Mary looked at his thoughtful face with anxious eyes. She prayed

fervently that nothing would dissuade him from his purpose. For it had

been at her earnest solicitation that he finally decided to give up the

enervating pleasures of the Capital, and to retire to the country where

he would be free from the contaminating influences which now surrounded

him.

He smiled reassuringly into her perturbed little face. No power on earth

could tempt him to break the promise he had so willingly made her on that

first day of her arrival in the gay metropolis, he thought fondly. He

turned to his questioners, who were eagerly awaiting his answer, his face

shining with fixed determination.

“My friends,” he said quietly, “I am only a farmer born, a son of the

soil. My one ambition now is to have my own roof-tree near the Doon,

where amidst the beauties of harmonious nature the Goddess Muse will

commune with me as of old, for ’twas there the greatest inspiration

of my soul came to me, and I know if all else fails me an independent

livelihood awaits me at the plowtail.”

“Tut, tut, the plowtail, indeed!” sniffed Mrs. Dunlop indignantly.

Lady Glencairn, who had been feverishly toying with her fan, turned

suddenly to Mary, a sneering smile on her crimson lips, “And have you no

higher ambition for your future husband, Miss Campbell?” she demanded,

her voice strangely harsh and metallic. “Are you content to have him bury

his talents in the country?”

“Yes! Oh, yes!” answered Mary shyly, a happy smile dimpling her sweet

face. Then she added naïvely, “Ye ken, I’ll hae him all to myself then.”

Robert laughed merrily at this naïve confession.

“Young man,” observed Mr. Sterne pompously, “take my word for it, you’ll

repent it if you leave Edinburgh now.”

“Robbie, what will everybody think?” cried Mrs. Dunlop tearfully. “You

are daft to run away while the world is literally at your feet.”

“For how long?” he asked laconically.

“Until you tire of its homage, my lad,” replied Lord Glencairn stanchly.

Robert shook his head with a doubting smile. “’Twill not be I who will

tire first, my lord,” he returned quietly. “I know myself and the world

so well. You see the novelty of a poet in my obscure situation, my

imperfection of awkward rusticity has raised a partial tide of public

notice which has borne me to a height where I am absolutely certain

my abilities are inadequate to support me.” He looked around a trifle

defiantly at the rows of serious faces, a little feeling of resentment

welling up in his heart.

“You are over-modest, my dear Burns,” observed Mr. Mackenzie with

kindling eye.

Robert shook his head with somber dignity. “Too surely do I see the time

when the same tide will leave me and recede as far below the mark of

truth.” He turned and faced the people suddenly, his hands outstretched,

his eyes filled with melancholy enthusiasm. Raising his voice he

proceeded prophetically, “My friends, you will all bear me witness, that

when the bubble of fame was at its height I stood unintoxicated, with the

inebriating cup in my hand, looking forward to the hastening time when

the blow of calumny should dash it to the ground with all the eagerness

of revengeful triumph.”

“That time will never come, Robert,” cried Mary softly, “for we will

leave this life behind us in a very short while noo.”

Lord Glencairn slapped him on the back with playful earnestness. “Come,

come, my lad!” he cried gayly, “this will never do; you are in the dumps;

throw it off, lad, and be merry. Do not heed the idle gossip of your

unsuccessful rivals and the scandal mongers. Rest assured your popularity

and fame will never die whether you remain here or retire to the country.”

“Would I could think so,” sighed Robert gloomily.

Eppy suddenly gave a nervous little giggle. “I vow I feel like crying,”

she observed hysterically, “I wish everybody wouldn’t look so mournful.”

Mr. Mackenzie turned quickly to his hostess. “My dear Duchess,” he said

courteously, “you were going to show us your new painting in which Mr.

Burns is the central figure of the group.”

At once the silent group became animated. “Oh, yes, do!” cried Eppy, with

a yearning look at Robert. “I wonder if I could pick you from among the

others?” she coyly observed.

“I trust, madam, that my phiz will be recognizable,” he replied dryly.

The Duchess turned to her husband. “Take Miss Campbell and lead the way

to the gallery,” she said quickly.

“Is Mr. Burns to take me?” inquired Eppy of her hostess, but she had

followed her husband, leaning on the arm of Mr. Mackenzie.

Lady Glencairn smiled sweetly, “So sorry, Miss McKay, but Sir William has

asked for that pleasure.”

“I?” gasped Sir William, with a comical look of dismay.

She looked at him maliciously. “Yes, did you not?” she raised her

eyebrows inquiringly, an innocent smile hovering about her mouth.

For a moment he sputtered, then with a grim smile he snarled

sarcastically, “’Twill afford me great pleasure.”

With a wildly beating heart Lady Glencairn took Robert’s arm and started

for the stairs, followed by the others.

Eppy sniffed suspiciously. “Oh, I understand now,” she observed

spitefully with a meaning smile.

“I thought you would, dear,” flashed her ladyship mockingly, over her

shoulder.

“Are you coming, madam?” demanded Sir William testily, offering his arm.

With an indignant clack of her tongue, Eppy haughtily brushed past him

and swiftly mounted the stairs, leaving the disgruntled Sir William to

follow at his leisure.

CHAPTER XVI

Among those that crowded around the carriage of Robert Burns earlier in

the evening, listening to his inspiring oration, stood a girl of twenty

or thereabouts, whose pale, haggard face and tearful eyes attracted

some passing attention from those near her. She was dressed in an ankle

length skirt of gray, over which a red shawl had been tastefully draped.

A black velvet bodice confined the loose white gimpe at the waist, while

from her left shoulder a brilliant plaid hung gracefully to the bottom

of her dress. Around her neck row upon row of different colored beads

hung loosely to her waist. Upon the blue-black hair which fell around

her face in waving masses, a wreath of white and pink heather was twined

becomingly. Her unusual attire attracted much attention.

“She must be a gypsy,” they told each other wonderingly. Finally, after

many conjectures, someone in the crowd volunteered the information that

she was a street singer who had been seen singing through the streets

of the town for a day or so. Their curiosity appeased, they turned to

their idol once more. Every now and then a convulsive sob shook the young

girl’s slender, graceful figure. Like one who hungered for food and

drink she watched the speaker, her heart in her eyes, her hands clasped

tightly upon her breast. When the eager throng unhitched the horses from

the open carriage she had breathlessly watched every movement, and when

they, with wild bursts of applause and good-natured laughter, sped away

up Princes Street, pulling the carriage behind them, she had swiftly

followed, the center of a noisy gang of street urchins and idle brawlers.

With a mighty cheer, which brought the watchmen running to the spot

pell-mell, they finally stopped at Athol Castle and quickly lined

themselves on each side of the striped awning avenue, from the curbing to

the door, to watch the great man pass within.

The gypsy frantically elbowed her way through the pompous coachmen and

good-natured cabbies who had pressed forward to witness the new arrival,

and reached the inner edge of the crowd. At that moment Robert stepped

from his carriage and walked quickly up the avenue. With a little cry of

joy she stretched out her hands to arrest his attention, but he passed

inside without having once caught a glimpse of this strange follower.

A derisive laugh went up from those who had curiously watched the

peculiar actions of the gypsy. At the sound she dropped her arms

hurriedly, the blood rushing to her pale cheeks. With one quick, startled

glance at the mocking faces beside her, she turned quickly and threaded

her way through the line of splendid equipages, with their prancing

horses, till she reached a secluded part of the street, where she stopped

and looked back at the brilliantly lighted castle, tears of bitter

disappointment and despair slowly trickling down her wan cheeks. As she

stood there in the bright moonlight, a prey to her bitter thoughts, a

handsome equipage, drawn by a prancing pair of steeds, attracted her

listless attention. As it slowly drove past the wretched girl a sweet

young face crowned with golden hair appeared in the open window, followed

by a white arm. Her little hand was noticeably bare of jewels. With a

sweet word of pity the girl tossed a silver piece at the feet of her

unfortunate sister. The gypsy indifferently watched the carriage out of

sight. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, she stooped and picked up the

coin, and without looking at it put it carelessly in her pocket, a flush

of shame and mortification mantling her dark cheek. For a while she stood

in moody silence, listening to the strains of music which came faintly

to her from the castle. Suddenly she lifted her face to the heavens,

her arms upraised, her lips moving in some prayer or incantation. For a

moment she stood thus, then slowly her arms dropped to her side. There

was a new calm look of determination in her face as she quickly traced

her steps back to where the crowds still lingered about the closed doors

of Athol Castle. She stood on the outskirts of the crowd unseen in the

shadow, her restless eyes searching here and there, peering into the

open windows, up and down the high stone wall which bordered the huge

garden, then back again, finally resting upon the closed portals with

a look of keen disappointment shining in their depths. What she sought

was evidently not there. She stamped her foot in impotent despair, a

muttered imprecation on her lips; she would search again. Gradually she

made her way back unnoticed by the crowd, who were intent on listening

to the music which floated out bewitchingly on the still air, till she

reached the wall where it joined the corner of the castle. Motionless she

stood under its shadow, her heart beating loudly as some idler drew near

her place of concealment. Suddenly a form loomed up before her. With a

startled cry she pressed close against the ivied wall in sudden terror.

“She come this way,” a voice cried eagerly.

“Aye, Sandy, she’s hidin’ among the ivy,” said another.

She heard them beating noisily about the thick vines which hung in

wild profusion over the walls, her heart in her mouth. Frantically

she tore the vines apart until she reached the bare wall behind. Then

with breathless eagerness she pulled them together again, effectually

concealing her presence from her pursuers. She pressed closer and closer

against the cold stones, shivering apprehensively as they approached

her hiding place. Suddenly she felt her support give way with a dull,

creaking noise, and before she could recover her equilibrium, she found

herself in a heap on the ground. She looked up in time to see the door

through which she had fallen swing quickly into place and realized that

unwittingly she had found an old and evidently unused entrance through

the wall. Quickly rising to her feet she looked about her, then she gave

a little cry of joy as she caught sight of the splashing fountains in

the moonlight, for she knew she was inside the gardens belonging to the

Duke of Athol. Eagerly she gazed about her at the leafy shrubberies, the

massive oaks and beeches, the rose garden with its wealth of scented

flowers. And for a brief moment she gave herself up to the painful

reveries the familiar sights recalled to memory, while the tears of

self-pity and heart-longing welled up in her gloomy eyes and flowed

unrestrainedly down her cheeks. Presently, with a mirthless laugh of

impatience, she dashed the tears angrily away and walked quickly up the

grassy terrace toward the brilliantly lighted castle. Through the large

window which looked over the low balcony she watched the incessant stream

of people coming and going, while others walked aimlessly about the

rooms or chatted in groups. For some time she crouched beside the low

silver spruce, her eyes fixed upon the moving scenes within. Then with a

start she recognized the golden-haired young lady who had given her the

silver piece, surrounded by a group of cavaliers. She saw, too, with a

pang of jealousy, the tenderness with which the poet greeted her and led

her up to the haughty lady in purple. For some time she watched them in

melancholy silence, a prey to conflicting emotions. By and by a group of

ladies drifted out on the balcony. They were discussing the golden-haired

girl, who had been introduced into their midst that evening, and the

announcement of her marriage to the poet, Robert Burns. The gypsy, as

she heard those words, uttered a smothered cry of amazement and horror,

then sank half fainting on the grassy lawn, moaning like one stricken

unto death. How long she lay there with senses dulled by pain she never

knew. Presently, bitter recollection returned and with it an agony of

fear that blanched her lips and made her limbs to quake, while grief and

despair, like two grim sentinels, stood eager watch beside her. Slowly

she staggered to her feet and turned her weary eyes once more upon the

balcony. There was no one there. Listlessly she watched the gay figures

darting past the windows. Suddenly her muscles tightened like a hound’s

on the scent. The golden-haired girl suddenly glided out on the balcony,

a glorious vision of loveliness. Pensively she leaned over the railing

watching the swans, which looked ghostly in the moonlight, swimming

majestically round and round the small pond of water into which the

spraying fountain was playing.

CHAPTER XVII

Mary soon grew weary of looking at the many paintings which lined the

walls of the galleries; she wished they would go back to the pretty rooms

downstairs, where the music was playing and the young folks were dancing.

She had enjoyed that. She tried to force a smile of interest to her lips

as the old Duke described the subjects on the canvases before them.

He soon perceived her weariness, however, and calling to Mrs. Dunlop,

who was being bored beyond measure, as she told her friends wearily,

he requested her to show Miss Campbell the gardens by moonlight, to

which she gladly assented. Quickly they descended the broad staircase,

and slowly wended their way across the large drawing-room. Mrs. Dunlop

took her young charge to the large window and waved her fat hand toward

the magnificent view which lay stretched before them. “Isn’t it grand,

Mary?” she observed lightly. It was an old story to her. Spying an old

friend across the room, she excused herself to Mary and told her to enjoy

herself, then smilingly left her to her own devices. After admiring the

somber beauty of Edinburgh Castle, Mary perceived the flowing fountain

which splashed tunefully below her in the garden. She stepped out on the

balcony, a smile of pleasure lighting up her sweet face. For a while she

stood listening to the rhythmic fall of the water, blissfully unconscious

of the presence of the unseen watcher. Suddenly before her startled

vision there sprang the form of the gypsy. With a cry of alarm Mary

stepped back and was about to enter the room, when a voice calling her by

name arrested her wondering attention.

“Wait, Mary Campbell!” hissed the voice of the gypsy.

Mary turned and looked into the white face gazing up at her so

defiantly, and she recognized the girl to whom she had tossed the money.

Suddenly she gave a gasp of astonishment. “Jean Armour!” she exclaimed

incredulously.

