which is mair than I have done. I am sick of it all; I am

done with your roguery, your deceit, now an’ forever.” And he waved his

hand in angry dismissal.

“But our contract,” gasped Sir William, taken aback.

“’Tis ended now, canceled by your ain insult, an’ I shall take means to

collect my just dues.”

“Are you not hasty?” asked Lady Glencairn concernedly.

“I told ye to call to-morrow,” snarled Sir William, “and I’ll pay ye,

then ye can gang your own gait. I have sought to give you advice, but ye

were too haughty and independent, and ye wouldn’t listen, but ye will yet

see and realize the bitter truth of my words, so go on in your career

of folly and its inevitable ruin, for ye’ll soon be at the end of your

tether, and may the devil claim ye for his own.” He stalked angrily away,

muttering to himself, “Ye upstart, ye low-born peasant, I’ll humble ye

yet!”

Robert turned to Lady Glencairn with a smile of apology on his lips. “I

ask your pardon, Lady Glencairn,” he said humbly, “for being the cause

of this unseemly scene in your presence, but my anger was aroused, an’

I simply couldna’ help speaking my thoughts—I am always doing the wrong

thing.”

“Oh, nonsense!” she responded laughingly. “Let us forget it and join the

others.” She took his arm and they slowly entered the ballroom, where

they were speedily joined by Lord Glencairn and a party of friends, who

immediately surrounded them.

“My dear,” said Lord Glencairn, “do you know that you have left us an

unconscionable time? Is there some witchery about yon balcony that I know

not of?” and he smiled affectionately upon his wife, whose eyes were

shining with happiness.

“Your pardon, James, but I’m sure our absence was not noted in such a

distinguished assemblage.” She glanced carelessly about the room at the

groups of sedate-looking people gravely conversing with each other while

they strolled slowly, aimlessly about with much dignity and ceremony,

and an almost imperceptible sneer curled her full lips. “Oh, the stiff

formality of some of these Calvinistic old fossils!” she remarked

contemptuously to Robert.

“From all such people, good Lord deliver us,” he replied in a low chant.

“Amen!” cried Eppy, looking archly at Sir William. “Give me youth and

gayety always.” Sir William looked his unspoken scorn.

“You and I may well sigh for youth, Miss McKay,” quavered the venerable

Dr. Blacklock. “Many moons have passed since he eluded our clutch and

fled, never to return,” and he sighed dismally.

“Speak for yourself, Doctor,” bridled Eppy. “I shall never let go my hold

on youth,” and she tossed her head indignantly.

“Speaking of fossils,” said Lady Glencairn pointedly, turning to Eppy, “I

wonder what can have happened to Mrs. Dunlop?”

“Oh, she is always late for effect,” she replied spitefully.

“Mrs. Dunlop is a very dear friend of mine,” observed Robert quietly, but

his eyes flashed with indignation.

“I beg your pardon for my rudeness,” murmured Lady Glencairn sweetly.

“I understand Mrs. Dunlop is chaperoning a new beauty,” said Lord

Glencairn inquiringly to his wife.

She gave him a side glance that was far from pleasant. New beauty,

indeed! There was only one recognized beauty in Edinburgh and she would

not yield the palm to anyone. “I really do not know to whom you allude,

James,” she said coldly.

The Duchess of Athol, who was standing near, smiled significantly. “Mrs.

Dunlop asked permission to bring a young friend, who was visiting her

from the Highlands,” she remarked pleasantly. “I do not know her in the

least, and they may not come at all.”

“Mrs. Dunlop and Miss Campbell!” announced the footman loudly. With a

smile on his handsome face and a hurried word of apology, Robert rapidly

walked to meet the approaching couple, who were the cynosure of all

eyes. Mrs. Dunlop was recognized by all as a woman of much importance in

Edinburgh society. She knew everybody and everybody knew her, for she was

the lineal descendant of the immortal Wallace, a fact of which she was

justly proud. She was a motherly looking woman, with a charming smile and

a pleasant, taking manner.

But the murmur of admiration throughout the room was not for her; it was

for the slim little girl in white with the blue eyes and fair hair, which

glittered like gold beneath the brilliant light of the chandeliers. “Who

can she be?” they whispered to each other in wonder. “Evidently not a

person of importance, else she would be dressed in the fashion of the day

and have her hair powdered.”

“At last, Mary, ye’re here!” cried Robert delightedly, placing her hand

within his arm. She clung to it with a nervous clutch.

“The child is frightened to death,” whispered Mrs. Dunlop, smiling

indulgently.

[Illustration: “‘Mrs. Dunlop and Miss Campbell,’ announced the footman

loudly.”]

Lady Glencairn turned very pale, as she recognized the girl she had

met in Robert’s room. She trembled and could scarcely regain her usual

composure as Robert with a proud tenderness lighting up the depths of

his black eyes, led the vision of youth and perfect beauty up to the

hostess, to whom he introduced Mary. Then he turned to Lady Glencairn.

“Lady Glencairn, allow me to introduce to you Miss Campbell. You remember

Highland Mary, do you not?”

She gave a slight start and her muscles tightened. The dairymaid

sweetheart here in Edinburgh? she thought in amazement. What could it

mean?

“Quite well,” she answered, extending her cold jeweled hand. “I little

dreamed I should ever meet you here like this, but the unexpected always

happens.”

