“Nay, nay, Jean, I thank ye, but I canna’ eat nor drink nor sleep just at

present.”

“Then try and take a nappie,” she insisted, smoothing the pillows and

sheets in anxious preparation.

“A little later, Jean,” he replied a trifle impatiently.

She sighed patiently. “Then I’ll leave ye for a while,” and she walked

toward the door. “Ye’re quite comfortable?” she asked. He nodded. Slowly

she closed the door upon him and applied herself to the task of getting

the midday meal.

Presently, a knock on the door startled her, interrupting her meager

preparations. Hastily wiping her hands on her apron, she opened it, and

there on the threshold stood two richly dressed strangers. “From the

city,” she mentally said, noticing the elegance of their attire.

Courteously raising his high conical blue silk hat, the younger man

addressed her. “Is not this Mistress Burns, whom I have the honor to

address?” he asked.

“I am Mistress Burns,” replied Jean with dignity.

“We have come to see your husband. Will you inform him, my dear madam,

that his friend Henry Mackenzie would be pleased to converse with him.”

Jean opened wide the door, a look of pleasure on her face. “Please

to enter,” she said quietly. They did so. She showed them into the

living-room and bade them be seated. “Robert will be out directly,” she

said, and hastily went to tell Robert of their arrival.

“So this is where Scotland’s Bard lives,” remarked Mr. Mackenzie, looking

about the room critically. “This cheerless hut, which bespeaks naught but

poverty. Poor Burns, I pity him.”

“’Tis all his own fault,” testily replied his companion.

“I am not so sure of that, Sir William,” said Mr. Mackenzie with a swift

look at him. “I have always believed and maintained that Burns was

innocent of that monstrous charge my Lady Glencairn brought against him,

even though you did confess to being an eye witness of the occurrence.

However, she has received her just deserts. She is at last totally

ostracized.”

“Do ye mean to say——” sputtered Sir William.

Mr. Mackenzie raised his hand in a stately gesture. “I really do not care

to discuss it, Sir William. But at last Edinburgh is beginning to realize

how cruelly they have misjudged him, and they would welcome him back

again, but I fear his pride and independence will prevent his accepting

any assistance whatever.”

Sir William gave a snort of impatience. “I cannot waste my sympathy on

him,” he said angrily. “I am dispatched here to do my duty, and I must do

it,” and his mouth set in a straight, determined line.

“’Tis a duty that for once is uncommon pleasant to you,” replied

Mackenzie sarcastically. There was silence for a moment, then he

continued, “I take it, the decision of the Board is final?” he asked.

“Aye, ’tis irrevocable, sir,” replied Sir William gruffly.

“And he must live on here as a poor exciseman,” murmured Mackenzie half

to himself. “Live! In sooth ’tis but an existence,” and he strode to

the window in sudden perturbation and gazed thoughtfully out upon the

untilled land.

The door of the chamber opened and Robert entered the room, a smile of

pleasure lighting up his face. Mr. Mackenzie stepped eagerly forward and

clasped his hand and shook it warmly.

“I am uncommon glad to see ye beneath my humble roof,” said Rob

earnestly, “and that ye havena’ forgotten poor, hopeless Robert Burns.”

Mackenzie led him to a chair. “Indeed, I have not,” he replied brightly.

“Believe me, Mr. Burns, when I say that I prize your friendship above

that of all men I know.”

Robert was about to reply, when he caught sight of Sir William Creech

watching them impatiently. He gave a great start and rose to his feet.

“Sir William Creech!” he said slowly and bitterly. “To what do I owe this

visit?”

“I come on a matter of business,” replied Sir William, a flush rising to

his cheek.

“What business can ye have with me noo?” asked Robert with rising anger.

“Perjurer, have ye come to gloat over the man ye helped ruin by your

iniquitous falsehood? It isna’ good news ye bring, I warrant ye, else ye

would not be the bearer of it.” And he gave a scornful little laugh.

“Insulting as ever, Robert Burns,” snarled Sir William, a red spot of

anger on each cheek, his eyes flashing wickedly. “Well, I’ll state my

business briefly. Ye wrote to the Board of Commissioners for the position

of supervisor in the excise. Your request has been voted on and was

refused.” He spat the words out with vindictive satisfaction.

“Refused!” gasped Rob incredulously. He had felt so confident that the

position would be given him. He sat down weakly in his chair, dazed for

a moment. “But my name has been on the list of promotion for months,” he

told them dully.

“’Twas scratched off some weeks ago.”

“Scratched off? and why?”

“Because of your Jacobite tendencies,” replied Sir William coldly.

“Many reports concerning your disloyal sentiments to your country have

reached the Board, which utterly ruined any chance ye might have had of

promotion.”

Robert sat with bowed head, crushed by his disappointment. “Again must

I drink deeply of the cup of humiliation and disappointment!” he cried

bitterly. Presently he looked up at Mr. Mackenzie with a grim smile on

his trembling face. “I am at last persuaded, Mr. Mackenzie, that it

was of me the Hebrew sage prophesied when he foretold, ‘and behold, on

whatsoever this man doth set his heart, it shall not prosper.’” His head

dropped on his chest—his hands clenched the sides of the chair with

despairing intensity. Suddenly he jumped to his feet, his face set and

drawn, his eyes wild and flashing with bitter anger. “My curse on those

damned informers, who have blasted my hopes,” he exclaimed hoarsely. “May

the devil be let loose to torture them to madness.” Then he sank down in

his chair exhausted by his passion, his face pale and quivering.

Mr. Mackenzie hastened to his side, fearful of the consequences of the

excitement on his frail constitution. Presently Robert spoke again, but

in a weak, broken voice.

“My last hope is torn from me,” he said despairingly. “What shall I do

now? Ah, Mr. Mackenzie, I have felt all the sweetness of applause in my

short life, but I am now experiencing the bitterness of the after-taste.”

And the pitiful little smile, the pathetic catch in his voice, strangely

moved the heart of his listener.

“Pardon my question, Mr. Burns,” said he, “but surely the excise allows

you a salary?”

Rob laughed mirthlessly. “Aye,” he replied, “the munificent sum of thirty

pounds a year.”

“Thirty pounds a year!” repeated Mackenzie incredulously.

“Aye, only half of which I am getting now,” explained Robert bitterly.

“Ye see I am ill and off duty.”

“And are there no royalties on your songs or published collection coming

to you?”

“Ask Sir William,” retorted Robert bitterly.

“There is no demand for your poems since you left Edinburgh,” replied Sir

William crustily. “The youth Walter Scott has taken your place in their

regard. He shows a remarkable talent for rhyming.” And a malicious smile

appeared on his crafty face as he noted the quick flush appear on the

expressive countenance of the sick man.

His quivering features betrayed how deeply the barbed dart had entered

his heart. He turned to Mr. Mackenzie with a resigned little gesture. “Ye

see, sir,” he faltered with a pathetic smile, “how soon I am forgot.” He

paused, and the weak tears of sickness welled up into his eyes; then he

resumed with a shade of bitterness, “Scott is sure to succeed, for he is

of noble birth. He’ll not be patronized, at least.”

Mr. Mackenzie had been thinking deeply, and now he turned to Robert with

a resolute air. “Mr. Burns,” he said earnestly, “with your consent, I

will go to the Board of Commissioners of Excise, of which the Duke of

Gordon is the chairman, and move them to grant you full salary. They are

well known to me and I am sure will not refuse my request.”

A glad smile broke up Robert’s gloomy features. “Ye are a friend,

indeed!” he cried fervently. “God grant they do not refuse you, for if

they do, I must lay my account with an exit truly _en poète_, for if I

die not with disease, I must perish with hunger.”

“Your interference will do no good here, Mr. Mackenzie,” hotly declared

Sir William, glaring at Robert hatefully.

“I think it will,” returned Mr. Mackenzie coolly. “’Twould be Lord

Glencairn’s wishes were he alive, and his wishes will be respected by

the Board, mark well what I tell you,” and he flashed him a significant

look of defiance. Then turning to Robert, he shook him by the hand and

bade him adieu, saying that he must return at once to Edinburgh. “And

rest assured,” he concluded, “I will inform you at once of the decision

of the Board, which without doubt will be favorable. Cheer up, my man,

Scotland will not allow her ablest son to die of want and neglect, if

Henry Mackenzie can prevent it.”

“Heaven bless ye!” responded Robert gratefully.

“Mr. Burns, if you——” began Mr. Mackenzie, then he hesitated a moment,

but finally after a moment’s thought continued his sentence—“if you will

but accept a loan,” and his hand sought his pocket, but Robert shook his

head decidedly.

“No, no, Mr. Mackenzie,” he said proudly; “I canna’ accept it, thank ye.”

Mackenzie sighed. “Oh, you sensitive people,” he remarked, “pride and

poverty.”

“Ye see,” explained Robert gratefully, “I expect a few pounds from the

sale of a poem, which will relieve my temporary embarrassment, and if

the commissioners grant me full salary, I can start for the seaside,

where I may regain my lost health.” He passed his hand wearily over his

brow, which began to pain him, for the excitement had worn him out. “But

I fear that has flown from me forever, that the voice of the Bard will

soon be heard among ye no mair.”

“Nonsense!” replied Mackenzie brightly, putting his hand affectionately

on Robert’s shoulder. “You will live for years yet, but you must take

better care of this life which is so valuable to your family, to your

friends and to the world.” There was deep concern in his pleasant voice

and in his earnest eyes.

At that moment the street door opened and Eppy appeared dressed

youthfully in white, leading by the hand none other than Souter Johnny,

who was looking decidedly crestfallen and sheepish, as he vainly tried

to pull down his little short kilt over his thin, bony legs, for Souter

was at last arrayed in full kilts, much to his evident sorrow. He looked

exceedingly grotesque, squeezed into the suit, which was too small even

for his undersized frame.

“In the name of!—Souter Johnny, what means this?” gasped Robert in

amazement.

“Canna’ a man wear the kilts without being laughed at?” answered Souter

ruefully, resenting the amused look on their faces.

“Well, I must say ye look better in breeches,” observed Rob with a

quizzical glance at Souter’s grotesquely thin crooked legs.

“He wears them for my sake,” explained Eppy with a soulful look at the

uncomfortable Souter; then she spied the visitors. “Why, Mr. Mackenzie,

it is good to see you here!” she exclaimed effusively, and she made him a

deep courtesy, purposely ignoring Sir William.

“Daft as ever,” grunted Sir William audibly.

She regarded him with a haughty look of disdain. “Daft!” she repeated.

“Huh! you cannot insult me now with impunity!” she exclaimed in triumph.