“Aye, Jean Armour,” repeated the gypsy. “Come down to me; I must have a

word with you alone,” she whispered sibilantly.

Mary gave a quick look around. Mrs. Dunlop was still deep in her gossip,

and Robert was nowhere to be seen. She walked to the end of the balcony

and found the steps. Quickly she reached the bottom, and going to Jean

took her two hands in hers and shook them warmly. She was so glad to see

anyone from Mossgiel, friend or foe.

Jean regarded her advance with sullen suspicion. “Two years ago I was an

invited guest here at Athol Castle,” she sneered bitterly, “while you

were a barefooted dairymaid in Mossgiel. Now look at us. You are the

lady and I am an outcast, singing on the streets for my daily bread.”

Mary looked at her in amazement. “But what has happened?” she asked

wonderingly.

“My father has turned me into the street,” answered Jean dully.

“Had ye done wrong?” inquired Mary timidly.

Jean laughed mirthlessly. “Wrong?” she repeated, “aye, if refusing to

marry an old man I detested be wrong.”

“An’ your father turned ye out for that?”

“For that,” she replied stonily, “and because I refused to give up Robert

Burns.”

“But—but ye gave him up long ago, Jean, of your own free will,” faltered

Mary, an awful fear clutching at her heart. “An’ your father wrote

Robert,” she continued breathlessly, “that ye willingly, gladly renounced

all claims on him, that ye even hated his name, an’ that ye hoped never

to see or hear o’ him again.”

A look of hatred spread over the face of the other. “My father lied

when he wrote that,” she cried with bitter intensity, “for I told him

I would never renounce my marriage to Robert, irregular though it was,

and I never will. He is my husband,” and she glared defiantly at the

shrinking girl, who was looking at her with searching, frightened eyes.

For a moment the poor child stood there like a lifeless figure as the

words stamped themselves one by one on her bewildered brain and sent it

reeling into darkness and vacancy. She felt sick and dizzy. There was

a rushing sound in her ears, the garden swung round dizzily before her

eyes, yet she stood still, speaking no word, although a quiver of agony

passed over her pallid face.

“Oh, Robert, my love, have I lost ye again?” she thought dully. “I knew

it was only a dream, too sweet to last.” There was a choking sensation

in her throat, but she did not weep. As in a horrid dream she heard

the sharp metallic voice hissing in her ear, “He is my husband, Mary

Campbell. You must give him up to me.” She roused herself out of the

lethargy into which she had fallen, and unclasping her hands, she wearily

pushed back her curls from her brow and fixed her large pathetic eyes on

Jean, who instinctively shrank back before the speechless despair of that

helpless gaze. “But ye have no claim on Robbie noo, Jean,” she faltered

slowly, “since your irregular marriage was publicly dissolved.” She

paused and her pale lips quivered. “Why have ye come here noo to disturb

him?” she asked with infinite pathos. “He is happy, so happy noo. Dinna

destroy that happiness; go awa’; leave him to me. Ye took him from me

once; dinna separate us again.” Her voice broke and a hard sob choked

her utterance. A great pity welled up in Jean’s heart for the stricken

child, but she steeled herself against it and remained sullenly quiet.

Presently Mary spoke again. “I hae nothing in this world, Jean, and I

love him so,” she said with dreamy wistfulness, “better than life itsel’.

We have loved each ither for years, an’ that love has grown stronger an’

stronger as each year passed by, till noo it’s part o’ my very being.”

Her voice rose to passionate pleading. “Oh, what is your weak fancy

compared to such a love, Jean Armour?” she asked piteously. “Oh, I tell

you I canna give him up to you again.” She sank down convulsively on

the high-backed bench under the balcony, her form quivering with low

heart-breaking sobs. Tears of sympathy slowly filled Jean’s eyes as she

watched the grief-stricken girl before her, but with an angry frown she

hardened her heart and forced herself to think of her own wrongs and

pitiable condition.

“You must give him up!” she answered harshly, “and to-night.” She paused

a moment to watch the brilliant crowd within the drawing-room, passing

and repassing each other with slow, stately bearing as they walked with

ease and grace through the dignified measures of the minuet. By and by

she turned to the drooping form and spoke again. “My God, girl, don’t you

suppose I too love him!” she exclaimed passionately. “Why have I tramped

mile after mile, half starving, subjected to all kinds of insults,

struggling to reach here to see him, if it were not for that love?”

Mary slowly raised her head and looked at her in reproachful sadness.

“Your love has only brought him, an’ all of us, sorrow and disgrace,” she

said with pathetic simplicity. “He never loved ye, Jean Armour, ye ken

that weel.”

Jean winced at the blunt truth, and a quiver of anger passed over her

defiant face. “I know that only too well,” she replied bitterly. Then

she gave a little mocking laugh, which nevertheless held a suggestion of

tears. “You may have his heart, Mary Campbell,” she continued, “but I am

what you can never be, his wife and the mother of his bairns.”

“The bairns,” repeated Mary blankly, “are they alive, Jean?”

“Yes, they are alive, thank God!” murmured Jean softly, “that is why I am

here, Mary, that is why I must demand my rights, for my bairns’ sake.”

Then she continued quickly, feverishly, “Had it not been for them I would

have done my father’s bidding, would have forgotten Robert, renounced him

utterly, and married the man my father had chosen for me, but I wanted my

little ones to have the protection of a father’s name, so I stubbornly

refused his commands. After my father had driven me from his door with

curses on his lips, I discovered too late that Robert had tried again

and again to see me, had even begged my father to allow him to legalize

our marriage, and that his overtures were met with scorn and abuse. Then

I decided to come to Edinburgh myself to tell Robert the truth and to

claim my rights.” She paused defiantly.

Lady Glencairn upon her return to the drawing-room had missed Mary,

and upon learning from Mrs. Dunlop that she was upon the balcony, she

sauntered slowly in that direction. As she stepped through the window she

heard the low murmur of voices, and looking down perceived with amazement

the young girl seated below her in company with a fantastically-dressed

gypsy. Suddenly, with a start, she recognized the voice of Jean Armour.

Hastily concealing herself behind a large marble pillar she listened in

growing wonder, her face becoming hard and repellent, to the direful

confession of her god-daughter.

“I arrived in Edinburgh after a month of hardships,” continued Jean with

suppressed excitement, “and to-night I saw him in all his prosperity

entering the castle like a king, looking so handsome, so contented, and

so very happy.”

“Yes, he is happy noo,” replied Mary softly. “Happier than he’ll e’er be

on earth again, perhaps,” and she closed her eyes wearily.

For a moment there was silence, broken only by the monotonous hum of

voices and the faint twanging of the harp from within the drawing-room.

Presently Mary opened her eyes and spoke again.

“Ye maunna blame Robert for anything at a’, Jean,” she said loyally. “He

thought the bairns were dead, an’ he believed your father’s words, but

noo, when he kens a’, he will do his duty nobly for his bairns’ sake.”

She smiled bravely into the eager face of the other. “Ye have the right

to him, Jean, I see that noo,” she continued sadly, “an’—an’ forgive my

rude and unkind words to ye just noo,” and gently she held out her little

hand.

Jean took it tenderly in her own. “What will you do now, where will you

go?” she asked with a feeling of remorse.

“I shall go back to Colonel Montgomery’s,” replied Mary, in a sad,

spiritless voice, from which all the life seemed to have fled, “where I

can see my friends sometimes. Mistress Burns loves me, an’ I—I may see

Robbie, if only from the window as he passes. It willna harm anyone.”

She looked at Jean in a pleading, timid manner, while her mouth quivered

pathetically, but she forced a wan smile to her pale lips and then slowly

turned and walked toward the stairway. As she mounted the bottom step

Jean ran quickly to her side and clasped her hand impulsively.

“Mary, I’m so sorry for you,” she said pityingly, “but I’m doing it for

my bairns’ sake, ye ken that.”

“I understand, Jean,” answered Mary simply, “I dinna blame ye.” She

leaned back against the marble balustrade. “But, oh, it’s hard, bitter

hard,” she murmured brokenly; “if I could only die here and noo.” She

stretched out her hands with a sort of wild appeal. “Oh, Robbie, my

darlin’,” she exclaimed in a sobbing whisper, “how can I tell ye, how can

I break your heart? I thought ye had drunk your cup o’ misery empty, but

the dregs are yet to be drained.”

The sympathetic tears rolled down Jean’s face. “Will you tell him I’m

here, Mary, and that I must see him at once?” she asked pleadingly. Mary

slowly bowed her head in assent. “Oh, how I dread to meet him,” continued

Jean in a frightened whisper, “to have him look at me with stern and

angry eyes; to know that he longs to be free, and that he wishes me dead,

perhaps.” She covered her face with her hands and shivered apprehensively.

“Ye needna fear, Jean,” replied Mary, with reproachful pride. “Robert

Burns is a mon of honor; ye should know that weel. I’ll go noo an’ tell

him ye are here.” For a moment she swayed as if about to fall, but she

recovered herself in an instant and slowly mounted the few remaining

steps to the balcony. As she reached the top she pressed her hand against

her heart as if that action would still its rapid beating. “Heaven give

me the strength to tell him,” she breathed, and, with a little prayer

on her lips, she slowly entered the drawing-room, where she found Mrs.

Dunlop anxiously looking for her.

Jean watched her for a few moments, then, with a sigh of nervous dread,

she turned and paced restlessly up and down within the deep shadows

beneath the overhanging trees. She had only taken one turn when she felt

herself seized by the arm and drawn into the bright moonlight. Smothering

the startled cry of alarm which rose to her lips she turned and faced her

assailant. “Lady Glencairn!” she gasped, starting back in astonishment.

“So, Jean Armour,” hissed her ladyship, “’tis you whose name has been

coupled so disgracefully with that of Robert Burns.”

Jean dropped her head quickly, flushing crimson before the scornful light

in the other’s eyes, which flashed like stars in the pale moonlight that

came streaming down upon them. “Then you have heard?” she faltered, after

a little frightened pause.

“Yes, I have heard everything,” her ladyship returned witheringly, “and

my suspicions of you of two years ago have turned out to be right.”

“Please say no more now, Lady Glencairn,” retorted Jean sullenly. “Let

me go.” She tried to pass, but Lady Glencairn put a restraining hand

upon her shoulder. “I will say no more, you foolish girl,” she replied

angrily. “Why do you insist upon thrusting yourself upon Robert Burns,

to-night? He utterly detests your memory. He has done with you forever.”

Jean looked at her defiantly. “I am his wife. He must acknowledge me,”

she declared firmly.

Lady Glencairn laughed scornfully. “You foolish child, do you think

he will ever forgive you for stepping in between him and Mary Campbell

again?” she asked with studied indifference. “No, he would hate you; you

know his erratic temper, my dear Jean; you would but ruin your chance for

a reconciliation forever, if he sees you now, when his heart is torn by

grief and sorrow at losing for the second time the one lass who is all

the world to him.” She paused and watched narrowly the look of dread and

doubt creep slowly over the downcast face before her.

By and by Jean looked up, her eyes burning with unshed tears and shining

feverishly. “What shall I do then, Lady Glencairn?” she asked helplessly,

“where shall I go?”

Lady Glencairn did not answer for a few moments. She was thinking with a

thrill of joy that Jean’s coming would separate the two lovers forever.

“More than likely Robert would now remain in Edinburgh,” she mused with

wildly beating heart. “But, on the other hand, if he stayed he would

quixotically marry Jean Armour, and publicly right her in the eyes of the

world,” she thought jealously, “and then——” She broke off and stared at

the girl intently. “If she were out of the way,” she thought maliciously,

“might not his fickle fancy be caught in the rebound?” These thoughts

flowed quickly through her brain, and her eyes half shut wickedly, her

gleaming white bosom heaving from her hurried breathing, as she decided

on her course. “You must leave here at once,” she said softly, taking

Jean’s hand with an affectation of tenderness.

“I cannot return to my father,” she replied dully. “I have nowhere to go

now.”

“Go to an inn for to-night,” said her ladyship hurriedly, “and I’ll come

to you in the morning and advise you as to your future movements, and

help you.”

“But I must see Robert first.”

Lady Glencairn frowned impatiently. “Foolish girl, take my advice and

wait until to-morrow. You will lose nothing by it, for I will myself

plead with Robert in your behalf.”

Jean did not answer. She stood mute and undecided.

“Surely, my dear Jean,” continued Lady Glencairn mockingly, “you don’t

expect him to proclaim you as his dearly beloved wife before them all, do

you?” She waved her hand carelessly toward the drawing-room.

Jean flushed and looked away. “No, I didn’t come for that,” she muttered

slowly.

“Then why not do as I advise? I know that when the keen edge of his grief

has worn off he will willingly take you to his heart and by a church

marriage make you his lawful wife,” and she threw her warm arm over the

shoulders of the yielding girl.

Jean gave a nervous little laugh. “I vow, Lady Glencairn, I have not

the courage to meet him now,” she said. “I—I thank you gratefully for

your kindness. I—I know ’tis better to wait——” She paused and sighed

dejectedly. “You’ll find me at the Star and Garter Inn in King’s Court,”

she said quickly after a moment’s indecision. Then she drew her scarf

hurriedly about her shoulders as if anxious to get away.

At that instant a laughing group of people came out on the balcony. Lady

Glencairn hastily drew her back in the shadows. “Go, go quickly!” she

whispered, “before you are seen.” With a panting word of thanks Jean

glided through the bushes, and, skirting the patches of light, she soon

reached the secret door through which she had so unceremoniously entered

and passed out to the street now deserted, save for the motionless

coachmen asleep on their boxes. Lady Glencairn breathed a sigh of relief

as she watched Jean fade out of sight, swallowed up in the darkness.