“Dinna’ ye mind, my lady,” replied Mary simply, “ye said ye would be glad

to see me whenever I came to town.” She raised those marvelous, innocent

eyes of hers and smiled. Why did Lady Glencairn shrink from that frank

and childlike openness of regard? Why did she for one brief moment feel

herself to be vile and beneath contempt? She turned to where Mrs. Dunlop

was conversing animatedly with their hostess, a flush akin to shame

mantling her haughty face.

“My dear Duchess,” she was saying apologetically, “pray pardon our late

arrival, but I assure you ’tis not made for effect; our carriage broke

down on the way.”

Eppy started in amazement; had she overheard her spiteful remark?

The Duchess graciously inclined her stately head. “So glad you got here

at all, Mrs. Dunlop,” she said.

Robert turned laughingly to the group of eager people importuning him for

an introduction to the beautiful débutante. “Time forbids my introducing

ye individually to Miss Campbell,” he said good-naturedly, “therefore

let me present ye collectively to Highland Mary, my future wife, whom ye

have all read of an’ loved in my poems.” A ripple of applause greeted the

news, and congratulations poured in upon them, both hearty and sincere.

Lady Glencairn staggered slightly, her face paling, but she quickly

recovered and stood haughtily erect, fanning herself a little more

rapidly, her full red lips tightened to a thin malicious line.

Eppy rushed up to Mary effusively. “May I kiss you, dear?” she asked

gushingly, “you are so sweet and pretty, just like I was a few years

ago,” and she kissed the blushing girl with a resounding smack. “You’ll

be married in Edinburgh, I presume?” she continued volubly. “I must

attend the wedding.”

“The marriage will be most private, madam,” observed Robert coldly.

“Do you stay long in Edinburgh, Miss Campbell?” asked Lady Glencairn

abruptly, forcing a smile to her lips.

“No, not long, your ladyship,” replied Mary timidly. The cold metallic

tones of the haughty lady frightened her strangely. “I—I ne’er thought

I’d e’er come to Edinburgh,” she said, “but——” She hesitated and looked

shyly at Robert, and then looked modestly down at the bit of cobweb lace

which she held in her hand and which did duty as a ’kerchief.

“But I found the barrier between us was down, that I was free as ever to

wed the sweetheart of my boyhood days,” he explained with simple dignity.

“Aye, but you make a bonnie couple,” exclaimed Mrs. Dunlop admiringly.

“Well, I don’t blame anyone for falling in love with you, Robert,”

she declared frankly. “You’re a great man,” and she nodded her head

vigorously. “And a handsome one, too.”

Robert blushed and shook his finger in warning at his old friend,

although a tender smile played around his eyes and mouth. “Mrs. Dunlop,

men are said to flatter women because they are weak,” he said, “but if

it is so, poets must be weaker still, for the artful compliments I have

received from your sex have absolutely turned my head, an’ really I begin

to look on myself as a person of no small importance,” and he roguishly

winked his eye at his old friend.

“I never knew a man yet who was averse to flattery,” retorted the old

lady good-naturedly.

In the brief lull that followed the general laugh, the voice of Lord

Glencairn could be heard in conversation with Mary, who was earnestly

gazing up into his face, all traces of timidity gone, for she felt

singularly at her ease in the presence of the kindly old nobleman. “And

so you mean to take Robert away from us for good, eh?” he was saying in

his earnest, serious manner.

“Ye ken he is fair anxious to get back to Mossgiel now,” replied Mary,

blushing deeply.

Lady Glencairn snapped her fan together convulsively. “You mean to leave

Edinburgh for good?” she asked in faint, incredulous accents, turning to

Robert.

The people crowded around and a storm of protest arose. “What madness!”

“Leave Edinburgh for the country!” “They couldn’t hear of such a thing.”

“He owed a duty to them as Scotland’s Bard!” etc., etc.

Robert turned to them and spoke lightly, although with an undercurrent

of seriousness. “I ken I am but wasting my time, my energies, my talents

here, amid the sensual delight which your city affords,” he said. “I am

not formed for it. I am but a rustic at heart and in manners, and the

country is my only vantageground.”

Mary stole softly to his side and snuggled her hand in his. “Isn’t it

sweet to be in love?” cried Eppy cooingly, to Sir William, in a sibilant

aside. “Think what we are missing.”

“We’re too old for such nonsense,” replied Sir William gruffly.

“Oh, indeed!” flashed Eppy. “Huh, a woman’s never too old to love,” with

an indignant toss of her head.

“No, nor to make a fool of herself,” retorted Sir William, smiling grimly.

“But we cannot give you up just yet,” declared Lord Glencairn

emphatically, placing his hand affectionately on Robert’s shoulder.

“I am sure, Mr. Burns,” said Mr. Mackenzie gravely, “that your friends

and admirers would not advise such a move for you, especially as you are

now riding high on the top wave of success.”

“I have nothing to gain by staying here, Mr. Mackenzie,” replied

Robert, turning to him and speaking slowly and thoughtfully, “for, as

you observe, I am now firmly established as a poet. I fear I am not

proof against the subtle temptations which constantly beset my path and

which push aside all thoughts of poesy; so as discretion is the better

part of valor,” he continued, looking lovingly at the girl clinging so

confidingly to his arm, “I shall flee from it all to my farm, my plow,

and there amid those innocent, wholesome surroundings pass my remaining

days in peace wi’ my wife by my side.”

Mrs. Dunlop sighed dismally and shook her white curls in decided

disapproval. “Laddie, you will be taking a false step,” she declared

emphatically; “your place is here before the public.”

“Indeed it is!” gurgled Eppy soulfully. “I protest Edinburgh cannot

spare its poet yet. Your old farm can wait for you yet a while.”