Turning to Souter, she called him to her side with a commanding gesture.

“Noo, ye see, Robert, what has become of my breeches,” whispered Souter

in Robert’s ear as he passed him. “She is wearing them,” and he winked

his eye significantly.

As he approached her, she reached out a long arm and drew him to her so

suddenly that it took him off his feet. Finally he righted himself and

stood close beside her, his little gray head, with the bonnet perched

saucily on one side of it, scarcely reaching to her shoulder.

“Friends,” she announced proudly, “this gentleman is my—my husband,” and

she noticed with pleasure the look of consternation which appeared on all

their faces.

“What!” cried Robert aghast.

“You’re married!” ejaculated Mr. Mackenzie incredulously.

“Poor man,” sneered Sir William mockingly.

Eppy tittered gleefully. “Yes, I was married to-day, and ’tis heavenly,”

and she rolled her eyes in an ecstasy of joy.

“Well, ’twas the best you could do, I suppose,” observed Sir William

maliciously.

“I wouldn’t take you as a gift,” she flashed. “And you tried hard enough

to win me, dear knows,” she went on with total disregard for the truth.

“He was forever running after me,” she explained deprecatingly to Souter.

“You—you—you are not speaking the truth,” sputtered Sir William

furiously. “If I was running it was to get away from you.”

“Oh, of course you won’t admit it now,” she observed calmly. “But I am

rejoicing that I didn’t marry you.” She looked Souter over critically.

“Well, Souter may not be very handsome,” she remarked thoughtfully after

a pause, “but he is a perfect picture in kilts,” and she gave a sigh of

absolute content.

“Women are queer creatures,” whispered Souter to Robert deprecatingly,

“and my—my wife, ahem! weel, she’s the queerest of them a’.”

“Well, my friends,” laughed Mr. Mackenzie, “I protest this time I must be

off. Good-by, lad.”

“May blessings attend your steps and affliction know ye not,” answered

Robert fervently. “Ye might take Sir William along, for he looks maist

uncomfortable amongst honest people!” he added dryly.

Mackenzie laughed grimly and passed out, leaving Sir William to follow.

“Ye insulting pauper!” fumed Sir William, starting angrily for the door.

“Ye can go back to your Edinburgh friends,” cried Robert with flashing

eyes, “an’ tell them that e’en though ye found me almost on the verge of

despair, with oblivion hovering dark over my still independent head, that

I yet live in the hope of seeing the prophecy I made to them all that

night fulfilled, and that Sir William Creech, my worst traducer, will be

the first one to again court my favor.”

“I’ll hear no more such insulting language!” roared Sir William

threateningly.

“Ye’ll not hear it t’other side of the door,” replied Robert quietly.

“Aye, but ye’ll get your fairin’ one of these days,” exclaimed Souter

belligerently. “An’ ’twill be in hell, where they’ll roast ye like a

herrin’,” he added grimly, much to Eppy’s horror.

“Open the door for me, fellow!” shouted Sir William wrathfully.

“Open it yoursel’,” replied Souter, “an’ I promise ye I’ll shut it behind

your coattails mighty quick.”

“Out of my way, idiot,” and with a shove he brushed the little man aside

and swiftly joined his waiting companion outside the gate.

“Did ye see that?” gasped Souter, his eyes flashing fire. “Did ye see

that? Let me get after him,” and he started for the door, with blood

in his eyes, but Eppy with a little shriek of alarm grabbed him by the

plaidie and held on to him with all her strength, which was not slight.

“Don’t, dearie, don’t, you might get hurt!” she cried tearfully.

“Weel, if ye say not, why I’ll let him gae,” returned Souter submissively.

“Come, Robert,” said Jean gently, “you must lie down for a wee bit now.”

“By the way, Rob,” laughed Souter reminiscently, “do ye mind the day——”

He stopped short as Jean shook her head disapprovingly.

“He’s had a most exciting morning,” she exclaimed gently, “and needs rest

now. He’ll be feeling more peart to-morrow,” and she held out her hand in

dismissal.

“Ye mean get out, eh, Mistress?” said Souter good-naturedly. “Weel, weel,

Souter Johnny can take a hint.”

“Come, Souter,” called Eppy from the open doorway, where she had been

impatiently waiting for her bridegroom, “come with me to your—your new

home,” and she bashfully held her fan over her face with a nervous little

giggle.

“Aye, that I will,” replied Souter, with alacrity. He turned to Robert

with a new air of dignity which set comically upon his little figure.

“If we can do anything for ye, Robert, dinna’ forget to send over to

MacDougall House. Dinna’ forget my address. Mrs. MacDougall, my arm.” She

grabbed it quickly and they walked to the door. “God-day all,” he called

over his shoulder, and with a feeling of great contentment, that at last

his troubles were over, and that he was entering upon a new life of ease

and plenty, he closed the door behind them, and trotted along beside his

wife, grinning like a schoolboy, across the fields to their new home.

“Has the Posty come yet?” inquired Robert, after they had gone.

“Yes, but he brought no letter for ye,” answered Jean sadly.

The words of one of the verses of his “Ode to a Mouse,” came to him with

gloomy presentiment.

“But, mousie, thou art no thy lane,

In proving foresight may be vain;

The best-laid schemes o’ mice and men

Gang aft agley;

An’ lea’e us naught but grief an’ pain

For promised joy;

Still thou are blest compared wi’ me!

The present only touchest thee;

But och! I backward cast my e’e,

On prospects drear’;

An forward, tho’ I canna’ see,

I guess and fear.”

CHAPTER XXIII

Later that day two men might have been seen galloping their horses at

full speed toward the little house on the hillside. They were determined,

resolute looking men, evidently bent on serious purpose. Finally they

reached the gate, and dismounting made their way to the door, the elder

man insisting loudly upon accompanying the other, much to his visible

annoyance.

“There is no need for secrecy, Gilbert Burns,” said he grimly, and

he followed him into the house and to the room where Robert sat with

pencil in hand vainly courting his Muse. Jean, who was busily engaged in

sewing, jumped to her feet with a little cry of amazement upon seeing her

father before her. Robert held out his hand to his brother in delighted

surprise, mixed with anxiety.

“Brother!” he cried, “what brings ye to Ellisland in such haste? Is it

bad news? Mother, our sisters, are they ill?”

“Nay,” replied Gilbert constrainedly. “They are all well, Rob, and have

sent their love to yourself and family.”

“Thank God for that,” responded Robert thankfully. There was a little

embarrassed silence, then Gilbert spoke again.

“Robert, we—we are in sore trouble,” he confessed, his face anxious and

troubled.

“Trouble!” echoed Rob blankly. “What is wrong, brother?”

“I cannot hold Mossgiel any longer,” he replied, dejectedly. “The farm is

but a wretched lease, as ye know, an’ I canna’ weather out the remaining

year. Without assistance, Robert, I canna’ hope to hold our little family

together any longer.”

Robert’s heart sank within him as he heard the direful news. He glanced

at Squire Armour apprehensively. “And Squire Armour?” he interrogated

with an angry glance at that gentleman, who stood with a sneering smile

on his harsh face, taking in the evidences of poverty that surrounded

them. And with never a word of love or pity, nor of greeting to his

daughter who sat there with white face and longing eyes, waiting to hear

some news from her stern, implacable father, of her loving mother at home.

“I have bought the lease of Mossgiel,” he growled, “an’ if your brother

canna’ pay up the back rent, which is long past due, I shall seize

everything and turn the whole lot of them out, every one.”

Robert looked at him a moment in scornful silence. Presently he spoke,

and the cutting sarcasm of his voice caused the old Squire to wince and

drop his eyes.

“Ye are a most just, square, God-fearin’ man, Squire Armour,” he said.

“The Kirk should be proud of ye.” Turning to Gilbert, he asked him the

amount of his debt.

“Only a matter of £4, brother,” he replied, “but ’tis a fortune to me at

present.”

“An’ I must have the money to-day or the farm, I care not which.”

“Oh, father!” cried Jean, going to him, “do not be hard on him; he will

pay you; only give him time.”

“Jean!” flashed Robert angrily, “dinna’ stoop to ask mercy of that mon,

even though he be your own father.” Jean turned away with a sigh.

Squire Armour laughed derisively. “Ye’ll both be on your knees before

long, I’ll warrant,” he cried harshly, “asking favors of me, especially

when ye have naught to feed a starving family. Ye have made yoursel’ a

fine, comfortable bed, my lassie, havena’ ye?” He sneered sarcastically,

turning to his shrinking daughter. “But ’tis made, and ye can lie on it,

ye ungrateful minx.”

Robert rose quickly to his feet, his eyes flashing dangerously.

“Stop! Squire Armour!” he commanded. “Dinna’ dare to use such language

to my wife in my own house, or weak, sick, and crippled as I am, I will

throw ye into the road like the cur that ye are.” He stopped, breathless

with indignation. Presently he resumed with immeasurable scorn in his

vibrating voice, “An’ they call such men as ye Christians! A sneaking,

crawling, psalm-singing, canting hypocrite! Faugh! Were I the Lord, I

would sicken at sight of ye.” He turned away and sat down beside his now

weeping wife, and there was pity and compassion in the look he bestowed

upon her.

“I’ve had enough of your blasphemy, Robert Burns. If ye canna’ pay the

rent for your brother, my business is elsewhere.”

“I had no one else to turn to in this, my hour of trouble,” murmured

Gilbert brokenly. “If ye can help me without impoverishing yoursel’, for

God’s sake do it, or I shudder to think what will become of the dear ones

at home.”

Robert was silent. He thought with anxious loving concern of his own

little flock, of the slender resources at his command, of the gravity of

his own situation, sick as he was and with such gloomy prospects staring

him in the face—and yet was he not better off after all than they at

Mossgiel? Had he not his salary, small as it was, and the promise of the

supervisorship, besides the money that Thompson would pay him for his

poem? He had much to thank God for, he thought gratefully.

“I see ’tis no use delaying longer,” said Armour, looking at the serious,

downcast faces before him. “I have given ye fair warning, Gilbert Burns,

an’ noo I’ll go.”

He had reached the door, when Robert spoke quietly but firmly. “Wait!” he

called. “Ye shall have the money, ye Shylock.”

“Thank God!” cried Gilbert with a loving glance at his brother’s calm

face.

Jean looked at him in speechless amazement. What did he mean? How could

he help others when they were in such dire need themselves? she asked

herself apprehensively.

“Robert,” she whispered anxiously, “ye dinna’ ken what ye say.”