“Both out of the way now,” she murmured, a triumphant smile on her full

crimson lips. She walked quickly toward the balcony. “What a contemptible

creature I have become,” she thought with careless unconcern. “And all

for love of a low-born peasant,” and she laughed derisively, as she

mounted the steps. She slowly entered the drawing-room, feeling strangely

nervous and guilty, to find a great many people going to supper. Robert

had grown tired of the heat and glare and noise, and seeing Mary sitting

so weary and wan looking, surrounded by a crowd of admirers who worshiped

at the shrine of youth and beauty, he crossed quickly and whispered his

wishes to her. She rose gladly and both advanced to bid their hostess

farewell.

“Sorry you cannot remain longer,” said the Duchess with genuine

cordiality. “You must bring Miss Campbell some afternoon to see me, Mr.

Burns, when I am not receiving the public,” and with a pleasant smile she

bade them good-night. Slowly they made their way through the crowd and

met Lady Glencairn coming swiftly toward them.

As her eyes rested upon his happy countenance she knew that he was

still in ignorance of Jean’s arrival in Edinburgh. “Won’t you have some

supper?” she inquired brightly. “Don’t go yet.”

But Robert quietly insisted, as he perceived Mary’s increasing languor

and pallor. So Lady Glencairn, with anger and disappointment gnawing at

her heart, for she had hoped to show him the beauties of the garden by

moonlight before he went, seeing that remonstrances were of no avail,

bade them both an effusive good-night. “Don’t forget my garden party

to-morrow,” she said with a patronizing smile, touching Mary’s cold hand

lightly. “I shall expect you,” and she turned to greet her husband, who

was approaching with Mr. Mackenzie.

“Thank ye, your ladyship,” answered Mary simply, making a little

courtesy.

“Let me escort you to the carriage, Miss Campbell,” said Lord Glencairn,

at once offering her his arm.

“And allow me to follow,” added Mr. Mackenzie, slipping his arm through

Robert’s, to whom he whispered, “How dare you, sir, how dare you be such

a provokingly happy man in this miserable old world?” Robert laughed, and

they all walked slowly down to the carriage, conversing gayly on their

way.

Suddenly Mary stopped with a little exclamation of dismay. “We’ve

forgotten Mrs. Dunlop,” she said contritely.

With a laugh Lord Glencairn dispatched a footman to find her, and the

good lady soon appeared, flushed and panting from her hurried departure.

With a last handshake all around Robert sprang in beside them and within

a couple of minutes the carriage was out of sight.

“Ye were the queen of the evening, Mary, just as I told ye ye’d be,” said

Robert triumphantly. “Have ye enjoyed yoursel’?”

“Ay, for a whiley,” answered Mary listlessly, leaning back against the

heavy padding of the seat, with eyes heavy and sad. She had had no

opportunity as yet to tell Robert the dread news, and her heart was

filled with misgivings as she thought of Jean waiting patiently in the

garden for him to come to her. She started up suddenly, resolved to tell

him, but the sight of his happy face, and the presence of Mrs. Dunlop,

cooled her courage, and she leaned back again silent and miserable.

If she didn’t tell him to-night what would Jean do? With her usual

unselfishness she gave no thought to self. She was miserably unhappy, but

she would not allow herself to think of her own sufferings. Her whole

thought was of him and the darkness into which he would soon be plunged,

and of Jean and her bairns, Robert’s bairns. She sighed quiveringly, and

a little pang of jealousy shot through her heart like a breath of fire,

but it soon passed away and left only a dull ache that would always be

there now, she thought wearily, as they rolled along toward home. She

clasped her hands together feverishly. “Should she whisper to him now,

tell him all and bid him drive back to Jean?” she asked herself in an

agony of indecision. At that moment the carriage stopped at the door

of Mrs. Dunlop’s mansion. It was too late now. She gave a little sigh

of relief, though her heart was filled with grief and anxiety. Robert

escorted her to the door, with loving pride in her daintiness, in her

sweet air of refinement. She looked very frail and spirituelle, as she

turned to him quietly and bade him good-night.

“Has something gone wrong, Mary?” he inquired solicitously, noticing with

alarm her wan face, her languid air of weariness.

She shook her head slowly, not daring to trust her voice. Mrs. Dunlop

put her arm about her fondly.

“The lassie is tired, Robert,” she said in her motherly way, “and no

wonder. She’ll be as bright as a lark in the morning.” Bidding them both

a tender good-night, he turned and ran down the steps, jumped into the

carriage, and drove off toward his chambers, whistling softly to himself

the tune of “Mary of Argyle.”

CHAPTER XVIII

The next day a grand garden party was given at Glencairn Hall. All

Edinburgh was invited, and they came eagerly to see the great poet, who

was on the eve of leaving the social world to retire to his farm in

Ayrshire, and to see Highland Mary, the dainty, flower-like sweetheart of

their idol. The grounds looked very bright and gay. Refreshment booths

of red and white canvas were dotted here and there on the smooth velvet

lawns. Bright flags of all nations waved from different parts of the

gardens—signals of putting, archery, and dancing—and the seductive music

of the Queen’s theater orchestra rose up and joined the songs of birds

and the tinkle of the fountains in full play. Girls in light summer

costumes were grouped picturesquely beneath the stately oaks and beeches.

Gay laughter echoed from the leafy shrubberies, and stray couples were

seen sauntering carelessly through the rose gardens, too much absorbed in

each other to notice what was going on around them.

Presently out of the same rose garden a man walked hurriedly, followed

by a woman, who quickly overtook him, to his perceptible annoyance. They

were Sir William Creech and Eppy McKay. Eppy looked exceedingly ugly in

the full glare of the bright sun. She was dressed in a brilliant plaid

gown, the style of which seemed to accentuate her angularity; and a huge

Gainsborough hat was perched jauntily upon her towering court wig. Her

small green eyes looked coquettishly at her irate companion. He stopped

and glared at her fiercely.

“But I desire to take a smoke,” he said wrathfully.

“I don’t object to smoke, Sir William,” she tittered coyly.

He looked about him wildly as if seeking some means of escape from his

admirer. “But I wish to be alone,” he cried almost pleadingly.

She opened her eyes and regarded him reproachfully. “Oh, you are joking,

Sir William, but you cannot scare me away.”

With a groan of despair he continued his walk, hoping to escape from his

persistent admirer. “Great heavens! I’ll go daft yet,” he muttered as he

perceived her close at his elbow. For a few minutes he puffed furiously

at his pipe, casting angry glances from time to time at his unwelcome

companion, who trotted along so contentedly at his side. Finally Sir

William concluded that he could not elude her attentions for the time

being, so decided to make the best of the infliction. “Do I go too fast

for you?” he asked maliciously, as he heard her puffing away vigorously

beside him.

“No, indeed,” she replied with a little breathless giggle. “You couldn’t

go too fast for me, for I am as light and quick on my feet as ever I was.

In faith, why shouldn’t I be?” she continued gayly. “I am only 32. You

see I am so much younger than you.”

He snorted angrily. “Well, you don’t look it,” he retorted. She stopped

short and looked at him in amazed indignation.

“What?” she quavered, a little out of breath, “I don’t look younger than

you?”

At the sign of approaching tears, Sir William frowned impatiently. “I

mean you don’t look—32,” he said diplomatically.

She simpered and thanked him for the compliment.

He smiled grimly as he said to himself, “She’s over 60 if she’s a day.”

“They all tell me I don’t look my age,” she said gushingly. “It’s my

artistic soul that keeps me so young and fresh-looking.” They sat down

on a bench, glad of the opportunity to cool themselves after their

strenuous walk. “Do you know,” she said dreamily, fanning herself, “I am

very different from most artistic people.” He looked at her. “Oh my, yes,

indeed!” she affirmed convincingly. “I don’t live in the clouds, I am of

the earth earthy,” and she gave him another languishing look.

“Ye don’t tell me,” he retorted mockingly.

“But I love art,” sighed Eppy ecstatically. “When I was young,” she went

on reminiscently, “I mean when I was younger,” she corrected herself with

a startled look at her silent companion, “I came near having a painting

from my own hand hung in the National Gallery.”

“You are a clever woman,” he remarked sarcastically.

“It was this way,” she explained volubly. “I had painted a lovely marine.

I do marines much better than anything else,” with a self-conscious

smirk, “and upon showing it to Mr. William Nichol, a dear man, but one

who drinks to excess, he promised to mention it to the Lord Mayor. Well,

it made me exceedingly nervous, I vow. However, I bought a most lovely

frame for it, Nile green in color, with sweet red plush ends.” She

cleared her throat affectedly and continued with evident delight. “I do

like things to match,” she explained, “and the green was the exact shade

of the water. It was simply exquisite.” She clasped her hands together

and rolled her eyes heavenward. “And the red ends exactly matched the

cow, which was a lovely shade of——”

“Cow?” echoed Sir William in amazement. “Did I hear you say cow?”

Eppy looked at him pettishly. She didn’t like to be so violently

interrupted. “Certainly a cow,” she returned frigidly. “Is there anything

strange in a cow?” and she drew herself up with an injured air.

“No, there’s nothing strange in a cow when it is by itself,” replied Sir

William dryly, “but in a marine, well, it is a little hard on the cow.”

“You don’t know what you are saying, Sir William,” flashed Eppy

indignantly. “Please don’t interrupt me again. The cow I have reference

to was in one corner drinking. I heard Lady Nancy Gordon telling Mrs.

McLehose that the cow looked as if it were trying to drink the ocean dry;

the idea!” and she clucked her tongue against her teeth in contemptuous

scorn. “She’s a cat,” she continued spitefully; “I never could bear her.

She was uncommon jealous of me, yes, indeed, but that’s another matter.”

Sir William turned crimson, and seemed about to choke, as he tried to

smother his laughter. “You were telling me about your marine,” he finally

stuttered.

“Don’t hurry me, Sir William,” said Eppy coquettishly. “Well, I took it

to Lord Mundobbo. You know whom I mean; at that time he had something to

do with the National Gallery; Mr. Nichol didn’t inform me as to his exact

connection with it.” She paused and gazed soulfully into space. “Shall

I ever forget the day? The sun was high in the heavens—but there,” she

broke off with a deprecating smile. “I really must restrain my poetic

impulse. But as I was saying,” she rambled on quickly, “the sky was

overcast and threatening snow——”

“I thought the sun was shining, Miss McKay,” interrupted Sir William

gruffly.

She was beginning to get on his nerves again. “I am a little mixed in

my metaphors,” apologized Eppy condescendingly, “but you flustrate me

so, Sir William,” and she tapped him playfully with her fan. “Well, I

felt that victory was mine. I took off the paper—it was pink, tied with

a yellow string—and laid it before him.” She paused impressively, then

she continued in an elocutionary tone of voice. “He gazed at it long and

silently. He was simply speechless. I knew he’d be. I said to him, ‘Lord

Mundobbo, as much as it grieves me to part with my—ahem—masterpiece,

for the sake of art I will permit you to add it to the collection

of paintings in the National Gallery.’ Said he, ‘Miss McKay, really

I appreciate this honor you do me and the National Gallery. It is a

masterpiece of its kind, but I cannot accept it.’”

“The brute!” exclaimed Sir William in mock anger. “Why not?”

“He said if I would change the ocean into a fresh water pond and give the

cow a chance, he might consider it,” and Eppy tearfully regarded her now

laughing companion with an aggrieved air.

“Did ye do it?” inquired Sir William, rising to his feet.

“Did I do it!” repeated Eppy with horror expressed in every tone of

her voice, every feature of her pointed face. “No, sir,” she replied

emphatically. “Never would I willingly spoil a work of art. That was

my first and only. I couldn’t improve on it. But my artistic soul was

smothered, and now another, a poetic spirit has taken its place.” She

smiled dreamily, a sigh of content escaping her parted lips.

“A case of the survival of the fittest, eh?” he retorted brusquely.

For a moment they walked on in silence, Sir William wondering how to

get rid of the incubus, and Eppy happy over the impression she fondly

imagined she had made upon Sir William. Just then a bend in the avenue

brought them in full view of the broad terrace in front of the hall,

where Robert’s handsome figure was outlined clearly against the dazzling

blue of the sky. Several people were grouped near him. He seemed to be

in animated conversation with some of them, and his face was radiant

with smiles. With a cry of delight, Eppy hurried forward to greet him,

forgetting Sir William utterly, much to his amazement. That she, or

anyone, would dare leave him so unceremoniously to join Robert Burns

angered him beyond measure. He followed her slowly at some little

distance, with no very pleasant expression on his stern features.

Later in the afternoon when it was close to sunset, and all other

amusements had given way to the delight of dancing Sir Roger de Coverly

on the springy green turf to the silvery music of the orchestra, Mary

and Mrs. Dunlop put in their appearance. Mary was looking very beautiful

in a clinging, old-fashioned white crepe de chene, another old relic of

Mrs. Dunlop’s dead and gone slim youth. While they danced, she reclined

languidly in a low chair, her sad eyes fixed mournfully upon Robert’s

glowing face as he lay stretched in lazy length at her feet. The day had

passed and still she had had no opportunity to tell him the dire news,

for she had not seen him since the night before.

While the dancing was in progress a liveried page walked noiselessly over

the turf and stopping beside the recumbent figure of the poet, quietly

handed him a note. He leisurely opened it and read it at a glance. “Say

I’ll be right there,” he said to the waiting page after a moment’s

meditation. He excused himself to Mary and the others and followed the

man indoors, with a frown of impatient wonder clouding his brow.