“My brother will meet ye at sundown, at the Inn,” continued Robert

without heeding her warning, although his face took on a whiter hue. “He

will bring ye every farthing of what is due ye. Noo go; there is the

door; your business here is ended. Ye have brought naught but misery and

trouble into my life by your unreasonable hatred o’ me, but the time

will come, Squire Armour, when all the unhappiness and suffering ye have

caused me and mine will rise up before ye like a hideous phantom, robbin’

ye of all peace o’ mind on earth, and your hopes of salvation hereafter.”

He drew nearer the gaping man, who was regarding him with angry, sullen

eyes, and continued with a bitter, unforgiving intensity that filled his

listeners with awe and horror, “An’ when ye feel the chill icy hand of

grim death clutching at your heart, ye’ll cry out for the sympathy and

love of those whom ye cast out of your life, but ye’ll cry in vain, an’

ye’ll die as ye have lived, a miserable wretched ending to a miserable

selfish life.”

As he finished his grim prophecy, Squire Armour gave a cry of nervous

fear, and with blanched face and wild eyes he strove to speak, but the

words would not pass his white, trembling lips. Finally he gasped in a

frightened whisper which gradually rose to angry defiance:

“How dare ye! How dare ye say such things to me, Robert Burns? I willna’

die like that and ye canna’ frighten me with your grim forebodings.” He

paused and glanced at them all in turn, then hastily opened the door.

Just as he was stepping out, he turned slowly and looked at the white,

patient face of his daughter. For a moment he regarded her in silence,

then with a visible effort he addressed her.

“Jean,” he said, and his voice was noticeably softer, “ye are welcome to

come back to your home.” He cast a quick look at the lowering face of his

son-in-law and added vindictively—“alone.”

“Nay, never alone, father,” replied Jean sadly, looking at her husband’s

frowning face.

The old man turned with sudden fury upon them. “I’ll wait till sundown

for my money,” he shouted, “but not a minute longer!” and he closed the

door behind him with a vicious slam.

Gilbert was first to break the depressing silence that ensued. He felt

vaguely that all was not so well with his brother as he had been led to

believe.

“Forgive me, brother,” he murmured contritely, “for bringing this trouble

on ye.”

“Never mind, Gilbert; it was to be, I ken,” answered Rob absently.

Gilbert was silent a moment. “But the money, Robert, is it—are ye——” he

stammered, then stopped in embarrassed confusion.

“’Tis the sum I expect from the sale of a poem. Jean, see if there is

aught of the Posty.” She rose and went to the window and peered anxiously

down the dusty road.

“I didna’ have the ready money with me,” went on Robert lightly, as if it

were a matter of small importance, “or I would have fixed it up at once.

But ye shall hae the money, laddie, when my letter comes,” and he smiled

reassuringly into Gilbert’s anxious face.

“God bless ye, Robert; ye have taken a great load off my heart.”

Jean returned to her seat by the hearth, and listlessly took up her

needlework. “I fear Posty has forgotten us to-day,” she said in answer to

Robert’s questioning look.

[Illustration: “‘I’ll wait till sundown for my money,’ he shouted.”]

A great fear seized his heart. For nearly a week he had hopefully awaited

some word from Thompson. What could be the matter? “O God!” he prayed

silently, “let him not fail me noo.” With a bright smile that sadly

belied his anxious heart, he rose and, taking Gilbert’s arm, said gayly,

“Come, brother, and see the new bairn that has been added to the flock

this last year.”

As they left the room Jean dropped her work in her lap and gazed after

them with eyes filled with helpless tears of anxiety, at the thought of

the hardships and suffering that lay in wait for them all.

After admiring the baby in the trundle bed the two brothers talked of

the dear ones in Mossgiel, and the many changes time had wrought in the

lives of them all; spoke with tenderness of the sister who had recently

been married—and dwelt with anxious concern on the struggles of their

younger brother, who had left home to branch out for himself. For a time

they forgot their own troubles, and Robert plied his brother with many

questions concerning the welfare of all his old friends and neighbors,

while Gilbert told him all the gossip of the village, of the prosperity

of some of the lads, and the unfortunate situations of many of the

others, thus leading up to the recital of their own troubles since Robert

had left his home. He listened sorrowfully to the tale of hardship and

unceasing toil which brought such little recompense, but not by word

or look did he betray his own blighted hopes and gloomy prospects.

Finally they had exhausted every subject save one, and that one had been

uppermost in the minds of both, but each had avoided the subject with a

shrinking dread.

No news of the little dairymaid had come to Robert for almost a year,

and the thought that possibly she was ill or dead—or—and a hundred

conjectures racked his brain and froze the eager questions that trembled

on his lips. Gilbert must have read the longing in his brother’s heart,

for, after a troubled glance at the dark yearning face gazing at him so

beseechingly, he looked down at his toil-worn hands and awkwardly shifted

one knee over the other. Presently he spoke.

“Mary is still at Colonel Montgomery’s,” he observed, making an effort to

speak lightly.

“I heard she had left Mrs. Dunlop’s,” replied Robert feverishly,

moistening his lips with the tip of his tongue.

“Aye,” sighed Gilbert. “She grew tired o’ the city and longed for the

stillness, the restfulness of country life once more, so she came back

to us and took her old place in the dairy. Poor lass,” and he looked

thoughtfully out of the window and sadly watched the glorious sunset

tinting the distant hills in a blaze of golden light.

“An’—an’ is she well—is she happy?” murmured Robert in a soft, hushed

voice. Gilbert did not answer for a moment. Presently he roused himself

and slowly let his gaze wander back till it rested on his brother’s

wistful face.

“Can ye bear a shock, brother?” he asked quietly.

Robert suddenly stiffened and his eyes grew wide and staring. He

gripped the sides of the chair as a wave of sudden dizziness dulled his

understanding. Presently it passed away, and like one in a dream he

whispered hoarsely, “Tell me the worst, Gilbert; is—is she dead?”

He closed his eyes and waited with breathless stillness for the answer.

“Thank God, not that!” replied Gilbert feelingly. Robert breathed a sigh

of relief. “But she is very ill, an’ I ken she hasna’ long on earth noo.

The doctors say there is no hope for her,” and he bit his lips to keep

back the rising tears.

Slowly, sorrowfully, Robert’s head drooped till it rested on his bosom.

For a moment he sat like one on the verge of dissolution.

“Oh, God!” he moaned bitterly, “that sweet young life crushed out in

all its innocent purity, like a delicate flower, and through my sin, my

reckless folly. Oh, how can I live and bear my punishment!” A convulsive

sob racked his weakened frame. Gilbert bent over him with tears in his

eyes, forgetting his own crushing sorrow in witnessing that of his

brother.

“Dinna’ greet so, Robert,” he cried. “’Twas not your fault, ye ken. It

was to be.” His philosophical belief in fate helped him over many a hard

and stony path, and enabled him to meet with calmness and fortitude the

many heartaches and disappointments which befell him.

Soon the convulsive shudders ceased, and leaning wearily back in his

chair, Robert fixed his great mournful eyes upon his brother in sorrowful

resignation.

“How did she look when ye last saw her, Gilbert?” he asked faintly,

pressing his hand tightly to his heart, for the old pain had come back

with exhausting results.

“Like an angel, lad,” replied Gilbert tenderly. “So sweet and pure, so

patient and forgiving.”

“Does she suffer much?”

“Nay,” he answered reassuringly. Then he continued, his voice soft and

low, his strong features quivering from the restraint he put upon his

feelings, “Her life is just slowly slipping away from her; day by day

she grows weaker and weaker, but ne’er a complaint is on her lips. She

is always so cheerful an’ smilin’ that it fair makes ye weep to see her

fadin’ awa’ so fast,” and his voice broke into a hard sob.

“Oh, Mary, my Highland Mary!” murmured Robert brokenly.

“Her last wish is to see the Highlands, to—to die there,” continued

Gilbert, his lips contracting with a sudden, sharp pain at the thought.

“So before she grows any weaker, Mrs. Dunlop, who has come from town to

see her, and who is wi’ her noo, is goin’ to take her back to her old

home in Argyleshire.”

“Going home to die!” repeated Robert dreamily. “Oh, if I might be taken

awa’ too, if my end would only hasten,” he muttered despairingly, with

the weak selfishness of the sick and sorrowing. “Then might our departing

souls be united as one, to be together for all eternity.”

“Hush, Robert!” cautioned Gilbert, looking fearfully at the closed door.

“Remember Jean and the bairns.”

“Gilbert, I must see her before she goes!” he cried utterly distracted.

“’Tis for the last time on earth, ye ken, lad,” and he jumped up,

trembling with eager excitement.

“Brother, would ye kill yoursel’?” cried Gilbert, seeking to restrain

him. “’Tis madness for ye to go out in your weak condition.”

“Dinna’ stop me, Gilbert!” he panted, and he flung open the door and

rushed excitedly into the room where Jean sat in patient meditation.

“Jean, get my bonnet and coat, quick, quick!” he commanded with his

old-time vehemence. She jumped up pale and frightened and looked

questioningly at Gilbert. Quickly he told her of Mary’s illness and

Robert’s determination to go to her at once. When he had finished she

went to her husband, the tears of ready sympathy in her eyes, for she was

not jealous of his love for Mary. She had gotten over that long ago, and

laying her hand gently on his arm, she tried to coax him to sit down and

listen to them.

“They’ll have to pass by here on their way to Greenock,” she told him

tenderly. “And ye may be sure, Robert, that Mary will not leave Ayrshire

without saying good-by to you.” And so she reasoned with him, while

Gilbert joined her in assurances of Mrs. Dunlop’s intention of stopping

to see him as she passed the farm. Gradually the wild light in his eyes

died down, the tense figure relaxed, and with a sigh of exhaustion he

allowed himself to be taken back to his room.

“Ye’re sure she’ll not forget to stop here?” he asked with pathetic

eagerness. Then he continued with wistful retrospection, “Two years have

come and gone and not a word have we spoken to each other since that day

we parted in Edinburgh! Oh, cruel, cruel fate!” He spoke so low that none

heard him.

“Noo, Robert,” said Jean brightly, “you must take your gruel, ’twill give

ye strength.” But he made a gesture of repulsion.

“Nay, Jean, I canna’ eat noo; ’twould choke me. I think I’ll lay me down

to rest.” They soon prepared him for bed. Without a word, he turned his

face to the wall and for the rest of the night he lay there with wide,

staring, sleepless eyes, thinking, thinking, thinking.

CHAPTER XXIV

News of Robert’s illness soon reached Edinburgh, along with reports of

his misconduct, profligacy, and intemperance, reports which were grossly

exaggerated, together with many other slanderous falsehoods.