Under the shadow of a noble maple, Lady Glencairn was seated in earnest

conversation with her uncle. Her ladyship was looking exceedingly

beautiful in a pink-flowered summer silk, which puffed and billowed

around her, with a bunch of white heather at her breast and a wreath

of the same dainty flowers in her picturesque Leghorn hat. She held a

pink-lined parasol over her head, and from under the protecting shadow

her dark lustrous eyes flashed disdainfully as she regarded her scolding

companion. Suddenly she gave a start and leaned forward to watch the

group opposite. She had noticed the quiet entrance of the servant and

the immediate departure of the poet, and idly wondered who it was that

desired to see Robert on such urgent business that they must needs

follow him here. The minutes passed and still he did not return. She

was growing anxious. “Suppose”—and she started violently at the sudden

thought—“suppose it was by some unfortunate chance Jean Armour herself?”

She rose quickly to her feet, with a word of apology and after a quick

look around, in which she noticed Mary’s pale face and restless manner,

she walked leisurely toward the house. Once inside she rang for the page

and upon questioning him learned that the young woman who had insisted

on seeing Mr. Burns, and who was none other than Jean Armour, as she

concluded from the man’s description, had just gone, and that Mr. Burns

was now seated in the drawing-room alone. Hastily dismissing him, she

stole softly into the parlors, and there beside the table, his face in

his hands, sat Robert, his shoulders heaving convulsively. She looked

at him a moment and the tears of pity came into her luminous eyes. Then

softly she walked to his side and laid her cool hand upon his feverish

head. “Robert, I am so sorry for you,” she said gently.

He lifted his head with a start and rose quickly to his feet. It didn’t

occur to him to ask what she meant or to inquire how she knew what had

happened in that room, and she was secretly glad that he demanded no

explanation. “Where is she?” he asked dully.

“She has gone,” she answered quickly. “I—I met her at the door and

offered to assist her, gave her money and advised her not to make any

unnecessary scandal in town, but to return to her home at once. You know

she is my godchild. So she promised to go, and I presume she is now on

her way.” She looked him straight in the eyes as she glibly told this

falsehood. She didn’t know what arrangements he had made with Jean, but

she daringly made the lying explanation, confident that he would believe

it, for he could have no possible reason for suspecting her motives, or

any means of finding out at present that she had not indeed met Jean, who

might have altered her plans at the last moment.

A look of anger came over his face for a moment, then as quickly died

away, and his eyes filled with a hopeless, despairing look. He walked

slowly to the window, his hands clenched together behind him, and stood

there, pale and miserable and wretched, gazing out upon the scene of

happiness he had just left.

Lady Glencairn watched him with eyes filled with passion, and her heart

beat with painful thuds as she fought against the desperate longing

to throw herself into his arms and comfort him. She glided quickly

to his side and put her hand gently within his arm and stood there

in sympathetic silence although she was consumed with jealousy as

she watched his melancholy eyes riveted on the fair face of his lost

sweetheart. For a while they stood there in gloomy quiet. Presently a

deep, heartrending sigh, which was almost a sob, escaped his trembling

lips.

“An’ we were so happy a few minutes ago,” he murmured brokenly. “An’

noo ’tis all over.” He paused and bit his lips convulsively. Presently

he went on in a dull, low tone as if speaking to himself, “How true it

is, there’s many a slip ’twixt cup and lip.” Lady Glencairn pressed his

arm tenderly, but remained silent. “What have I to live for noo?” he

continued with despairing mournfulness.

“Everything, Robert,” murmured her ladyship tenderly, gazing up into his

face with glittering eyes.

He turned and looked at her in wonder. As he saw the feverish flush on

her face, felt her hot breath on his cheek, he remembered with a start

her peculiar words and meaning looks at Athol Castle the night before.

Lady Glencairn noted with apprehension the look of stern coldness spread

quickly over his face, and the nervous tears of disappointment and

passionate longing welled up in her eyes. Then with reckless abandon

she dropped her head against his shoulder and let the tears flow

unrestrainedly. For a moment Robert stood there speechless with surprise

and horror, for he knew at last that what he had vaguely feared was an

indisputable fact; knew that his hostess, the wife of his dearest friend

and counsellor, entertained a guilty passion for him. It filled him with

righteous anger that she would willingly betray the love and confidence

of the noblest gentleman in the kingdom. He placed the weeping woman in a

chair and stood looking down upon her with a frown of displeasure. “Lady

Glencairn,” he said coldly, “if these tears are for my unhappy fate, I

thank ye for your sympathy.”

She caught his hand and held it tightly within her arm. “Oh, no, no,

Robert, ’tis not that,” she whispered passionately. “Do you not remember

the Lady of the Lake I told you of last evening?” He made no reply. Then

she continued slowly, her voice low and shaking, “Read my fate in that of

hers.”

Still he would not understand her. “I fear I do not understand your

meaning, my lady,” he replied, trying to withdraw his hand from her

grasp, but she held it firmly.

“Cannot your heart understand mine?” she cried recklessly. “Does it not

pity my wretchedness?”

He was silent for a moment. He knew he could no longer parry with

her, for her words and meaning were too plain to admit of any

misunderstanding. He turned to her, his face set and firm. “Lady

Glencairn,” he said sternly, “you dishonor yourself by such madness,

and all for naught. My heart is noo numb with sorrow, it could feel no

throb of yours, even were I vile enough to see no evil in usurping your

husband’s rights.”

“Do not remind me of my unhappiness!” she exclaimed impatiently. “I

married him when I was a girl, before I knew what love was. Then you came

into my life, and I knew that the fire of love was not dead within me.”

Her rich seductive voice trembled with passion.

“I pray you cease!” he entreated her, but she went on rapidly.

“Let me speak, Robert!” she cried, clinging to him frantically. “I can no

longer contain myself, for I love you better than my life, better than my

honor, my good name; I care not for them now. Oh, pity me, pity me!” and

she flung herself down on her knees before him and burst into a storm of

irrepressible weeping.

Robert looked around apprehensively. The thought that someone might

suddenly enter the room filled him with alarmed dismay. With a quick

movement he raised her to her feet, and his voice trembled with deep

feeling when he next spoke. “I do pity you,” he said sorrowfully, “but

I pity your husband more, when he learns of your faithlessness.” He

paused and regarded her with reproachful sadness. “Oh, why have you

severed forever the threads of our friendship by such imprudence, such

rashness?” As he finished he bowed his head and walked slowly toward the

door.

“Do not leave me like this!” she panted desperately. “Can’t you see

you are killing me by your coldness.” She held out her arms in piteous

entreaty as she continued tenderly, “Tell me you didn’t mean it, Robert.

Say you are but testing my love for you.”

He turned on her quickly and at his look of contemptuous scorn she

drooped her head and the hot blood rushed to her face. “Are you lost to

all sense of prudence, honor and decency?” he cried in scathing accents.

“Heaven knows I’m no moralist, no saint,” and he gave a mirthless little

laugh as he thought of the opinion Edinburgh had formed concerning his

morality—then he went on firmly, solemnly, “But I would sooner cut this

erring heart of mine out of this body than fall so low as to betray the

honor of my friend who trusts me.” She started to speak again, but he

raised his hand quickly. “Say no more, Lady Glencairn,” he said with calm

dignity, “an’ I’ll forget this distressing conversation, and continue

thro’ life to respect equally with himself, the wife of my friend.”

Slowly the warm color faded from her cheeks, leaving her ashy pale,

while through her suddenly narrowed eyelids a vindictive light gleamed

tigerishly.

“You’ve said enough!” she hissed through her clenched teeth. “I have

lowered myself to you as I would to no other man living, only to be

scorned and humiliated. God!” she laughed wildly, hysterically, and threw

herself face downward upon the ottoman. “Fool, fool!” she cried with

bitter self-abasement. “How I hate and despise myself for what I have

done; would I had died before I had uttered such damning words,” and she

beat her jeweled hands frantically against the cushions.

“I beseech you to be careful, Lady Glencairn,” cried Robert in amazed

alarm, going to her.

She turned on him fiercely. “You, of all men, posing as a model of virtue

and goodness, prating of husband’s honor, wife’s duty.” She measured

him with a scornful, sneering glance of fury. “You, who have the name

of making love to every female in petticoats who crosses your path, you

hypocrite!”

Robert fixed his eyes upon her in silence and the utter scorn of the

look stung her heart to its center. Presently he controlled his anger

sufficiently to be able to speak, and still eying her with that straight,

keen look of immeasurable disdain, he said in cold, deliberate accents,

“Your ladyship has been misinformed as to my past conduct. I do not claim

to be more than human, but I know my name is as yet clear from the taint

of dishonor.”

“You poor fool, you country yokel!” she stormed furiously, walking up and

down between him and the door like a caged lioness. “Did you think you

could scorn such a woman as I with impunity? Do you think I will stand

the humiliation of being repulsed, despised, shamed? I tell you no, no,

never; ’tis but a step from love to hate, you should know that.” She

paused in her nervous walking and stood facing him, her eyes ablaze with

the uttermost anger, her beautiful figure drawn rigidly erect. “You shall

be made to feel the depth of my hatred before long, Robert Burns,” she

threatened, and there came a dangerous gleam in the flashing, dark eyes.

“I shall leave Edinburgh within the hour,” replied Robert quietly. Was

there ever such another unfortunate being as himself? he thought grimly,

and a wave of unutterable sadness rushed over him.

“Aye, that you will,” retorted her ladyship with a sneering, bitter

laugh. “But not as you anticipate, with the plaudits of the world ringing

in your ears. Instead of that, only contemptuous silence will greet your

departure as you leave here in shame and disgrace, and when you have

sunk once more into poverty and oblivion, you will repent bitterly ever

having made an enemy of Alice Glencairn.” As these words left her lips,

she swept haughtily past him like an outraged queen and left the room,

leaving him standing there like one in a trance.

He brushed his hands across his eyes as if to assure himself that he

was awake, that he wasn’t the subject of some hideous hallucination,

but no, he was painfully conscious of the reality of it all. He heaved

a deep sigh and sank wearily into a chair, his eyes riveted upon the

floor in melancholy meditation. A little cry aroused him from the

profound gloom into which his thoughts were plunged and looking fearfully

up, dreading lest her ladyship had returned, his eyes rested upon the

white, startled face of Highland Mary. She had watched him leave the

grounds with listless curiosity, which changed to wonder and dismay when

Lady Glencairn rose from her seat and sauntered toward the hall. For

some minutes she nervously sat there wondering vaguely why he stayed

so long and why her ladyship had followed him. Presently she rose and

mechanically made her way over the springy sward toward the house. She

couldn’t have told why she went or what she intended to do. She wondered

in a vague way if Robert’s message could in any way concern Jean, but her

thoughts dwelt longer upon the suspicions that had been raised in her

innocent heart against her beautiful hostess, for she had recognized her

as the bogus Lady Nancy in spite of the disguising mask, suspicions that

filled her with uneasiness and alarm; and yet why should she be jealous?

She told herself sadly she had renounced him forever, given him back to

Jean, and in a few days she would pass out of his life forever. Oh, the

agony that pierced her heart at the recollection of her past happiness!

How fleeting it had been—scarcely a week. She had drawn near the window

by this time quite unconsciously. Suddenly the sound of voices within the

room made her pause. She had not thought to listen nor meant to, but when

she heard the passionate pleading voice of her ladyship and the stern

replies from Robert, a feeling of fascinated horror took possession of

her, rooting her to the spot. Motionless she stood there and heard all

that passed within the room. And when the voices stopped and all was

deathly still, she peered through the window. At the sight of her dear

one sitting there all alone, with that look of intense suffering on his

face, her heart cried out to him in sympathy. Quickly she opened the high

French window and noiselessly stepped into the room. For a moment she

stood watching him, her eyes filled with patient sorrow, infinite pity,

and a world of loving compassion. Involuntarily a deep sigh escaped her.

As he raised his head she went quietly up to him and placed a tender hand

upon his arm. After one quick, heart-broken look at her he buried his

face in his hands again.

“Dinna distress yoursel’, laddie; I have known since last night at Athol

Castle that our happy dream was ended.” She felt him stiffen beneath

her touch. “Jean came to me in the gardens,” she explained with patient

resignation. “I should have told ye last night, for she was waiting for

ye to come to her, but I—I hadna’ the courage.” There was silence for a

moment, then he spoke in a low, spiritless tone.

“Jean said that ye knew all,” he said without looking up. They remained

quiet after that, plunged in bitter thought. There was nothing they could

say to comfort each other, the wound was bleeding too freely as yet.

Presently Robert raised his head, and with a despairing gesture pushed

the heavy curls back from his fevered brow and rose unsteadily to his

feet. They must get away at once, he thought feverishly. He took Mary by

the hand and started for the door, when from the open window he heard

his name called. Turning apprehensively he beheld Sir William Creech

entering, followed by Lord Glencairn and several of his guests. In his

hand Sir William held a newspaper, while a hard smile of triumph wrinkled

his stem face.

“I told ye, Robert Burns, ye would overreach yourself,” he cried

jubilantly, shaking the newspaper at him.

Robert looked at him apathetically. “Ye were ever a bird of ill omen,” he

said quietly. “What have I done noo?”

“You have seen fit to sign your name to an article in this paper, which

has aroused the indignation of all Edinburgh,” replied Sir William

without any preamble. “’Tis a most seditious article and shows that ye

have embraced the doctrines of the French Revolution.”

“A man has a perfect right to his opinion,” said Mrs. Dunlop decidedly,

giving Sir William a scornful look.

“Indeed he has,” echoed Eppy, nodding her head briskly. “I mean to stick

to mine.”

Lord Glencairn turned and looked searchingly at Robert’s pale, gloomy

face. “Is that true, Robert?” he asked gently.

Robert did not reply. He seemed not to hear, in fact.