And rumors of his poverty and the destitute condition of his family

brought sorrow and anxiety to the hearts of many of his loyal friends,

who were only too ready and willing to offer him all the help and

assistance that would be needed, but they knew, too, his inflexible

pride and independence, and realized how futile would be their offers of

friendly assistance.

For some days Lady Nancy Gordon had been anxiously puzzling her brain

for some thought or scheme whereby she could help the unfortunate Bard

who was plunged in such depths of poverty and misfortune. She was

thinking of him now as she sat at the harpsichord, her fingers wandering

idly over the keyboard in a running accompaniment to her thoughts. Her

father softly entered the room at this juncture, but she did not turn

her head nor intimate that she was aware of his presence. Presently

her touch grew more and more tender. Anon she glided into one of those

dreamily joyous, yet sorrowful, mazurkas, that remind one of gay wild

flowers growing in rich profusion over silent and forgotten graves. Lady

Nancy had reason to boast of herself, for she was a perfect mistress

of the instrument—and as her fingers closed on the final chord, she

wheeled round abruptly on the chair, and rising to her feet greeted her

father with a tender smile. For a moment she regarded him in thoughtful

silence, then as he laid down his paper, she walked up to him, a frown of

displeasure wrinkling her smooth, white forehead.

“I think, father,” she said deliberately, with a haughty uptilt of her

pretty nose, “I think it is perfectly disgraceful the way that hackney

scribbler who writes for yon journal,” indicating the paper on the table,

“either through malice or ignorance affixes such degrading epithets to

the name of the Bard of Scotland, for by no other name will I ever speak

of Robert Burns,” and she flashed an angry glance at the offending paper.

“Poor obstinate lad,” sighed the Duke thoughtfully. His mind went back

to the day after the garden party at Glencairn Hall, when he had sent

for Robert to honor them with his presence at Gordon House, and how the

poet had taken offense at some thoughtless remark of his, given in kindly

spirit; how with haughty pride, and wounded dignity, he had gotten up

from the table and after thanking them for their hospitality, declared

he had not come to be insultingly patronized and pitied, and refusing to

listen to reason, or explanation, he had left in bitter resentment and

blind misunderstanding. Lady Nancy too was thinking the same thoughts,

and after a moment’s meditation she looked into her father’s kindly face

and remarked earnestly:

“Father, something must be done for him and his family at once.”

“But, my dear,” he meekly replied, “our hands are tied by his own

obstinacy.”

“Can we not get up a subscription for him?” she asked. He shook his head

slowly.

“’Twould be to no purpose, Nancy,” he returned thoughtfully. “He

would refuse all offers of pecuniary aid. I know well his independent

principles, and so do you.”

They talked over many plans and projects, but none seemed feasible,

and they were about to give up in despair, when Henry Mackenzie was

announced. He had just arrived from Ellisland, and immediately spoke of

his visit to the poet, and under what painful conditions he had found

him—told them of his promise to Burns to secure the office of supervisor

for him, and had called to consult with his lordship concerning its

bestowal.

Nancy listened with bated breath and tear-dimmed eyes as he spoke of the

change in Robert, his poverty, his indomitable courage and independence,

in spite of the ravages of disease and the black, gloomy outlook for

future prosperity.

“Nancy and I were just discussing some means of alleviating his distress

as you entered,” said the Duke as Mr. Mackenzie finished his recital.

“And it affords me much gratification to be able to assist him to the

office of supervisor of the excise and its attendant increase of salary.”

“’Twill be a God-send to him, believe me, my lord,” returned Mr.

Mackenzie feelingly.

“The news will be dispatched to him at once!” cried Nancy with sparkling

eyes. “’Twill relieve his present distress of mind.”

With that assurance, Mr. Mackenzie rose, and thanking them for their

kindness in behalf of the indigent poet, took his leave.

Having finished luncheon, the old Duke excused himself, and going to his

study, he made out the necessary papers of promotion for the struggling

exciseman, with many a shake of his head and pitying sigh for the young

genius who was reduced to such straits—driven to such a commonplace

calling, through his headstrong recklessness, his foolish ideas of

independence. Having signed them he sat back in thoughtful meditation.

Suddenly the door opened, and his daughter asked permission to enter.

Having gained it, she crossed to her father, and sinking down beside him,

in an eager, impetuous manner quickly laid before him a project which

had been formulating in her active brain while he was busy writing out

the papers.

He started back in amazement. “What!” he cried. “Are you out of your

senses, Nancy?”

“Now, papa, listen!” she exclaimed earnestly. “’Twill take but a day’s

ride to reach Dumfries, and think how delighted he will be to receive the

promotion from your hands,” and she slyly noted the effect of the bit of

delicate flattery.

He frowned and pursed his lips for a moment, and idly tapped the folded

papers against his knee in thought. These signs boded success, as Nancy

well knew, and springing to her feet she gave him a big hug that set him

gasping.

“Look here, Mistress Nancy!” he exclaimed as soon as he recovered his

breath, “why do you want to take this wearisome journey at this season

of the year, just to visit the home of this poor exciseman?” and he

wonderingly regarded the face that had suddenly grown flushed and

pensive, as she looked with worshipful eyes at the large engraving over

the fireplace, which contained the figure of Burns in a characteristic

attitude, reading one of his poems to the group of people that surrounded

him.

“I want to see him once more before the fire of his genius grows cold,”

she answered dreamily. “I want to see him in his home with his—his

wife and children around him.” She might have told him that she was

heart-hungry for a sight of that dark, glowing face, the flashing black

eyes that had thrilled her with such blissful pain, for the sound of

that rich, majestic voice, that had so often stirred the uttermost

depths of her heart. She felt that the yearning of her soul would not be

satisfied till she had seen him again, spoken with him. She hoped, yet

dreaded, that the sight of his changed face, his miserable surroundings,

the commonplaceness of it all, of meeting the exciseman with his wife

and children around him, rather than the idealized poet, would silence

forever the strange unrest of her soul, banish all thoughts of sentiment

from her mind, and destroy the spell of glamour which he had all

unconsciously thrown about her. These thoughts flew through her mind

with lightning speed while her father was making up his mind how best to

dissuade her from her purpose.

“I fear me, Nancy, ’twill give us both more pain than pleasure,” he said

finally. “We may even lose our respect for him.”

“Don’t say that, father!” she cried reproachfully. “No matter how low he

may have fallen, and I protest that fame has exaggerated his misconduct

woefully, we people of Scotland cannot forget nor overlook the priceless

treasure he has put into our thankless hands, a treasure that will be

handed down to posterity with ever increasing regard, admiration and

love for its author,” and her flashing blue eyes, that had so often

reminded Robert of Mary Campbell, and which had formed a closer tie of

comradeship between them, again sought and lingered upon the engraved

likeness of her hero. The singular beauty of Lady Nancy Gordon was

illumined by that happy expression of countenance which results from the

union of cultivated tastes and superior understanding with the finest

affections of mind, and the influence of such attractions had been keenly

felt by the ardent poet, who was not altogether unaware of the impression

he had made upon her heart, which was as susceptible to the charms of

wit and intellect as was his own. As she stood gazing up at the picture,

she thought with an odd little smile how she had openly sought for his

favors, delighted in his apparent preference for her society even while

she told herself she knew he was only attracted by her brilliancy—that

she appealed to his intellect—charmed him by her wit, her cleverness. No,

she had never touched his heart, she thought with a sigh, and a look of

sadness came into her thoughtful eyes.

“I fear, Nancy, that Robert still harbors feelings of resentment against

us,” protested the Duke after a pause. “I know he would rather not see

us.”

But Lady Nancy overruled his objection. “Then all the more reason for

our assuring him of our friendship and asking his forgiveness for any

offense we have unintentionally offered him.”

Seeing all arguments were useless, the old Duke finally consented, and

with a hug and a kiss, Nancy left him and proceeded to make arrangements

for their speedy departure for Ayrshire.

CHAPTER XXV

The next morning dawned bleak and dismal. A damp, penetrating mist hung

over the farm like a pall, and the chill of the rain-laden air penetrated

into the rooms and made itself felt even by the side of the brightest

fires. It affected the inmates of Ellisland farm to an alarming extent.

They sat gloomily around the hearth idly watching the smoldering peat

fire, which failed to send out much warmth—as if it, too, felt the

depressing influences which surrounded the little household and which had

plunged them all into such a slough of despond.

Robert had partaken of his bowl of porridge and now lay upon his bed,

grateful for the added warmth of the woolen blankets which Jean had

thrown over him with thoughtful solicitude. He appeared to the anxious

watchers to be more like himself than he had been for some days, in spite

of his restless, sleepless nights, as he lay there peacefully enjoying

the antics of the children who were playing gleefully but quietly around

the room their favorite game of “Blind man’s holiday.”

At sundown the night before Gilbert had hastened to the Inn to meet

Squire Armour and to plead for another day’s grace, but the implacable

old man refused to listen to him when he found he had failed to bring

the money, and stormily took his departure with threats of instant

eviction, leaving Gilbert in a state of utter distraction. He watched the

Squire ride furiously away in the direction of Mossgiel with a heavy,

sinking fear at his heart, then slowly made his way, with pale face and

clenched hands, back to his brother’s cottage, where he wrestled with the

fears that assailed him in despairing silence. Several times during the

night he was on the verge of saddling his horse and dashing home, but

the hope that the morning would bring the long-expected letter to Robert

checked the impulse, and so he sat the long night through anxiously

waiting for the dawn, praying fervently that he might not be too late to

save his dear ones from the vindictive anger, the unyielding resolution

of their irate landlord.

And now morning was here at last. Robert had fallen into a profound

slumber of nervous exhaustion. Jean tucked him in carefully with the warm

blankets, and taking the children with her, quietly closed the door upon

the sleeping man with a prayer of thankfulness for his temporary respite

from the troubles that surged about his head.

When her duties were over and the children playing on the green, Jean

took her sewing and joined Gilbert in the living room. He was walking

restlessly up and down, with nervous, flashing eyes that eagerly

searched the road, as he passed and repassed the small window. His

restless pacing, his look of hopeful anxiety smote Jean to the heart,

for she had been bitterly resentful, and was still in a measure, against

Gilbert’s selfishness in thinking only of his own extremity. It didn’t

seem right or just that he should be here with outstretched hands,

waiting to take the money that meant so much to their own struggling

family at the present time, and without which she could only foresee grim

want staring them all in the face—and she had to struggle with the desire

that rushed over her to rise up and tell him of their bitter plight, to

bid him go elsewhere for assistance; but the fear of Robert’s anger kept

her silent. Then, too, she suddenly remembered that they had both kept

their poverty and Robert’s continued ill luck and failures from the home

folk, and it was only to be expected that Gilbert would naturally turn

to his prosperous brother for assistance. “Prosperous, indeed! If he but

knew,” and she sighed deeply, for her mother’s heart felt sore depressed

as she thought of her own loved ones. They did not talk much. Each was

too busy with his own gloomy thoughts.