“’Tis a most serious charge, Mr. Burns,” remarked Mr. Sterne gravely.

“If it be true,” retorted Mr. Mackenzie loyally.

“Which is not at all likely,” flashed Eppy indignantly.

She would believe nothing wrong of her hero, even if it were proven in

black and white.

“But listen!” continued Sir William eagerly. He scanned the article

through quickly until he found what he sought. “Ah, here it is. It is

stated here that Mr. Burns refused to stand up in the theater recently

when ‘God save the King’ was being played,” and he glared about him

indignantly.

A quiet sneer curled Robert’s lips. “Anything else?” he asked

sarcastically. “Out wi’ it or the venom of your spleen will poison ye,”

and he fixed his eyes upon Sir William with disdainful indifference.

“And there is more,” snarled Sir William. “’Tis known that ye have

sent two cannon to the French Directorate with a complimentary letter,

offering further assistance.”

“Oh, no, no, impossible.” cried Lord Glencairn incredulously.

“And,” continued Sir William vindictively, “there’s also a full account

here which explains much of Mr. Burns’ reprehensible conduct here in

town, as well as in Ayrshire, where it seems his amours were as numerous

and questionable as they are at the present time.”

“For shame, Creech!” cried Lord Glencairn with indignation.

“How fascinating he must have been even when a farmer,” giggled Eppy

aside to Mrs. Dunlop, who was casting indignant glances at Sir William.

“’Tis a libelous article,” she flashed angrily, “and I for one do not

believe a word of it. Robert,” she said, turning to the silent figure

standing so pale and calm before his inquisitors, “deny this absurd

charge before it is given further credence!”

“He cannot deny it,” said Sir William. “His name is at the bottom of it,”

and he held it up to their view.

“And I’ll attempt no denial,” replied Robert in a full ringing voice,

“for I know it would be useless. Know, then, that I do sympathize with

the French people in their struggle for freedom, and I did help them all

that lay in my power. I hope that France may gain the prize for which

she is fighting, a free and independent republic, and that she may set

up her standard of liberty and independence as did the United States of

America, when they were delivered from the toils of the British.”

There was an uncomfortable silence when he had finished his declaration.

His amazed and incredulous listeners could hardly believe they had heard

him aright. They looked aghast at each other, not knowing just how to

take it. Their embarrassed silence was soon broken, however.

“Ye hear those seditious sentiments,” cried Sir William in an

I-told-you-so tone of voice.

Lord Glencairn shook his head gravely. “’Tis dangerous to speak thus,

Robert,” he said with solemn earnestness. “You should be careful——”

“Careful of what?” interrupted Robert with impatient scorn. “Lest I

offend people with my plain speaking of the truth?” He paused and looked

around him with flashing eyes and dilated nostrils. “Who is careful of

my feelings?” he demanded. “Not those who think themselves my superiors

by accident of birth.” He turned to Sir William Creech and continued

quickly, his voice vibrating with suppressed indignation. “I’ve never

wronged ye, Sir William Creech, yet ye are miscreant enough to seek my

ruin, for I’m fair sure ’twas ye yourself who inserted that scurrilous

article in that paper ye hold in your hand, in which my faults, my past

errors and follies are now being aired.”

Sir William turned a sickly color. “Think what you like,” he muttered

savagely. “’Tis time the people of Edinburgh knew the character of the

man they are honoring.”

“Sir William Creech, you are an old brute!” cried Eppy, her little gray

eyes flashing fire, and going up to him she continued in haughty disdain,

“Remember, sir, I will have naught to do with you in the future; I turn

my back on you,” and she suited the action to the word.

Meanwhile, Robert had spoken in an undertone to Mrs. Dunlop, and that

good soul, putting an arm around Mary, who stood white and trembling

like a frightened child, walked to the door, and Robert, after a formal

inclination of his head, started quietly but proudly after them. They

had reached the door, when it suddenly opened and Lady Glencairn stood

upon the threshold, her head held haughtily erect, her lips curled in a

disdainful sneer. She entered the room and closed the door behind her,

then turned and faced the wondering group which was being augmented

by the entrance, through the window, of a number of the guests whose

curiosity had been aroused by the unusual scene to which they had been

listening in speechless amazement.

“Alice, what has happened?” cried Lord Glencairn in an alarmed voice.

Her ladyship’s white, nervous face, the peculiar glitter in her eyes,

startled him out of his usual calmness.

“James, I am deeply sorry to wound you,” she began nervously, “but it’s

best that you should know how grievously you have been betrayed by one

of your honored guests here to-day,” and she fixed her narrowed eyes upon

the startled face of Robert Burns.

A great fear of impending danger came over him as he saw the revengeful

look which she flashed at him, and he involuntarily straightened himself

as if to receive a shock. There was a surprised movement among the crowd,

and a low murmur of many voices broke the tense stillness which followed

her accusation.

“I—betrayed?” repeated Lord Glencairn, in astonishment. “What mean you,

my dear?”

“I mean,” she answered, and the lie rolled glibly off her crimson lips,

“that your distinguished guest, Robert Burns, has to-day wantonly and

without provocation grossly insulted the wife of his friend and host.”

As the ignoble lie left her lips, there was an audible indrawn breath of

startled surprise from the amazed listeners. Then they turned and fixed

their wondering gaze upon the accused man, who, after an inarticulate

exclamation of horror, stood as though carved out of stone.

“I for one do not believe it,” cried Mrs. Dunlop indignantly, and she

returned Lady Glencairn’s look of haughty displeasure with a withering

glance of scornful disbelief.

“Nor I,” echoed Eppy, with a youthful toss of her head.

“What was the nature of the insult, Alice?” asked Lord Glencairn

gravely. No doubt she had taken offense where no offense was intended, he

thought indulgently.

Before she could answer, Robert stepped quickly up to her with flashing

eyes and lips trembling with anger. “Madam, that I have had the

misfortune to offend ye, I am sorrowfully aware,” he said with bitter

sarcasm, “but that I have been guilty of offering ye an insult, none

knows better than yourself how little cause ye have to accuse me of

such monstrous ingratitude, such a contemptible betrayal of the laws of

hospitality. I am quite willing that you should repeat every word of the

conversation that passed between us in the room a few minutes since, and

if aught that I have said can be construed as an insult to your ladyship,

then do I stand ready and whiling to abide by the consequence of such an

indiscretion.” He looked her straight in the eyes, and with folded arms

calmly waited for her to speak.

Not long did she return the look, however, for the utter scorn of it

stung her guilty heart to its core. Not that she felt any compunction

for what she was doing—her whole soul was up in arms against him, and

she would not stop until she had meted out her spiteful revenge upon him

to the fullest extent. His evident contemptuous defiance irritated her

beyond measure—she was angrier with him than ever—already she had a sort

of strange feeling of triumph at the vengeance she had designed, for she

knew that her word would be believed against his; even now she could read

suspicion and conviction in many of the serious faces that surrounded

her, much to her satisfaction. He had thrown down the challenge, had he?

Well, she would take it up. No one knew what had passed between them save

themselves, and no one would ever know the truth, and the truth would now

be a very small factor in working out her present scheme of vengeance.

All these thoughts flashed quickly through her mind, and her answer

was ready on her lips almost soon as he had finished speaking. With

well-simulated indignation she drew herself haughtily away from him, with

a gesture of repulsion. “Dare you deny your protestations of love and

devotion?” she replied. “Why, my lord,” she continued scornfully, turning

to her husband, who was now regarding Robert with serious, thoughtful

eyes, a look of wounded pride and deepening sorrow gradually shadowing

his noble countenance, “before I could stop him he had fallen upon his

knees and begged me to be false to you, and to give him my love, my

favors.”

“Great God!” cried Robert, staggering back, white and speechless, while

a wave of the blackest despair engulfed him completely, for he knew that

the outrageous lie had sealed his doom as utterly as though it had been

the truth; knew that all denials from him would be useless in the face of

that accusation. He sank back into a chair in helpless resignation, his

independent spirit, his haughty pride wounded almost unto death.

When Mary heard the lying accusation she started forward with a little

cry on her lips. Freeing herself from Mrs. Dunlop’s restraining hand, she

took a few steps toward Lord Glencairn, her face aglow with indignation,

her timidity, her fear of the great ones surrounding her, forgotten for

the moment, as she sought to defend the man she loved.

“My lord!” she cried thrillingly, “’tis not true; Robbie did not insult

her ladyship, for I——”

But, with an angry flush, Lady Glencairn interrupted her. “I say he did,”

she retorted harshly. Then, as Mrs. Dunlop drew the frightened girl away,

she continued with insulting emphasis, “James, bid this man and his

virtuous Highland Mary begone at once! Their presence here is an insult

to respectable people,” and she flashed them a malicious look.

“Alice, Alice!” exclaimed Lord Glencairn, in accents of deep reproach,

“that is unworthy of you.”

Robert felt as though he must choke with fury. He forgot the presence of

Lord Glencairn. He forgot everything but his just indignation. “My God!”

he cried passionately, striding up to the sneering woman, “you dare to

speak so—you!”

“Yes, I!” she returned coolly, eying him disdainfully up and down. “What

have you to say against me?” She drew herself up imperiously.

“Only this,” replied Robert in a low, tense voice, “ye may say what you

will of me, but as ye value your happiness, do not breathe aught against

the fair name of Mary Campbell.”

She uttered an angry exclamation, but remained speechless and so pale

that her lips were devoid of color. If he were dishonorable enough to

tell everything, she thought, with a thrill of fear, it would make

things decidedly embarrassing and humiliating for her, besides giving

her enemies a choice bit of scandal, which they would use to excellent

advantage.

At this point a few of the guests, feeling decidedly uncomfortable and

very much _de trop_, quietly left the room, but the others, and the room

was filled, held their ground, shamelessly reveling in the extraordinary

scene, the like of which had never before been seen in an Edinburgh

drawing-room, which was being enacted before them.

“Robert, lad,” whispered Mrs. Dunlop, in a loud aside, “ye must say

something. Deny this charge. I know you are innocent of any wrong doing.

Speak, tell his lordship so!” and she pointed to where he stood crushed

and silent, in speechless sorrow.

“What can I say, Mrs. Dunlop?” replied Robert, in an agony of indecision.

“Would ye have me flatly contradict her ladyship and accuse her of

lying?” He paused a moment with patient sadness. “Nay, nay, friend, there

is nothing I can say noo that will smooth matters or clear me in the eyes

of the world.”

“But you must tell them the truth,” insisted Mary. “Dinna’ let them

believe this monstrous thing of you.” She looked indignantly at the cold

repellent face of her ladyship, and continued fearlessly, “She’s a bold,

wicked woman, and she seeks your ruin!”

“How dare you, you insolent creature!” hissed her ladyship furiously,

while the amazed guests looked in open-mouthed amazement at the demure

little dairymaid so suddenly transformed, standing with head thrown back

and eyes flashing accusingly.

But Robert remained rigidly silent. He would not be so base, so

ungrateful as to shatter his benefactor’s belief in his wife’s honor, her

veracity, he told himself in a spirit of self-sacrifice. He owed all he

had in the world to him, and he would remain silent for his sake, and he

kept his eyes fixed unresponsively on the rug at his feet, but the little

drops of perspiration stood out on his brow, as he fought against the

temptation to clear his good name from ignominy.

Throwing open the door Lady Glencairn pointed to it dramatically,

“There’s the door, Mr. Burns,” she said insolently; “do not compel me to

call my servants.”

“Jezebel!” muttered Mr. Mackenzie through his clenched teeth.

“If he goes I go too,” flashed Mrs. Dunlop, casting an indignant look at

her hostess.

“So will I,” echoed Eppy.

“Wait!” cried Mary vibrantly. Her silvery voice rang out above the

confusion, as the guests moved about among themselves asking all sorts

of inane questions, exploiting their views upon the subject—some loudly

extolling Lady Glencairn’s attitude in the matter and others as stoutly

defending the bard. Instantly there was an astonished hush.

“My lords and ladies,” continued Mary thrillingly, “listen to me! I tell

ye that Robert Burns is innocent o’ this contemptible charge laid against

him. I know it, for I was outside the window yonder an’ heard all that

passed between him and her ladyship.”

“Spy!” hissed Lady Glencairn between her teeth, unheard in the hubbub of

voices which had commenced again with Mary’s statement as the subject of

comment, then she laughed mockingly. “How absurd,” she cried to those

about her. “My dear James, let us end this scene. I will not stay here to

be insulted. Come, my friends, let us retire,” and she took her husband’s

arm.

“Ye shall listen to the truth, all of ye!” cried Mary resolutely.

Clasping and unclasping her little hands with nervous intensity, her

eyes filled with determined purpose, she faced the fickle crowd that was

regarding her with such open admiration for her stanchness, her bravery.

“I heard her ladyship swear to ruin Robert because he spurned her

unwomanly offers of love,” she declared, with convincing earnestness.

A guilty flush reddened the creamy pallor of her ladyship’s face. “Oh,

the shame of it, my lord, to be thus humiliated before my guests!” she

cried, bursting into nervous tears. “Surely, my lord, you would not

listen to such monstrous tales,” she pleaded.

“Oh, believe me, I speak the truth,” exclaimed Mary, a great fear in her

heart as she saw the tender look Lord Glencairn bestowed upon his weeping

wife.

He was torn and spent by conflicting emotions. He did not doubt his wife,

yet the words of the young girl rang true, and there was only truth

and nobility stamped upon the gloomy face of the poet. What was he to

believe? How could he decide? His confidence in his wife had never yet

been shaken—yet, stay—there was once when—but he would not think of that

time, it was so long ago, yet think of it he did with uneasy misgivings.

If she had deceived him once, might she not again? he asked himself

fearfully.