In fancy, Gilbert could see Squire Armour at Mossgiel Farm, ordering

out his mother and sister, watching them with sinister eyes as they got

together their meager belongings, and then when they, with streaming

eyes, had carried out the last piece of furniture and stood gazing at

the home that was no longer theirs, the cruel landlord had heartlessly

laughed at their sorrow and, locking the door, had ridden away with the

keys in his pocket, leaving them standing there not knowing whither to go

nor where to find food or shelter.

“O God! Not that! Not that!” he cried aloud, pausing in his walk with

clenched hands, pale and wild-eyed.

Jean looked up from her work in startled alarm. “Gilbert!” she cried.

“What is it?”

With a little mirthless laugh, he told her of the vision he had had, told

of his fears for the safety of his home and the welfare of his loved ones.

She listened with a feeling of shame at her heart and a flush of angry

humiliation mantling her pale cheek.

“’Fore Heaven, it makes me feel like cursing even the memory of

my father,” she exclaimed bitterly with a flash of her old-time

imperiousness. “But be not alarmed, Gilbert,” she continued with an

encouraging smile. “Your mother is a match even for my father, and I’ll

warrant she’ll not let him set his foot inside the threshold till you

return.” His face brightened.

“I had indeed forgot my mother’s independent, courageous spirit,” he

replied with a sigh of relief and hopefulness.

The depressing gloom thus lifted, they soon drifted into a friendly,

earnest conversation, and the minutes sped by without, however, the

looked-for interruption of the overdue postman.

Outside, the mist had long since been dispersed by the warm rays of the

noonday sun, which was now shining brilliantly. A soft moisture glittered

on every tiny leaf of the wild rose bushes which clustered beneath the

window of the little cot, and on every blade of grass. The penetrating

and delicious odor of sweet violets and blue-bells scented each puff of

wind, and now and then the call of the meadow lark pierced the air with a

subdued far-off shrillness. Suddenly the peaceful stillness was broken in

upon by the sound of footsteps crunching slowly along the garden path on

their way to the door of the cottage.

The Duke of Gordon and his daughter had arrived in Dumfries the night

before, and, after a night’s rest, they took the coach to Ellisland

and put up at the little old Inn. There they made inquiries for the

whereabouts of the home of the poet of the little old man who was

boastfully describing the splendors of MacDougall House, none other than

our old friend Souter, once more in his breeches, having asserted his

authority, much to his wife’s secret satisfaction, for “she did so love a

masterful man.” Whereupon Souter condescendingly offered to conduct them

to the place they sought. And now, as they looked at the poor clay biggin

and the evidences of poverty and neglect which surrounded them on all

sides, their hearts sank within them.

“I suppose we will find Mr. Burns greatly changed?” said Nancy

interrogatively with a little shudder of dread.

“Weel, mum,” replied Souter reflectively, “we all change in time, ye ken.

Some for worse, like mysel’, and some for the better, like yoursel’,

askin’ your pardon for my boldness. And ye ken Robbie’s life has been

very hard these past few years.” He sighed and shook his head dolefully.

“But I want to say right here,” and his heavy eyebrows drew together in

a black scowl, “Robbie Burns’ sickness is na’ due to his drinkin’, as ye

people of Edinburgh believe, and put in yer penny papers. Robbie is na

drunkard. I hae known him from infancy, and I affirm that he has never

been guilty of the gross enormities he has been charged with. He could

always attend to his duties,” and he looked with aggressive suspicion

into the downcast faces of his listeners for some sign of doubt of his

assertion, which, though stanchly loyal, was not altogether true, as he

knew only too well. “But there is nae use telling all ye know,” he told

himself philosophically. “And what people don’t know about the food they

eat, will no hurt their appetites.”

“I am very glad to hear that,” ejaculated the Duke warmly.

“An’ he is a fond father an’ a maist affectionate husband,” continued

Souter stoutly. “I’ll go in noo and tell him ye’re here,” and he strode

into the house, leaving the couple standing in the path much to their

astonishment.

“It doesn’t seem right, father,” said Lady Nancy sadly, “for such genius

to dwell in that little hut, amid such surroundings. How I pity him.”

There was a suggestion of tears in the sweet voice which her fond father

noticed with sudden apprehension. He looked at her closely.

“Who is to blame for his being here?” he retorted firmly. She remained

discreetly silent. Then he continued in a softer voice, “But I mustn’t

blame nor censure him, now that he is sick, and down at the bottom

again. It is, indeed, a lasting pity that such genius should be allowed

to smother here in poverty and among questionable companions, who, ’tis

said, seek only to bring him to their level, and who, alas! are but

too surely dragging him there, I fear, a weak, unresisting, but also a

remorseful, repentant victim.”

“And must he stay on here, father, to die a poor exciseman?” asked

Nancy with a strangely beating heart. “Even the added salary of the

Supervisorship cannot be sufficient to keep such a family.” At that

moment Souter opened the door. They turned to him quietly.

“Well, what says Mr. Burns?” asked the Duke impatiently.

A little smile of amusement appeared on Souter’s face. “Mr. Burns begs

you to enter and to be seated,” he replied.

They complied with the injunction and were shown into the living-room,

where they seated themselves.

“I was also to tell ye,” continued Souter dryly, “that he will be with ye

as soon as he can get into his damned rags.”

“What!” exclaimed the Duke laughingly.

“Excuse me, your ladyship,” answered Souter with a little nod to Lady

Nancy, “but them’s his own words and I’m no the one to change the

language o’ a Scottish poet.”

“Has he only rags to wear?” asked Lady Nancy pitifully.

“Hush!” cautioned her father, “he is here.”

The door opened and Robert slowly entered the room. He had thrown his

wide plaid around his shoulders, over his loose white shirt, and held

it together with one hand that gleamed very white and thin against the

bright colors. His black hair, now faintly streaked with gray and which

had thinned considerably above his forehead, hung loosely about his neck,

framing his gaunt face, and accentuating his pallor.

For a moment they gazed upon the wreck of the once stalwart and ruggedly

healthy youth, too shocked to utter a word. Robert was the first to break

the silence.

“My lord,” he exclaimed with something of his old brightness, “I am

rejoiced, indeed, to see you at Ellisland. ’Tis a great surprise, but

none the less a welcome one.” He shook the Duke’s outstretched hand with

fervor.

“The pleasure is mutual, my lad,” responded the Duke warmly. “’Tis a few

years now since we parted, and in anger, too.”

“I was in the wrong that night,” broke in Robert penitently, with a

rueful shake of the head. “I sadly misjudged ye there, as I learned

afterward, but my stubborn pride refused to accept the olive branch ye

held out to me. Ye see,” he explained frankly, “’twas my unreasoning

wounded pride and anger, and my disappointment which blinded me to all

sense of right and justice. I realized after that ye were my friends and

that ye resented the damning insult put upon me at Glencairn Hall.” He

paused a moment, a frown of bitterness wrinkling his brow. Presently he

looked up and holding out his hand again with one of the old magnetic

smiles, said, “An’ ye have forgiven my ingratitude, an’ are come noo to

see me! I thank ye.”

“’Tis all forgot. I forgave you at the time,” responded the Duke

cordially. “I could not hold resentment against you.” He turned to his

daughter, who was partly concealed in the embrasure of the deep window.

“Nancy, child, speak to Robert.” She came slowly forward with hand

outstretched, a faint flush dyeing her creamy skin, or perhaps it was the

reflection of the pink satin gown she was wearing beneath the long velvet

cloak, which, becoming unhooked, had slipped down off her shoulders.

Robert rose to his feet, and his black, gloomy eyes lighted up with

pleasure as they rested upon the dainty vision of loveliness before him.

Lady Nancy had always reminded him of Mary Campbell, and to-day the

resemblance was more striking than ever. For beneath the large leghorn

with its waving, black plumes, her golden hair so like Mary’s, for the

once unpowdered, glittered in all its beauty. Perhaps my Lady Nancy had

remembered the likeness and had purposely heightened it by forgetting to

use the powder which had hitherto covered the golden curls at all times.

As she stood there with a wistful look upon her face, it was easy to

perceive the resemblance to the timid dairymaid who, in borrowed finery,

had created such a sensation at the Duchess of Athol’s “at home” three

years before.

“Lady Nancy, forgive my rudeness in not greeting you sooner,” he

exclaimed fervently.

“I am so glad we are reconciled, friends, once more,” she exclaimed

impulsively. “It did seem as if you would never relent, you stubborn

man,” and she smiled archly into his embarrassed face.

“You find me greatly changed, of course,” he remarked after they had

discoursed a while upon their journey. She remained silent, but he read

the sympathy shining in her blue eyes.

“We read of your illness in town,” explained the Duke, “and believe me,

Robert, we are deeply sorry for your affliction. But I trust the vigor of

your constitution will soon set you on your feet again,” and he gave him

a cheery smile of encouragement.

Robert shook his head gloomily. “My health is, I think, flown from me

forever,” he replied sadly, “altho’ I am beginning to crawl about the

house, and once, indeed, have I been seen outside my cottage door.”

“Why didn’t you let us know of your illness before?” exclaimed Lady Nancy

reproachfully. “We are your friends.”

Robert flushed painfully. “My miserable health was brought on and

aggravated solely by my headstrong, thoughtless carelessness, and I felt

so heartily ashamed of myself that I sought to conceal from all friends

my real condition, but ’tis out at last. How long I will be confined to

the house, God alone knows,” and he sighed deeply.

“Do not give yourself up to despondency, my lad,” encouraged the Duke

brightly, “nor speak the language of despair. You must get well.”

“Indeed I must!” returned Robert grimly, “for I have three strong,

healthy boys and if I am nipt off at the command of fate—gracious God!

what would become of my little flock?” and a look of distraction swept

over his face at the thought.

“Don’t distress yourself needlessly, Robert!” exclaimed the Duke kindly.

Then he continued earnestly, “If anything should happen to you, if you

should be taken off before I am called, I promise that the children of

Robert Burns shall never come to want.”

“’Twould be a lasting disgrace to Scotland,” flashed Lady Nancy with

kindling eyes.

Robert grasped the Duke’s hand impulsively. “God bless ye for your noble

assurance!” he cried. “Ye have lifted a heavy weight of care and anxiety

off my mind.”

“Why, father!” suddenly exclaimed Lady Nancy, “I vow if you are not

forgetting your principal errand here.” He looked at her with a puzzled

frown. “Mr. Burns’ promotion,” she reminded him laughingly.

“Gad zooks!” he exclaimed in amazement, jumping to his feet. “What an

old dolt I am, to be sure.” Hastily diving his hand in the inside pocket

of his elaborate, black-flowered satin square-cut, he pulled out a long

paper with a red seal attached and handed it to the now bewildered

Robert, who, after a quick glance at their smiling faces, opened the

paper and quickly read its contents. Then he gave a gasp, followed by an

ejaculation of delighted surprise and gratification.

“My lord,” he exclaimed, “this is indeed a gift to bring gladness to

a man’s heart. I thank ye most gratefully for my promotion, and will

endeavor to perform my duties to the best of my poor abilities as soon

as my strength returns.” And the look of anxiety gave way to one of

comparative contentment.

“And your immediate recovery is of the first importance,” returned the

Duke brightly. “You need a change.”

“Why not come to town, where you can have the best of medical

attendance?” asked Lady Nancy quietly, though her heart beat furiously as

she offered the suggestion.

“That is impossible,” replied Robert. “The medical folk tell me that my

last and only chance is bathing and sea air and riding. With my promotion

and the increase of salary it brings, I can now obey their mandates,” and

he held the paper to his breast with a sigh of relief.

“Then the sooner you start, the better,” remarked the Duke kindly.

Lady Nancy rose to her feet with a wan smile on her lips. “And the sooner

we start for Dumfries, father, the better,” she returned.

“You’re right, child, we must hasten,” and he hastily arose and got his

hat and cane together, then he turned once more to Robert. “Mr. Burns,

pardon the suggestion, but is it not time to get out another volume of

your poems?” he asked kindly.

“I have not in my present state of mind much appetite for exertion in

writing,” answered Robert slowly.

“But they could be arranged for you by some literary friend,” quickly

returned the Duke, “and advertised to be published by subscription.”

Robert raised his head proudly. “Subscription!” he repeated. “No, no,

that savors too much of charity,” and a look of obstinacy came into his

darkened eyes.

“Remember,” said Lady Nancy gently, “that Pope published his Iliad by

subscription, Mr. Burns.”

He remained silent a moment, then after a little struggle with his

obstinate pride, he answered with a touch of bitterness in his voice, “I

realize that I am in no position to despise any means to add to my income

or to leave my family better provided for after I am gone. I will take

your advice and will at once speak to my dear friend Aiken about it. He

will aid me.”

The door opened and Jean entered the room. She had heard all the good

news, and having met both the Duke and Lady Nancy while sojourning at

Glencairn Castle a few years before, she felt she ought to thank them for

their good offices in Robert’s behalf.

Lady Nancy and the Duke greeted her warmly, asked after the health of

the children, expressed pleasure in seeing her again, and soon put her

at her ease, for the sudden thought of her hasty marriage to Robert

and the attendant slanderous gossip at first made her feel and appear

self-conscious and restrained.

“I was just telling Robert,” said the old Duke, “that he must go at once

to the seashore.” She looked at her husband, and her wistful expression

did not escape the keen eyes of Lady Nancy.

“If he only could go at once,” faltered Jean, “I am sure the water would

effect a cure, but——”

Nancy gave her father a significant look, which clearly said, “They have

no money, father.” At least, so he interpreted it, aided by his own

shrewd guess at the state of affairs.

“By the way, Robert,” he said jocularly, “can you swallow your pride

sufficiently to accept a month’s salary in advance?” He pulled out a

large, well-filled wallet and opened it.

“We do not need it, my lord,” answered Robert firmly and a trifle coldly.

“I am expecting——” Here Jean hurriedly interrupted him, knowing what he

was about to say.

“Oh, Robert!” she cried contritely, “I forget to tell you that the Posty

left no letter.”

“No letter!” he repeated dully, looking at her with wide-open, searching

eyes. She sadly shook her head.

“Here are £5, lad. Take the note and to-morrow set out for Brow,” and the

Duke held out the note for his acceptance, but he sat with averted gaze

in the proud silence of keen disappointment.

“Do not refuse, Robert,” pleaded Jean softly. “’Tis only a loan.”

Slowly he took the money and folded it between his fingers. “Thank ye, my

lord,” he said quietly. “I will accept it, for I am in sore need of it at

this moment.”

“That’s right, my lad,” he said heartily. “What is a friend for if he

cannot extend or receive a favor?” and he turned to help his daughter

into her cloak.

Quickly Robert pressed the money into Jean’s hand and whispered to her,

“Take it at once to Gilbert and bid him hasten to Mossgiel before it is

too late to save the roof over mother’s head.”

“But, Robert——” she protested, but he would not listen to her.

“Do ye not see ’tis near sundown of the second day?” he told her

impatiently, “and Gilbert will have to ride fast if he would get to

Mossgiel before night overtakes him; noo hasten, Jean.” Still she

lingered, reluctant to go.

“Oh, lad, this money is for you; it means your health, our happiness. It

isn’t right to——”

“We have got a roof over our head, Jean,” he interrupted sternly. “We

maist keep one over my mother and sister as weel. We will nae starve.

There are only £4 due your father. Keep out one for our present needs.

Noo go, lass, go.”

Thus commanded, she hurried to the chamber where Gilbert sat in

despairing solitude, his head held wearily between his hands, and

conveyed to him the glad intelligence. And soon he was speeding furiously

over the dusty road toward home, his face aglow with joy and eagerness.

When Jean returned to the room she found Souter and Eppy there gayly

chatting with the Duke and Lady Nancy, who were evidently much surprised

to find their old friend Eppy at last married.

“I am so glad to see you here, Lady Nancy,” gushed Eppy effusively.

“You must come and see us before you return to Edinburgh. I live on the

estate adjoining this farm.” He drew the smiling girl to the window

and pointed out the beauties of MacDougall House. “He is poor,” she

whispered, “but he is of noble birth, a MacDougall of Lorne. Souter!” she

called aloud to her husband, who was looking exceedingly important as he

stood balancing himself on his toes, his hands behind his back, a look

of supreme self-satisfaction on his face, and listening, with an air of

blasé indifference, to the conversation between the old Duke and Robert.

As he heard his name called he leisurely turned his head in his wife’s

direction.

“Souter,” she continued in a tone meant to be careless, but which

expressed plainly her feeling of pride, “isn’t it the Marquis of Lorne

who is your first cousin?”

“What’s that, Souter?” asked Robert incredulously.

Souter looked around him with a sickly smile. He had not thought to be

cornered in this manner, when he had filled his wife’s mind with stories

of past grandeur and noble connections, and it made him feel decidedly

uncomfortable and embarrassed.

“Er—didna’ ye ken that, Robbie?” he exclaimed with a look of feigned

surprise on his reddened face. “Och, yes! By the by, Robbie,” he

continued quickly, anxious to change the subject, “we came o’er to tell

ye that we are gang to Brow on our honeymoon.” Here Eppy giggled and

looked bashfully out of the window. “An’ my wife, Mrs. MacDougall,” with

a flourish of the hand in her direction, which elicited another giggle

from the lady in question, “has decided that we want ye to gang alang wi’

us.”

Robert looked at him, then at Eppy in speechless surprise. Jean gave a

little gasp, and her hand sought her husband’s arm and pressed it with

delight.

“Souter,” faltered Robert, “ye’re both doing this out of the kindness of

your hearts, but I canna——”

“We’ll na take no for an answer. Ye may be stubborn wi’ your lofty

independence, your pride, but I can be just as stubborn as ye, Rab Burns,

and I say it is settled,” said Souter.

“’Tis the hand of God,” whispered Jean softly.

“God bless ye both,” faltered Robert, grasping Souter’s hand

affectionately.

“Come, father,” said Lady Nancy, who had witnessed this little scene with

moist eyes, “I protest we must start on our journey.”

“But first we must have a toast,” said Robert brightly. “’Tis most

fitting. Jean, bring the punch bowl.” Quickly she brought from the closet

the bowl of Inverary marble and placed it on the table, and into it she

poured some hot water and sugar. “We have no wine to offer,” continued

Robert, “nothing better than Highland whisky, but ye needna’ be afraid of

becoming intoxicated, my lord,” and he smiled ruefully, “for I ken ’twill

hardly be tolerable to your educated taste.” Jean had mixed the punch and

now passed it around among the guests. “For auld lang syne!” cried Robert

feelingly. “Is not that phrase most expressive? My lord, a toast,” and

he raised his glass to the old Duke, who, after a moment’s hesitation,

proposed “the health of Robert Burns, Scotland’s greatest Bard.”

“We drink to that with pleasure,” exclaimed Lady Nancy.

“Aye, that we do,” echoed Souter heartily. And while the toast was

being drunk he slyly whispered, “Rob, dinna’ say aught to my wife

about—er—the old Marquis, my—ahem—cousin. Ye understand,” and he nudged

him significantly.

Robert smiled and assured him of his secrecy.

“And noo,” said Souter proudly, looking at Eppy’s simpering face,

“here’s to the bride.” She made a deep courtesy and quaffed her glass

with conscious dignity at her sudden importance. “May she always believe

in her husband,” he added in an aside to Robert, much to the latter’s

amusement.

“Mrs. MacDougall, here’s to your enemies, your foes,” proposed Robert.

“What?” she cried, opening her eyes in amazement.

“May they have short shoes an’ corny toes,” he added with a merry twinkle

in his eyes.

“Duke, a toast!” said Souter importantly.

The Duke thought a moment. “Well, I drink to Mrs. MacDougall. May she

soon have a house full of bairns,” he thoughtlessly proposed.

Eppy gasped and turned crimson, and Lady Nancy bit her lips to keep back

the smile her father’s well-meant but tactless speech occasioned.

“Do you mean to insult me, my lord?” flashed Eppy indignantly.

“Bless my soul, no,” returned the Duke in astonishment, who could see no

reason for offense in his kindly-meant remark.

“The Duke meant well,” said Souter pacifically to his wife, whose eyes

were flashing angrily. “An’—an’—stranger things might happen, ye ken,”

and he rubbed his chin reflectively with a sly look out of the corner of

his roguish eye at Robert. She tossed her head haughtily.

“’Twould not be so monstrous strange, Mr. MacDougall, as you seem to

think,” she retorted frigidly. Souter opened his eyes in speechless

surprise. He was about to speak, but after one bewildered glance at the

disdainful face of his bride, concluded that discretion was the better

part of valor, and for the rest of that day he remained in thoughtful

silence reflecting on the inconsistencies of woman kind in particular,

and speculating upon the strange and mysterious workings of human nature

in general.