“Mr. Burns, will you assure me on your word of honor as a man that you

are entirely innocent of any intentional insult to Lady Glencairn?” asked

Mr. Mackenzie bluntly. He had taken his place beside Robert, along with

Mrs. Dunlop and Mary and Eppy McKay, together with a few more of Robert’s

sympathizers and stanch believers in his innocence. And now he asked the

question in hope of eliciting some explanation, some excuse, anything,

from the silent man.

Robert raised his head and without looking at any one particular person,

answered simply, indifferently, as many thought.

“I have always held Lady Glencairn in the highest respect and

admiration,” he said quietly. “She alone knows what is the end she aims

at, by attributing feelings to me with regard to her which I have never

conceived, and words which I have never uttered.” And he sank once more

into his listless attitude.

Lord Glencairn passed his hand over his brow in a bewildered manner. “You

were ever truthful, Robert,” he muttered so low that none but his wife

heard his implied doubt of her.

She turned on him witheringly. “My lord, you insult me by lending an

ear to aught he or his witness can say in his behalf,” she exclaimed

frigidly. Then, turning to the onlookers, she continued with insolent

innuendo in words and manner, “You all know the infatuated attachment of

this maid for Mr. Burns, who has bewitched her until she is ready to

sacrifice every consideration of truth, reason, or duty to shield her

guilty lover.”

“What a scandal this will cause throughout Edinburgh,” whispered Eppy to

Mrs. Dunlop, who was almost beside herself with speechless indignation by

this time. She had been listening with growing anger to Lady Glencairn’s

insolent falsehoods, for she knew they were falsehoods, and she would

never believe that Robbie would belittle himself by lying, for he was

too brutally frank and truthful at times to be thoroughly an agreeable

companion.

Eppy’s inopportune remark was the straw that broke the camel’s back,

and she turned on her hotly. “Hold your tongue, ye old busy body!” she

exploded violently, nearly knocking the astonished Eppy down by the

suddenness, the unexpectedness, of the retort.

“I was never so insulted in my life,” Eppy gasped tearfully, making

little dabs at her eyes with a dainty ’kerchief, and casting hurt,

reproachful glances at the blunt old lady, who, after delivering her

shaft at the unoffending Eppy, turned to Lord Glencairn, the fire still

flashing in her determined eyes.

“Lord Glencairn,” she said, with a touch of defiance, “you may forbid me

your house hereafter, and indeed I hardly believe I will be welcome,”

with a look at the scornful face of her hostess; “but I care not; I

believe in Robert’s innocence, and that Mary Campbell has only spoken

the truth.” A few nodded their heads to each other in approval. Lord

Glencairn stood mute, a prey to the doubting fear which gripped his heart.

Her ladyship, with one quick look around at the wavering faces of her

friends, knew that she was losing ground, and the color faded from her

cheeks. A look of nervous fear came into her steely eyes. She must

restore their shaking confidence in her—but how? It gave her a strange

feeling of satisfaction to know that whatever the outcome, she had ruined

his popularity for the present, but she wanted to ruin him utterly—to

turn every door in Edinburgh against him. If she could only get someone

to speak in her behalf, she thought prayerfully, as she looked about her.

Suddenly her eyes rested on the saturnine features of her uncle, who was

regarding her with a malicious smile of triumph. An eager light came into

her hard eyes. He hated Robert Burns; he would help her out if anyone

would; she would risk it. His word coupled with hers would instantly turn

the tide in her favor. And risking all upon the throw, she called out

loud enough to be heard above the murmur of voices, “Uncle, it seems my

word is not fully believed,” she said, with a little pitying, disdainful

smile, which brought the flush of embarrassment to the cheeks of several,

who happened to catch her eye; “so if you will oblige me by relating

what you know of the unpleasant circumstances, perhaps your word will

be accepted by our doubting friends.” Her lazy voice was replete with

insulting sarcasm.

All eyes turned to look at Sir William, who, after one quick, angry

glance at the cool, smiling face of his strategic niece, cleared his

throat with irritating precision, and, without glancing at the startled

face of his victim, who had started to his feet upon hearing the amazing

request of her ladyship, spoke quickly and harshly, a faint tinge of

color dying his yellow skin as the dastardly lie left his lips.

“I overheard Mr. Burns’ insults to my niece,” he said firmly. “I was

standing behind the curtain there,” pointing to a large window, “where I

had gone only a moment before Lady Glencairn entered the room, to glance

out of the window, having heard a noise without, and before I could make

my presence known, Mr. Burns had thrown himself upon his knees, and—and I

did not disturb them,” he concluded lamely.

“Ye perjurer!” cried Robert furiously. “By heaven, I could choke ye with

your own lie!” and he turned white with passion. Sir William cowered

back, a look of fear in his shifty eyes.

“Oh, Robbie, take me hame, take me hame,” gasped Mary, with

heart-breaking pathos, and she sank half fainting in the chair Robert had

vacated.

“Come, James, let us retire,” said Lady Glencairn sweetly, casting

a look of grateful triumph at her uncle. “I am sorry you have lost

a friend, but I could not shield him,” and she pressed his arm with

affected tenderness. Slowly, sorrowfully he allowed himself to be drawn

to the door.

“My lord!” cried Robert hoarsely, “have ye no word to say to me? Ye have

heard the proofs of my innocence; will ye not believe them?” and his

whole soul was in his eyes as he eagerly searched the downcast face of

his old benefactor.

Lord Glencairn gave him one sad, reproachful look. “Oh, Robert,” he said

brokenly, “and I trusted you so.”

Robert dropped his hand, which he had extended pleadingly, and a flush

mounted to the roots of his hair, which quickly faded, leaving him paler

than before, while a look of wounded pride and unutterable bitterness

flashed into his stern face.

“I will attempt no further denial, my lord,” he said slowly, with quiet

dignity. “Calumny has at last reared its vicious head to strike like some

venomous serpent, seeking to crush me in its enveloping folds. The genius

of the Bard is ignored, forgotten—only my obscure birth, my sins, my

indiscretions, my faults are remembered now,” and he smiled with mournful

bitterness.

“Ye have been too puffed up with pride and vanity,” cried Sir William

brutally. “Edinburgh has tired of you.”

Robert gave a scornful little laugh. “Why,” he asked, looking around at

those who had been only too glad to fawn upon him a few moments before,

“because I am no longer a curiosity for the vulgar to gaze at?” He spoke

with biting sarcasm. He paused a minute, then continued bitterly. “Oh,

fool that I have been! At last my eyes are opened to my true position

in your world of society. How I hate and despise the hypocrisy of you

so-called some-bodies! How you fawn and smirk and bow down to wealth

and position, while the man of genius, of avowed worth is disbelieved,

dishonored, and insulted! God, the humiliation of it all!” His eyes

flashed with righteous anger and the indignant scorn in his voice cut

deeply through the thin skin of more than one of his listeners. “I have

endured the insults heaped upon my head to-day in bitterness of spirit

and in silent scorn,” he continued stormily, “but noo my outraged manhood

at last rebels, and I throw down my gage of contemptuous defiance.”

“Robert, calm yourself, laddie!” whispered Mrs. Dunlop apprehensively,

laying a restraining hand upon his arm, which trembled with excitement.

“Your friends will never believe aught against you, Mr. Burns,” exclaimed

Mr. Mackenzie, with deep feeling in his voice.

“My friends!” repeated Robert wildly. “I have none, I want none in this

purse proud city. No longer will I submit to insulting condescension. No

longer will I skulk into a corner of the street like the veriest nobody

on earth, lest the rattling equipage of some gossiping titled blockhead

mangle me in the mire.”

“Robert, I have always loved you,” exclaimed Lord Glencairn, with

rebuking reproachfulness.

“But ye believe the worst of me noo,” replied Robert passionately. “It

only needed this scene of scandal to show my friends in their true

colors.”

“Then go back to your low-born friends where ye belong,” snarled Sir

William vindictively.

“I mean to go back,” retorted Robert, his face flushing crimson, “and

with gladness will I shake the dust of this unjust city off my feet.”

A softer look came over his haggard face and his eyes filled with a

yearning look of utter heart-weariness, a sudden longing for the blissful

quiet of his country home. A tender sweetness came into his voice as he

continued softly, “I will return from whence I came, to the plowtail,

where the poetic genius of my country found me and threw her inspiring

mantle over me.”

Mary took his hand in hers, and with infinite tenderness murmured fondly,

“An’ ye’ll find the banks an’ braes of bonnie Doon holding out their arms

to welcome ye back to your native heath once more, laddie.”

“Let us hope he’ll shine to better advantage there,” sneered Sir

William. A nervous little titter broke the tense silence.

Robert turned on him, goaded to sudden fury. “Ye bird o’ ill omen!” he

panted hoarsely, “I have never injured ye; I have brought money into

your empty pockets. But ye will repent bitterly for swearing away my

life as ye have this day, for e’en though I leave Edinburgh in shame and

disgrace, ’tis not for ay. Nay! I thank God my works will live after me,

that my name will yet become immortal.” His words rang out wildly and

with impassioned intensity.

Lady Glencairn laughed mockingly, and, turning to some of her friends

standing near, she made some low-toned remark, evidently a sarcastic

witticism at the expense of the speaker, which elicited a burst of hollow

laughter from her listeners, who, while they wished to remain in the

favor of the leader of Edinburgh society, stood in wholesome awe of the

blunt speech, the scornful wit of the brilliant poet on trial before them.

“Ye vain boaster!” scoffed Sir William loudly, “you’ll be forgot within a

week,” and he laughed derisively.

“Ye may scoff, ye may laugh,” retorted Robert hotly. “Ye may call me

egoist if ye like, but I know what I have done for my country—I have

attuned my wild artless notes to sing her praises, joys, and sorrows,

and I know those songs will live forever in the heart of every true

Scotsman.” Suddenly, like a ray of sunshine which dispels the morning

mist, his dark haughty face took upon itself a noble, thoughtful, rapt

expression—his wildly flashing eyes softened—his furrowed brow smoothed,

and, fixing his luminous eyes upon the disdainful face of his hostess, he

continued with melancholy pathos and prophetic solemnity, “Ah, my lady,

ye have trampled my good name low in the dust to-day, but my prophetic

spirit tells me the day is coming, even though ye an’ all my traducers

here be dead, rotted and forgot, when one name will be remembered,

cherished and proclaimed above all others of Scotland, aye, the world,

and that name, my lords and ladies, will not be of any rich titled

somebody! Nay, ’twill be that of the plowman-poet of Ayrshire, Robert

Burns.”

CHAPTER XIX

The situation in which Robert now found himself was calculated to awaken

reflection. The time had come, so he gloomily told his friend, Will

Nichol, the morning after the garden party at Lord Glencairn’s, for him

to abandon the gayety and dissipation of which he had been too much

enamored; and all that day he pondered seriously, if gloomily, on the

past, and formed virtuous resolutions respecting the future. He had weeks

ago made up his mind to settle himself for life in the occupation of

agriculture, and now that Edinburgh had tired of his peculiarities, and

the novelty of his appearance had become an old story for them, there

was nothing left for him to do but to start in on his new life as soon

as possible. To further that end he called upon Sir William that day and

demanded a settlement. When he left the office he found himself master

of nearly £500. With the money in his pocket he again called on Will

Nichols and requested him to assist him in the selection of a farm. With

his advice and assistance he soon decided to lease the farm of Ellisland,

on the banks of the River Nith, just above Dumfries. When he had in this

manner arranged his plans for the future his generous heart, which

was sore and bleeding from the many wounds it had recently received,

wounds which seemed to the suffering man that would never heal in this

life, turned in pity and remorse to the mother of his child—a thrill of

yearning stirred him strangely as he thought of the little one—his son—a

warm feeling of love welled up in his heart as he softly repeated the

words; and listening to no consideration but those of honor and duty, and

a strange feeling of growing affection, which made him pause in wonder,

he sought out Jean at the Inn, having learned that she was still in

town, contrary to Lady Glencairn’s assertion, which he had believed; and

there, with his friends surrounding them, they were joined in a public

declaration of marriage, thus legalizing their union and rendering it

permanent for life.

Mrs. Dunlop and Mary had not been present at the ceremony. Mary was

confined to her bed in a state of nervous collapse, and Mrs. Dunlop, much

as she loved Robert, and honored him for the noble step he was taking,

could not leave the stricken girl. It was her wish and determination to

keep Mary with her as long as she could content herself there. Her kind,

motherly heart ached in silent sympathy for the child who had received

such a bitter disappointment, and who was bearing her sorrows with such

patient fortitude. Before Robert left the city she wrote for him to come

and see her, assuring him of her continued friendship, etc., etc. That

evening found him seated beside his stanch friend in whom he confided

his hopes and his fears for the future, and soon he had poured out

the bitterness of his heart, the yearnings of his soul, all the cruel

disappointments of his tempestuous life. She listened in sympathetic

silence, a smile of encouragement, every now and then, lighting up her

face. When he had finished, she told him how proud she was of him,

how she gloried in his strength of purpose, his new-made resolutions,

cautioned him not to forget the new vows he had so lately formed, warned

him of the many vices, the back-sliding state into which one of his

temperament was so apt to fall. Then with infinite tenderness she told

him of the courage of the sweet maiden who now lay upon her bed of sorrow

in the upper room, told him of her loyalty, her pride in his greatness,

in his nobility, while he listened with the burning tears streaming

unchecked down his quivering cheeks. After a pause she took him by the

hand and led him softly to the door of Mary’s chamber. “For the last

farewell,” she whispered sadly. Then she left him standing before the

door, gazing at it as though it were the gates of Heaven which were about

to open for him at his bidding. A sweet voice bade him enter, in answer

to his timid knock, and softly opening the door, he stepped into the room.

Mary opened her beautiful, tired blue eyes, thinking it was her dear

benefactress, and then what a divine rapture—what a dazzling wonder and

joy flashed into them, giving them back their old luster of sunlight

sparkling on an azure sea. She sprang up in her bed and stretched out her

arms.

“Robert!” she cried sobbingly. “Oh, Robbie, my darling.”

Mrs. Dunlop came back and softly closed the door on the sacred stillness

that followed. Then she slowly wended her way down to her sitting-room

and sat down with a deep sigh. “What a sad old world this is,” she

thought. The time dragged along very slowly as she patiently waited for

Robert to come down. Presently she heard the door above close ever so

gently, and then his low footfall down the thick stair carpet. She rose

and met him in the reception hall. He stood on the lowest step, his hand

on the balustrade, his breast heaving with the strain of his emotions.

Mrs. Dunlop took his hand tenderly and pressed it in loving sympathy.

By and by he spoke, and the intense suffering in his voice touched her

keenly. “As ye sow, so shall ye reap,” he muttered brokenly. She could

only press his hand in silent sympathy. Gradually his grief became quiet

and a look of melancholy resignation came over his expressive face.

“When will you leave the city?” she asked quietly.

He thought a moment. “My affairs will be settled by the week’s end,”

he replied, “then I shall go straight to Ellisland. I——” He paused a

moment, then straightened himself, and continued in a firm voice, “Jean

has gone to Mauchline. She will remain there until the house at Ellisland

is in condition to receive her.” He held out his hand. “And now, dear,

good friend, good-by.”

“No, not good-by, laddie,” she answered tearfully. “Just _au revoir_, for

I mean to visit you some day,” and she smiled through her tears.

With a last shake of the hand, he left her, while above stairs a sweet,

wan, tear-stained face, pressed close against the pane, watched his bowed

figure striding moodily toward his lodging, watched it as it faded,

growing dimmer and dimmer, till it was lost to sight.

[Illustration: Robert Burns]

BOOK III

CHAPTER XX

Now spells of mightier power prepare,

Bid brighter phantoms round him dance;

Let flattery spread her viewless snare,

And fame attract his vagrant glance;

Let sprightly pleasure too advance,

Unveiled her eyes, unclasped her zone;

Till last in love’s delicious trance

He scorns the joys his youth has known.

When Robert reached Ellisland the evening sun was flaming over the

distant western hills. Not a breath stirred the crimson opening blossom,

or the verdant spreading leaf. It was a golden moment for a poet’s heart.

He stopped his horse by the door of the cottage and stood silently

regarding his future home. He had secured from Mr. Miller in Dumfries,

the owner of the farm, the keys, and declining the company of several,

who offered to show him the way to his new possession, he set out on his

journey in gloomy solitude. For a few moments he listened to the birds

pouring their harmony on every hand, as if to welcome the wanderer, then

with a sigh he unlocked the door and went within. A few weeks passed

uneventfully. Upon his arrival he had immediately begun to rebuild

the dwelling house, which was inadequate to accommodate his family. It

afforded his jaded senses much pleasure to survey the grounds he was

about to cultivate, and in rearing a building that should give shelter

to his wife and children (who were with Squire Armour in Mauchline, the

stern old man having relented upon a bed of sickness), and, as he fondly

hoped, to his own gray hairs; sentiments of independence buoyed up his

mind; pictures of domestic content and peace rose in his imagination; and

a few weeks passed away, the most tranquil, if not the happiest, which

he had experienced for some time. His fame naturally drew upon him the

attention of his neighbors in the district in which he lived, and he was

received at the table of the gentlemen of Nithdale with welcome, with

kindness and respect. It is to be lamented that at this critical period

of his life he was without the restraining influences of the society of

his wife, for a great change had taken place in his situation; his old

habits were broken, and he brooded in melancholy abstraction upon his

past glories in Edinburgh and his wrongs, while thoughts of Highland

Mary constantly filled his waking hours, and caused him to forget the

good resolutions he had formed, in his desire to drown recollections.

The social parties to which he was invited too often seduced him

from his rustic labor and his plain rustic food, and overthrew the

unsteady fabric of his resolutions, inflaming those propensities which

temperance might have weakened, and prudence finally suppressed. It was

not long, therefore, before Robert began to view his farm with dislike

and despondence, if not with disgust. Before his advent into Edinburgh

society, and during his sojourn there, he had refrained from the habitual

use of strong liquors. But in Dumfries the sins that so easily beset

him continually presented themselves, and though he clearly foresaw the

consequences of yielding to them, his appetite and sensations, which

could not prevent the dictates of his judgment, finally triumphed over

the power of his will.

His great celebrity made him an object of interest and curiosity to

strangers, and few persons of cultivated minds passed through Dumfries

without attempting to see the poet, and to enjoy the pleasure of his

conversation. As he could not receive them under his own humble roof

these interviews passed at the inns of the towns, and often terminated

in excesses, which Robert was seldom able to resist. Indeed, there were

never wanting persons to share his social pleasures, to lead or accompany

him to the tavern, to partake in the wildest sallies of his wit, or to

witness the strength and degradation of his genius.

Unfortunately he had for several years looked to an office in the excise

as a certain means of livelihood, should his other expectations fail. He

had been recommended to the Board of Excise before leaving Mossgiel,

and had received the instructions necessary for such a situation. He

now applied to be employed regularly, and was immediately appointed

exciseman, or gauger, as it is vulgarly called, of the district in which

he lived. His farm was after this, in a great measure, abandoned to

servants, while he betook himself to the duties of his new appointment.

To be sure he could still be seen at intervals directing his plow, a

labor in which he excelled, but it was not at Ellisland that he was now

in general to be found. Mounted on horseback, our hero was pursuing the

defaulters of the revenue among the hills and vales of Nithdale, his

roving eye wandering over the charms of nature, and muttering his wayward

fancies as he moved along. Though by nature of an athletic form, Robert

had in his constitution the peculiarities and delicacies that belong to

the temperament of genius. Endowed by nature with great sensibility of

nerves, he was in his corporeal, as well as in his mental system, liable

to inordinate impressions, to fever of the body, as well as of mind.

This predisposition to disease, which strict temperance in diet, regular

exercise, and sound sleep might have subdued, habits of a very different

nature, strengthened and inflamed.

The following year Jean and her bairns came to live at Ellisland. He

received them with quiet affection, and Jean, who had grown strangely

humbled and passive, did her utmost to please him at all times, never

referring to the past, and tactfully avoiding all irritating subjects,

and by her soothing presence, her loving words of comfort and sympathy,

soon made her presence indispensable to her moody husband. Another year

passed by, a year of anxiety for Jean, who was compelled to witness her

husband’s lapses from sobriety, which now came so often, and to watch his

health decline slowly, but surely, in consequence. In the midst of all

his wanderings Robert met nothing in his domestic circle but gentleness

and forgiveness, except the gnawings of his own remorse. He acknowledged

his transgressions to his patient wife, promised amendment, and again

received pardon for his offenses. But as the strength of his body

decayed, his resolution became feebler, and habit acquired predominating

strength.

All this time Robert had entertained hopes of promotion in the exercise,

but circumstances occurred which retarded their fulfillment, and which in

his own mind destroyed all expectation of their ever being fulfilled. His

steady friend, Mr. Mackenzie, interposed his good offices in his behalf,

however, and he was suffered to retain his situation, but given to

understand that his promotion was deferred, and must depend on his future

behavior. This circumstance made a deep impression on Robert. He fancied

that everyone held him in contemptuous pity, as a man of some genius who

had dwindled into a paltry exciseman, and who was slinking out the rest

of his insignificant existence in the meanest of pursuits, and among the

lowest of mankind; and for days he would sit quietly on the banks of the

river plunged in the gloomiest meditation.

About this time he received word of Lord Glencairn’s death. The news

plunged him into another fit of melancholy gloom, lessened somewhat,

however, by the assurance that his noble benefactor had died knowing the

truth, believing in Robert’s innocence, and asking his forgiveness.

As his health declined his thoughts became more and more fixed upon Mary,

who was once more in Mossgiel at Colonel Montgomery’s. He yearned with

bitter longing to gaze upon her sweet face again, to hear her dear voice

speak his name. These thoughts he strove vainly to conquer, to banish

from his mind, for Jean’s patience and goodness, her loving forbearance,

filled him with shame at his own unworthiness. But she gave no sign

of the bitter heartache she endured. She accepted it all in patient

resignation, striving by uniform prudence and good management to relieve

his distress of mind regarding the material welfare of his little flock.

Toward the end of spring he contracted a severe cold while in reckless

pursuit of an offender, in a driving rain storm, and, having caught the

guilty one, he celebrated the event at the inn, in company with some

congenial spirits, seated in his wet clothes, the result being an attack

of rheumatism, which laid him upon a bed of sickness for some weeks. His

salary was but a small one, hardly sufficient to keep his family from

want, and though hitherto his farm had yielded him a comfortable living,

for some months it had been left to run itself, with the inevitable

results. Planting time had come and gone, and still his ground lay all

untouched. His laborers had refused to work for him longer without pay,

and Souter Johnny, who was now making his home at Ellisland, could only

attend to the lighter chores about the farm. And now things began to

take a serious outlook for our hero and his family. Though sick and

discouraged, with want staring him in the face, he still sent glowing

reports of his continued prosperity to his loved ones in Mossgiel,

reports that filled their anxious hearts with false hopes and prayerful

thankfulness.

CHAPTER XXI

One day during Robert’s early convalescence, Souter, after having

finished his chores, sauntered leisurely through the vegetable garden.

It was a peaceful nook, and there were household odors of mint, and

thyme, and boy’s love, which were pleasant to the soul of Souter Johnny,

and reminded him of stewed rabbit, which he dearly loved, with all its

attendant delicacies. He paced the path slowly, the light of the sinking

sun blazing gloriously upon the brilliant gown of his companion, who was

simpering along beside him, her little gray eyes looking down on him with

flattering interest as she listened with apparent delight to his tales

of daring adventure. Finally their conversation drifted to the sick man

within.

“Poor bonnie laddie,” sighed Eppy dolefully. “To think of him being so

ill. We all loved him dearly in Edinburgh.”

“He hasna’ been the same lad since he returned from there,” replied

Souter. “He had many great disappointments in his young life, I tell

ye,” and he shook his head dismally. “An’ noo everything has gone to the

dogs wi’ him, ever since he has been in Ellisland. ’Twas a sorry day

when he became an exciseman, say I.” He paused a moment reflectively,

then continued earnestly, “But no matter what anybody says different, he

has always done his duty faithfully, always on the tramp in all kinds

of weather, till at last his robust constitution has given out, an’ he

bowled over, so to speak.” He loyally refrained from mentioning that

Robert’s illness was partly due to his imprudent way of living.

Eppy sighed again. “And he the Bard of Scotland,” she returned

commiseratingly. “How I pity him. Isn’t it sad Mr. MacDougall?”

“Aye,” replied Souter, with a quick look from under his shaggy eyebrows.

“Ye hae a kind heart in ye, Miss McKay,” he observed after a pause.

“Do you really think so?” she simpered. “I fear you are a base flatterer,

Mr. MacDougall. In Edinburgh there were so many who flattered me, who

sought for my favors, that I became wearied of it all, and longed for

a change. That is why I came here to Ayrshire and purchased the farm

adjoining, that I might rest during the summer.”

“And then ye’ll be leaving us?” asked Souter with a deep sigh.

“Perhaps not,” and she looked at him coquettishly. “Would anyone care if

I did return to town?” she insinuated slyly.

“’Tis a wonder that such a bonnie lassie as ye should still be a maiden,”

he observed abruptly with a sly look out of the corner of his eye.

“Oh, I have had many offers,” she answered airily, though her heart

fluttered with a newly-born hope.

“Do ye ne’er get lonely, Miss McKay?”

She sighed and cast down her eyes. “Yes, I do,” she declared plaintively,

“and I’m lonely now in that great big house with only a servant for

company.”

“Souter Johnny,” said Souter to himself, “this is the chance of your

lifetime; go in and win a home.” Having arrived at this resolution, he

cleared his throat and pausing in his walk, faced the simpering old lady.

“Mum, ye see before ye,” he remarked, not without some nervousness, “a

single man, like yoursel’. Not from necessity, och nae; Souter Johnny,

before he lost his handsome looks, could hae had his pick o’ any o’ the

lassies, but I hae waited till noo——” he paused impressively.

“Till now, Mr. MacDougall?” she repeated breathlessly, eager to have him

continue.

“Weel, noo I hae found her,” he answered, “an’ she’s what I hae been

lookin’ for a’ my life.”

“How romantic you are,” she cried soulfully, with an admiring look.

“Aye, that I am, ’tis born in me,” he responded. “Do ye mind if I smoke,

mum?” he asked carelessly. He took out of his waistcoat pocket his old

black pipe and held it in his hand.

“Oh, no,” she gushed. “I love to see you smoke, ’tis so manly.”

Having lighted his pipe and got it drawing to his satisfaction, he turned

to her once more, and remarked casually, “Would ye call me too old to get

married? I’m askin’ your advice noo.” He looked at her quizzically.

She shook her head vigorously in the negative. “Age does not matter at

all,” she observed sagely. “The question is do you feel peart?” and she

regarded him with anxious eyes.

A grim smile played around Souter’s lips. Removing his pipe, he replied

with convincing firmness, “Never was sick in my life, strong and healthy.