The Duke bade them all adieu and passed out into the garden, where its

wild beauties attracted his eye. He wandered about, forgetting, in his

admiration for the flowers, his daughter, who had lingered behind for one

last farewell word—alone.

“And so, Mr. Burns,” she said thoughtfully, looking after Jean’s

retreating figure, “you have never regretted taking the step that bound

your life to that of Jean Armour’s? Regretted doing your duty?” There was

a note of regret in the vibrating voice.

“Never, my lady,” he replied firmly. “It was the only really good thing

I have ever done in my wretched life.”

She looked at him a moment with hungry eyes. “Do you never think of the

old days in town?” she asked suddenly, and she was greatly surprised to

see his face turn pale, his eyes flash and deepen.

“For God’s sake, madam, do not mention the past!” he said, turning away.

“All that has passed out of my life forever,” he murmured after a pause,

“never to return.”

“And you wish it so?” she asked faintly. He bowed his head slowly. She

moistened her lips feverishly and drew near to him, her eyes filled

with a light that would have startled him had he seen it. “Say not so!

Must I give up the friendship of the only man I esteem and hold dear?”

she panted breathlessly. “Oh, will you not renew the broken thread of

our correspondence [he had written her several times since coming to

Ellisland, but before Jean’s advent] and enjoy the sweet intercourse

of thought, which will bring such gladness into my own life, and will

brighten the gloom of your own, and will take naught from your wife’s

peace of mind?”

He raised his head and regarded her thoughtfully. “How can ye ask me

that, my lady,” he answered, “when ye declared to me in your last letter

that you meant to preserve my epistles with a view, sooner or later, to

expose them to the pillory of derision and the rocks of criticism?” And

a look of resentment gleamed in his eyes.

“I protest, Mr. Burns,” she cried reproachfully. “I have, indeed,

preserved your letters, but they will never leave my possession; they are

cherished as the dearest treasures of my life.”

He sighed and remained silent for a space. From the kitchen came the

sound of children’s voices. He listened to it a moment, then turned to

Lady Nancy, a look of resolution in his face.

“Lady Nancy,” he said firmly, “I canna’ write to ye in sincerity. I have

a wife and family, an’ I have given my word to Jean, and while I dare to

sin, I dare not to lie, else madam I could perhaps too truly join grief

with grief, and echo sighs to thine. But with one foot in the grave, I

have no desire to stir up the old ashes of—friendship to find a living

ember. ’Twould be but a weak, fitful burning at best. Nay, ’tis too late

noo. Believe me, ’tis best, dear lady.” He rose to his feet and held out

his hand again. “An’ noo farewell, Lady Nancy, farewell.”

She took his hand and looked into his set, unmoved face, and a sigh of

utter disappointment, of patient longing, involuntarily escaped her

trembling lips. “If it must be, then farewell,” she answered slowly, a

slight tremor in her soft voice. She walked to the door, then turned and

fixing her eyes on him, she continued mournfully, “Do not quite forget

me, will you, Robert? Let the scenes of nature remind you of Nancy. In

winter remember the dark shades of her life, for there are plenty; in

summer, the warmth of her friendship; in autumn, her glowing wishes to

bestow plenty on all, and let spring animate you with hopes that your

absent friend may yet surmount the wintry blasts of life, and revive to

taste a springtime of happiness.”

He bowed his head gravely. “I shall remember ye, Lady Nancy—friend,” he

returned feelingly.

She gave him one long, lingering look. “Farewell, farewell!” she gasped,

and when he raised his head she was gone.

He sighed and walked thoughtfully to the window. “The past and all its

pleasures will soon be but a dim memory,” he muttered grimly, “as one

by one the connecting links which bound me to it are severed forever.”

He paused and watched her as she joined her father in the garden, and

a quizzical look flashed across his face. “Faith!” he muttered with a

little smile, “who would believe the time would come when lovely women

would plead in vain for the favors o’ Rob Burns. Och! Robbie, ye are

indeed fit only for the grave,” and he turned away from the window in

earthly meditation.

CHAPTER XXVI

The next few days Jean was very busy with her preparations for their

sojourn at the seaside. The date of their departure was already fixed and

it now lacked but a few days before they would bid farewell to Ellisland

forever, for Robert had decided to take up his residence in Dumfries when

his visit was ended, for the duties of his new office would necessitate

his being there the quarter part of his time.

As the day of their departure drew near, Robert grew more and more

depressed, and day by day he sat in melancholy silence beside the window

gazing with unseeing eyes upon the tangled yet graceful wilderness of

flowers. Jean watched him in growing fear and anxiety as he sank deeper

and deeper into those protracted fits of gloom and depression, and

vainly sought to find some reason for the sudden change. He had been so

elated at getting his promotion and at the many advantageous changes

it would make in their condition—had dwelt with affectionate wonder on

Eppy’s kindness in extending to them the invitation to accompany them to

Brow, and had seemed to greatly improve in health and spirits for a few

days. Then came Gilbert’s letter stating that he had arrived in time to

prevent the eviction of the dear ones at home. The letter had plunged him

into a state of feverish excitement and restless anxiety, and all day he

would sit at the open window, watching with burning eyes the long narrow

road that twisted and turned on its way to Mossgiel, straining his eyes

eagerly at the approach of any casual traveler who might be passing,

then with a look of patient despair, sink back in his chair, pale and

listless, his unfocused eyes again gazing into space. One night after he

had left his chair and had retired to his bed for the night, looking more

haggard than usual, Jean spied on the floor a crumpled paper which had

evidently dropped from his nerveless hand. Picking it up, she smoothed

it out and found it to be Gilbert’s letter, which she had not seen, as

Robert had read it to her and then put it carefully aside. Slowly her

gaze wandered over it. Suddenly she gave a great start, for at the bottom

of the page this sentence caught her eye: “Mary leaves to-morrow for the

Highlands and will pass through Ellisland.” Thoughtfully she put the

letter on the chair where he could find it in the morning, and sat down

by the cradle of the bairn and gently rocked him till his fretful crying

ceased; then she gave herself up to the heart-burning thoughts that

filled her mind. She had tried so hard to be patient all these years, she

had struggled and struggled to do her duty without a word of complaint,

she thought, while bitter tears of patient grief and secret yearning

for the love that she knew belonged to another rolled down her sorrowing

cheek. She had no word of complaint to make against Robert though, for

he had never sought to deceive her once, and there was no feeling of

resentment in her heart against the little dairymaid. It was not the

child’s fault. It was not the fault of either that they still loved each

other. Only Robert might have shown her the letter, she thought with

quivering lips; there was no need to keep it from her. She would know it

when Mary came to the house, anyway. She might have guessed the reason

for his sudden change, she thought, wiping away her tears, only her mind

had been so filled with the household preparations for moving that Mary

had been quite forgotten. For a while she gently rocked the sleeping

child, watching its sweet, flushed face, listening to its soft breathing,

and soon all disturbing thoughts slipped away from her troubled mind,

and a peaceful, holy calm entered her patient heart and shone through

her love-lit eyes. Covering its little form carefully, she carried the

cradle into her chamber and placed it within reach of her bed. Then as

she disrobed for the night in dreary silence, her eyes fixed on the pale

face of her husband, who was tossing and muttering in his sleep, a tender

wave of pity swept over her at the thought of the sweet lass who would

shortly pass out of their lives forever, leaving only a sweet, haunting

memory behind to remind them of her pathetic young life. Quickly she

slipped into bed beside her restless husband, upon whose feverish cheek

she pressed a tender kiss, and closing her tired eyes, fancied she

slept, though her sleep was but a waking dream of love for her husband

and children, in which all bright hopes and vague longings reached their

utmost fulfillment, and yet were in some strange way crossed with shadows

of sorrow and grief, which she had no power to disperse.

On the following morning the heat was intense. No breath of air stirred

a ripple on the sluggishly-flowing Nith, and there was a heaviness in

the atmosphere which made the very brightness of the sky oppressive.

Such hot weather was unusual for that part of Scotland, and, according

to Souter Johnny, betokened some change. The sun was dazzling, yet there

was a mist in the air as though the heavens were full of unshed tears.

A bank of nearly motionless clouds hung behind the dark, sharp peaks of

the distant mountains which lay beyond Mossgiel, for there was no wind

stirring, and Robert, seated in his chair by the window, found himself

too warm with his thick plaid wrapped closely around him, and throwing

it back he let the sunshine bathe him in its golden glow and play on the

uncovered ebony of his hair. He no longer watched the road with such

eager intensity. Rarely this morning had his gaze wandered beyond the

bush beneath the window, with its one snowy-white rose, the last rose

of summer, nestling among the faded, worm-eaten leaves, looking so

pure, so fragrant, so delicately white against the background of rusty,

dead-looking foliage. It had blossomed in the night, and in the morning

when he had approached the lattice from force of habit, although he had

given up all hope of seeing Mary before she left Ayrshire, he had spied

it in all its delicate beauty. Each morning for six days now he had gone

to that window, expecting before the day drew to its close to see the

beloved form of his Mary approach, only to go to his bed at night in

bitter disappointment. Gilbert’s letter stated she would start that day,

and now the sixth day had come and yet there was no sign of her. He had

told himself he would not watch the road this morning; there was no use,

she had gone; she had not wanted to see him; she felt too bitter against

him—it was only natural she should. These bitter thoughts had filled

his mind with misery and wretchedness as he drew near the open window.

Suddenly his eyes had rested on the spot of white nestling on the top of

the bush. With a strange thrill at his heart, he had knelt down beside

the latticed window, and folding his arms on the sill, gazed at the

message from heaven, sent to bring peace and hope to his aching heart, so

he fondly believed, while bright tears filled his eyes and brimmed over,

falling warmly on his folded hands.

“Oh, Mary, my love, my love!” he whispered brokenly. “Come to me before

ye die.” And all that morning he had watched it expand and stretch

out its petals to its utmost, wafting its perfume up into his grateful

nostrils, till a peace such as had not visited his heart for many years,

smoothed out the lines of suffering from his brow and softened the hard

light in his deepened eyes. A verse of a poem he had written a few years

before flashed across his memory:

“Oft hae I roved by bonnie Doon,

To see the rose and woodbine twine;

And like a bird sang o’ its luve,

And fondly sae did I o’ mine;

Wi’ lightsome heart I pu’d a rose,

Fu’ sweet upon its thorny tree;

But my fausse luver stole my rose,

But ah! he left the thorn wi’ me.”