Feel my muscle!” and he held out his doubled arm to the timid Eppy,

who shrank away bashfully. “It willna’ hurt ye,” he declared. Thus

encouraged, she gingerly touched it with one finger. “Fine, isn’t it?”

he asked proudly. Before she could answer he continued, “I have a fine

appetite, mum, an’ I dinna’ feel my age. Noo I ask ye, am I too ugly to

be looked at, mum? Dinna’ be afraid to tell me the truth.” He held up his

head, straightened his bent shoulders and stood awaiting her reply.

She eyed him a moment in silence. “Well, Mr. MacDougall,” she said

doubtfully, after a pause, “I must confess you’re no beauty.” A look

of disappointment came over Souter’s face, seeing which she hastened

to reassure him. “But I care not for looks, Mr. MacDougall,” she cried

earnestly. “One could get used to you. I’ve heard it said that one can

get used to anything in time,” and she smiled sweetly into his downcast

face.

He gave her a quick look.

“Is it as bad as that?” he returned reflectively. “Weel, looks is all a

matter of taste. And noo let’s get down to business.” Eppy gave a start

and her hands fluttered about nervously, as she waited for his next

words. “Do ye think, mum, this sweet, lovely lassie I hae in my mind

would hae me for a husband?” he insinuated softly.

She gave a little gasp. “This is so sudden,” she simpered, then broke off

abruptly—he hadn’t asked her yet. “Er—why don’t you ask the beautiful

lassie. She might think of it.” She coyly looked down upon him from under

her big bonnet.

Souter threw down his pipe in his earnestness. “I will,” he ejaculated

quickly, his eyes sparkling with triumph. “’Tis your ain bright sel’ for

whom my heart is yearnin’. Will ye hae me, Eppy?”

Eppy closed her eyes in blissful content. “My first proposal,” she

thought joyfully. Opening her eyes, she gazed at him fondly. “Oh, I don’t

want to make a mistake now,” she cried, half frightened, but she had no

intention of refusing him, however.

“Dinna’ fear,” replied Souter eagerly. “I’ll attend to that; there’ll be

no mistake made, I’ll warrant ye.”

“You’re such a masterful man,” she exclaimed, with an admiring look,

“and—well, there’s no gainsaying you. I must confess a real live man

about the house would be most comforting—to my sister, Sibella—and—and

me, so I—I’ll have you, Souter,” and she threw herself into his arms with

a cry of joy and thankfulness.

“Thank ye, thank ye, mum,” said Souter gratefully. “I feel as if I had

won the prize ticket in a grand lottery.” He heaved a great sigh of

blissful content as he thought of the big house across the way. “There

noo, my pipe is out again,” he observed, after a little pause, and

he calmly turned his back and proceeded to relight it, leaving Eppy

regarding him with reproachful eyes and pouting lips.

“Souter,” she finally faltered, “I—I thought you were more romantic. We

haven’t sealed our engagement by a—a——”

“A—what?” asked Souter concernedly. “Is there something mair to do?”

She sidled up to him, giggling bashfully, and after turning to see if

they were observed, she put her arm around his neck and said pensively:

“Gin a body meet a body comin’ thro’ the rye,

Gin a body kiss a body, need a body cry.”

A comical look of comprehension dawned on Souter’s face. “O—oh! I see,

’tis a kiss ye mean,” he answered lightly. “Weel, noo, I’ll na’ stop

ye if ye want to kiss me. If you can stand it, I can,” and he held his

face up to hers, for she towered a foot above him. With a sudden dart, a

downward sweep of her head, she glued her lips to the little man’s, then

with a resounding smack she released him, with a sigh of absolute content

upon her homely face. “Weel, noo, that’s not half bad,” observed Souter,

smacking his lips reflectively.

“Now, Souter,” declared Eppy decidedly, after they had walked a few paces

in quiet, “since you are a Highlander, you must wear the kilt, to please

me; and it must be the tartan of our clan.”

Souter threw up his hands in amazed horror. “Oh, dearie, dinna’ ask me to

do that; I canna’ wear the kilt; I am na’ built that way,” and he looked

down at his legs with whimsical seriousness.

“Then I’ll not marry you,” she declared with apparent firmness.

Souter hurriedly explained in trembling fear. “I’ll tell ye the truth,

dearie: when I last wore the kilt the laddies laughed at my crooked legs

an’ called me a scarecrow, an’ I swore then I’d ne’er show my bare legs

to mortal man again. Would ye hae me expose my miserable defects, womman?”

She stood off and let her eyes rove slowly down his nether extremities

with the air of a connoisseur. “I protest they do not look so badly,” she

observed encouragingly.

[Illustration: “‘Keep on turning,’ she commanded.”]

“Looks are deceivin’, lassie,” quickly replied Souter, who objected

seriously to kilts. “My legs are na’ my beauty point, for a’ that; they

are just twa wee bones, I tell ye, so be prepared for the worst,” and he

shook his head dolefully.

“Oh, well, as Mr. Burns says, ‘A man’s a man, for a’ that!’” she replied

sweetly. Then after a moment’s reflection, she asked with tender

solicitude, “Are they so very wee, Souter?”

“Aye, ye should see them,” he replied eagerly, hoping to convince her as

to his unfitness to wear the dress.

Eppy held up her hands before her face in horror. “Whatever are you

saying, Souter?”

“Weel, my legs are a maist sensitive subject wi’ me, my dear,” he

returned apologetically.

“Turn around,” she commanded. He did so in wonder. “Keep on turning,”

she commanded. “I think, mayhap, they’re not so bad,” she observed after

a critical inspection. “However, after we are wed I can decide better

whether ye can wear the kilt or not.”

Souter regarded her in meek astonishment, then he humbly rejoined, “Weel,

if ye can stand their looks, I’ll na’ complain, but it’s o’er chilly at

times,” and he shivered apprehensively.

She laughed gayly. “Now, Souter, I must go home. Come over soon, you

masterful man!”

“Aye, the first thing in the morning,” retorted Souter calmly, “an’ I’ll

bring the minister wi’ me.”

“The minister! Why bring him?” asked Eppy in amazement.

“To marry us, my dear,” replied Souter quietly.

“You must be daft man!” she cried in sudden alarm.

Souter shook his head. “Ye’d better take no chances,” he retorted calmly.

“I may change my mind,” and he carefully knocked the ashes out of his

pipe and put it in his pocket.

“You impatient man!” fluttered Eppy. “I—I—come over and we’ll talk about

it. Good-by, laddie,” and she tripped daintily off down the path toward

the gate.

Then Souter sat down on the seat under the big tree beside the house.

“Souter Johnny,” he said to himself, “ye’re a devil with the wimmen,

mon,” and a smile of self-satisfaction stole over his wrinkled face.

“Souter Johnny!” panted Eppy, running back to him breathlessly, “I’ve

changed my mind.”

Souter jumped to his feet in sudden terror. Had he lost her after all, or

rather, had he lost the home across the way? “W—what, do you mean?” he

stammered.

“I mean—you—you—may bring the minister,” she gasped, and away she

fluttered down the walk before he could recover from his astonishment.

“Hurrah! your fortune is made, Souter Johnny!” he cried aloud, when the

meaning of her words had dawned upon him, and he threw his bonnet high

in the air. “Ye’ll nae hae to cobble shoes any mair, noo, for ye’ll be

lord of the manor house, wi’ servants to wait on ye. Oh, the power of

money! ye’ll ride out in your fine carriage, Souter, and as ye drive by,

all the neighbors will be bowing and scraping to ye. I can see them noo.

’Twill be ‘Mr. MacDougall, will ye do us the honor to call at the castle;

her ladyship would be pleased to see you.’ Then I’ll say to them that

snubbed me when I was poor, ‘Weel, noo, ’tis very busy I am, attending

to my estates and other social duties. Tell her grace that Mr. and Mrs.

MacDougall will be pleased to have her visit us at MacDougall House, if

she cares to meet us.’” And he stalked along majestically to the house

with his head held proudly erect. “Noo, I’ll find the minister and make

sure of my bird.” Arriving at the door of the cottage, he stopped, and

addressing an imaginary butler, said pompously, “James, open the door,

your master wishes to enter! Thank ye! Noo take my hat! Noo ye may go!”

With a chuckle of delight he quietly opened the door and composing his

features into their natural expression, entered the cottage and made his

way to the kitchen, where he found a bowl of porridge awaiting him, which

he hungrily devoured.

Meanwhile in the other room Robert lay tossing feverishly upon his bed.

Jean sat beside him smoothing his pillow from time to time, and soothing

his anguished mind with words of love and encouragement.

“Blessings on your faithful head, Jean,” he murmured gratefully. “You’re

the best, truest wife that erring mortal man ever had.” She flushed with

pleasure at his words of praise. “Oh, this accursed rheumatism,” he

groaned. “How it shackles one, making one as much a prisoner as though a

ball and chain were attached to his ankle.”

“But you are much better to-day,” said Jean brightly.

“For a while only. I fear me this is my fatal illness,” he replied

despondently.

“Don’t say that, Robert; you’ll be on your feet in a few days now,” and

she looked hopefully into his worn and haggard face.

He pressed her hand gently. “I haven’t been the best of husbands, lass,”

he said after a pause. “I have sore tried your patience and your love

ofttimes, by my unfaithfulness, my unworthiness.”

“I do not complain, Robert,” she answered quietly.

“No, ye have never done that,” he said with a tender smile, “frequent

though my lapses in sobriety and propriety have been.” He paused

thoughtfully; presently he continued in mournful reflection, “But I was

punished for those sins afterward, for then came remorse, shame, regret,

the three hell hounds that ever dog my steps and bay at my heels.”

“If it is God’s will——” began Jean, but he interrupted her.

“Ah, no, Jean,” he replied bitterly. “’Tis not God’s will that I should

be here, racked with pain and tortured by the sins that come staring me

in the face, each one telling a more bitter tale than his fellow. ’Tis

only the result of my own headstrong folly.” She wiped away the drops of

perspiration from his brow with tender fingers, while he lay panting from

the excitement that the recital of his sorrows had occasioned.

“There, do not distress yourself with such bitter thoughts,” she told him

gently. “What is done, is done, and all our sins will be blotted out in

that other life.”

“That other life,” he repeated dreamily. “Can it be possible that when I

resign this feverish being I shall find myself in conscious existence,

enjoying and enjoyed? Would to God I as firmly believed it as I ardently

wish it. If there is another life,” he continued with a flash of his

old whimsical brightness, “it must be for the just, the benevolent, the

amiable only, and the good. I’m sore afraid Rob Burns will na’ be able to

get even a peep through the Pearly Gates.”

“Hush, dear,” replied Jean with tender reproach. “’Twill be open to all.

‘Let whosoever will, come and have eternal life,’ the Master said.”

He mused a while on that sweet thought. “Ah, weel, just noo,” he returned

with a sigh, “this life is what we must face, and which I must cling to

as long as I can for the sake of my little flock. Poverty and misfortune

must be overcome, and at once. Our salvation now lies in my getting the

supervisorship and increased salary; then we need have no fear of the

future; we can laugh at fate.”

“You sent your last poem, ‘Prettiest maid on Devon’s bank,’ to Mr.

Thompson, didn’t ye, laddie?” asked Jean anxiously.

“Aye,” he replied, closing his eyes wearily. “And I implored him for

God’s sake to send me a few pounds to tide me over the present, till I

got my promotion. I am not asking a loan, ’tis a business transaction,”

he continued proudly, “and I ken he will send whatever he is able to

spare. He is a good friend, and it grieves me bitterly to be obliged

to ask help of him to keep us from starving. But,” and a note of

independence crept into his voice, “my song is worth whatever he sends.”

“Hunger and want can humble the most independent spirit,” returned Jean

sadly. She rose and walked to the window and looked out into the twilight

with searching, anxious eyes. “Posty should bring us an answer to-night,”

she murmured.

“An’ he will,” cried Robert hopefully, “for Thompson willna’ disappoint

me, for he kens I am in sore straits.”

“Heaven bless him!” cried Jean fervently.

CHAPTER XXII

The next day our hero was in better health and spirits, and insisted upon

being up and dressed. Jean, not without secret misgivings, got him into

his clothes and helped him to the rocking-chair, which she had drawn up

to the open window. For a while he sat there in silent content, bathed

in the warm, golden light of the morning sun, whose genial beams seemed

to infuse new vigor into his languid frame, while the gentle summer wind

blew upon him with its exhilarating, refreshing warmth. After Jean had

performed her household duties she returned to find him playing happily

with their two boys, telling them tale after tale, while they sat perched

on either arm of the big rocker, their eyes popping out of their round,

healthy faces with excited interest. He looked up as she entered and

smiled into her anxious face.

“Do not tire yourself, Robert,” she cautioned him gently. “Come, lads,

run out doors and play a wee, your father is tired.” But they clung to

him affectionately.

“One mair story,” they pleaded.

“Tell us aboot Tam O’Shanter’s ride!” commanded Robert, Jr., gravely.

Jean sat down while he recited the stirring tale, and watched her

husband with eyes aglow with love and pity. How changed he was, she

thought with a sigh. What havoc had been wrought in that sturdy frame,

that fine constitution, in the once ringing tones of his musical voice.

Alas, all had flown, but with God’s help she would win him back to health

and strength once more, she told herself with resolute determination.

As he finished he kissed the earnest faces held up to his with such

worshipful affection, and with a serious “Thank ye, father,” they turned

and marched quietly out of the room and into the open air, and soon their

childish treble floated in through the open window, bringing a smile of

amused affection to the faces of their parents.

“Now, Robert, ye must be tired out,” remarked Jean presently. “Will ye

not try and get a nappie?”

“In a wee, Jean,” he answered, looking out of the window thoughtfully.

“Then you must have a bittie of gruel now,” she said, rising and going

toward the door.