Jean, coming into the room a little later, found him there, his head

resting on his hands, a smile of contented calm upon his face, which

now seemed like the face of the youth she had known in Mauchline, and

the sight thrilled her strangely and brought a spasm of pain to her

overcharged heart.

CHAPTER XXVII

That morning, when Robert first caught sight of the rose, he had

experienced a sort of mental obsession in which his brain was mastered

by the thought—an absurd idea perhaps, and one which his reason and his

will both might easily have repelled, only he clung fondly to the belief,

letting it fasten itself upon his mind and grow and grow—that Mary had

passed away in the night, and that her spirit had found a temporary

resting place in the heart of the white rose that had blossomed forth

so unexpectedly, so unseasonably. He had watched the nodding flower on

its long, slender stem of green, waving gracefully in the light breeze

that had sprung up, and in his state of dreaming consciousness fancied

he could see the wistful face of Highland Mary peeping out from among

the snowy petals. As the feeling grew upon him that she had come to

him in spirit, a great content settled down and around him, a mighty

calm that seemed to still the troubled waters of his soul, and all the

bitter discontent, the yearnings of his heart, the cravings, the unrest,

faded away like a mist dissolved by the warm splendor of the sun. For a

while he had sat there in blissful peace, a smile of ineffable rapture

on his face, gazing with rapt adoring eyes at the dancing rose, which

seductively blew nearer and nearer to him with each gust of the swiftly

rising wind, then as he would lovingly stretch out his hand to touch

it, to caress it, away it would go, eluding him like a dancing sunbeam,

to the farthest side of the bush, bending its saucy head lower and

lower till it was lost to sight for an instant, then up it would bound,

gayly nodding, and then for a moment would pause in its restless elfin

dance, quivering on its stem as though tired with its sportive play, its

coquetry. The sky had grown gradually darker, and little waves disturbed

the smooth surface of the greenish gray grass that swayed and undulated

in running billows, as the wind rose. But the kneeling man was all

unconscious of the gloom that had settled over the landscape, shutting

out the glorious sunshine, stilling the song of the birds, and bringing

in its train a damp chill that presaged a storm. The wind tossed the

curls madly about the face of the poet, but still he did not move; only

as the chill air struck through his thin shirt, he mechanically pulled

his plaid about his shoulders, and dreamed on happily, of the old days,

when the heart was young, before sorrow had embittered his life, dreamed

of a life of love with Mary by his side, dreamed and dreamed far into

the morning, and so Jean had found him and left him to his slumbers.

Suddenly his eyes opened, but he did not move. He sat there feeling a

little cramped and stiff, until hazy recollections dawned slowly upon his

mind, then he raised himself from his crouching position, and leaning

out of the window gazed with eyes that were wonderfully luminous at the

blossom which was just beyond his eager reach. He inhaled deep breaths

of its fragrant perfume, a smile of loving tenderness on his lips. All

at once a feeling of sudden depression tightened around his heart as he

noticed for the first time the deepening gloom without, felt the lowering

temperature of the atmosphere, which chilled and depressed him so

strangely. He looked again at the swiftly dancing flower, and his heart

stopped beating for an instant, while a look of pain, of heart-breaking

sorrow, darkened his face—the white petals were dropping one by one, and

were being whirled and tossed madly through the air like flakes of snow.

He watched in silence, as the wind, with reckless abandon, tore them out

and scattered them here and there, some sailing merrily out of sight—one

dashing through the open window and against the white, agonized face of

the suffering man, clinging to it for a moment, in a sweet caress, a last

embrace, then slipping down—down, till it found rest on the floor, where

soon it was dead and forgotten. As the last snowy petal left its stem,

leaving it looking so bare and pitiful nestling in among the leaves as

though ashamed of its nakedness, a hard sob of anguish escaped his lips,

for it seemed as if each petal contained a part of the soul of his loved

one, and leaning his face against the sash, he gave himself up to the

crushing sorrow that submerged his soul and plunged him once more into

black despair. It seemed as if the last link that had bound her to earth,

and to him, was at last broken and she had passed on out of his life

forever; not even the rose was left to preserve as a sacred memory to

look at occasionally, to bring her presence nearer. And now no more such

roses would bloom for him, not in this life anyway, and so he drearily

mused in hopeless sorrow.

All at once a vague feeling of uneasiness stole over him, a curious

feeling that he was not alone; and yet he did not look around, for

somehow it seemed that it was the spirit of his Mary still hovering in

the air, seeking to comfort his grieving heart; and yet the strange

feeling of her nearness was different from that emotion he had

experienced when he in fancy had looked at her wistful face in the heart

of the nodding rose. And suddenly he held his breath as the consciousness

of her physical presence grew stronger and stronger upon him; his

startled eyes fixed themselves upon the naked stem, swaying gently on the

bush—he strained his ears to hear—he knew not what—he could not tell—a

trembling seized his limbs—and when he heard a sweet, low voice call

“Robert,” not from the slender stalk, but somewhere behind him, he gave

no start of surprise. He told himself it—it—was only imagination—the

great longing within him had—but there it was again—it could not be

fancy—it—it must be—he turned slowly in the direction of the voice as if

afraid to find naught but the empty room to mock him, for he had heard no

sound to indicate a presence within the room. As his eyes grew accustomed

to the gloom and his dulled vision cleared, he saw just inside the door,

standing with hands outstretched to him—a flesh and blood reality, but

oh! so pitifully changed. He gave a gasping cry and sprang to clasp the

swaying form close to his throbbing breast.

Ah! the rapture of that meeting, the blissful joy which filled his aching

heart and crowded out stern recollections from his memory, while all

thoughts of the grim present, its bitter facts which faced him, the vain

regrets, all—all were now forgotten. The lines of pain in his haggard

face were smoothed out gently and deep peace settled upon their troubled

souls.

“Ah, Mary!” he breathed softly, breaking the sacred stillness. “Ye have

come at last. Oh, it has been so long, dearie, so long, and I have

wanted ye so much,” and he held her to his heart in a strong, jealous,

passionate embrace, as if he could never part with her again on earth,

but would shield her from even the shadow of death, that he saw stamped

on her pale, pinched features, and which glowed in the haunting depths of

her tired blue eyes. A smile of sadness passed quickly over her face like

the sun that peeps through the sudden rift of a cloud.

“Ye knew, laddie, I couldna’ go awa’ without seeing ye just once mair,”

she whispered tenderly. A fit of coughing suddenly racked her slender

frame. He led her weak and trembling to a chair and gently wiped away the

beads of perspiration from her forehead, and for a moment she leaned up

against him in utter exhaustion. Presently she smiled up in his anxious

face and faintly thanked him. “Dinna’ be alarmed, dearie,” she faltered.

“I’m aright noo,” and she bravely straightened up in her seat, but he

would not release her altogether.

And so they sat, sad and silent, knowing the parting, the sad, final

parting would come in a few quickly-fleeing moments.

Outside the clouds had been gathering thickly over the sky, and now and

then a few shafts of sunlight still forced a passage through them with

steady persistency, although storm hovered over all, waiting the signal

to burst forth. Suddenly a silver glare of lightning sprang out from

beneath the black-winged cloud hanging low in the horizon, and a few

large drops of rain began to fall. Mary nestled closer to him as she saw

the brilliant flash, and shivered apprehensively. They both were thinking

of that other storm, when he had bidden farewell to Ayrshire in poverty

and despair, to take his place in Edinburgh among the high and mighty,

to claim the reward of genius—honor, fame and renown. And now the time

had come for her to say farewell, only there was a difference, and such

a difference! She was bidding good-by to life, to love, to everything. A

happy smile broke over her wistful face as she thought of her reward; it

would not be such a fleeting thing as riches, honor and fame. Thank God,

it was more than those; it was an eternity of happiness. No more sorrow,

no more suffering, only peace, divine peace, such as the world knoweth

not, such as she had never known in her short, eventful life.

“And so, Mary,” murmured Robert brokenly, “the end of our life’s romance

has come at last.”

She put her little hand in his and pressed it warmly.

“Yes, ’tis the end, Robin Adair. The end of all, but it had to come some

time; we were but wearing our hearts out in vain longings, in bitter

regrets, ye ken that, dear.” She paused and idly watched the rain, which

was now coming down fiercely. “It will be better for—for us—all when I am

gone,” she murmured presently, with a far-away look in her eyes.

A sob of anguish caused her to turn quickly to the sorrowing man by

her side. Putting her hand on his head, she continued in pathetic

resignation, “I will be spared much pain and sorrow, ye ken, so dinna

greet for me, laddie. I—I am content, nay glad to go, for I—I am so

tired—so very tired of this—long, unhappy struggle.” Her voice trembled

and the tears rolled slowly down her sad cheeks.

“If I, too, could only end it all,” he moaned.

“Sh! laddie!” she answered in gentle reproach. “Ye mustna’ wish for

death; ye have those dependent on ye, whom ye maun think of noo, Jean and

the bairns.” Her voice grew very sweet and caressing. “I saw them as I

came in. Oh, they are such bonnie little lads, dearie. So like ye, too.

Gilbert is o’er fond of them; he is playing wi’ them noo.”

Mrs. Dunlop had been taken ill at the last moment and had commissioned

Gilbert to take her place. She had supplied him plentifully with money

for the journey and had then sorrowfully taken her departure for

Edinburgh, her kind old heart sad and heavy.

“Robbie lad,” continued Mary earnestly, “ye—ye maun take Jean close to

your heart. Ye maun love her fondly for the bairns’ sake and—for her own,

too, for she is a good, kind wife to ye, and ye’ll all—be very happy yet,

I ken weel.”

He slipped down from his chair to his knees and buried his tear-stained

face in her lap. “When ye go, Mary,” he murmured brokenly, “I’ll never

know peace and happiness again.” She let him weep on in silence.

Presently he raised his head and looked at her. “Ye dinna’ ken, lassie,

how I have hungered for a sight of your dear face—a word from your sweet

lips, this last year.” He clung to her passionately. “An’ noo in a few

minutes,” he continued in anguish, “ye will pass out o’ my life forever

and I maun live on here—desolate—and heart-broken.”

“Nay, nay!” she cried reproachfully. “Dinna’ say that, laddie, not alone,

not alone,” and she looked compassionately at the door of the kitchen

where Jean sat in patient misery holding her bairn to her aching heart.

At that moment Gilbert softly opened the door and told them that they

would have to start at once, that the storm would not let up and that

they must catch the boat at Greenock that night.

“Ye had better say good-by, noo,” and he closed the door quietly behind

him.

They looked at each other, too dazed for words. Then she started to rise

to her feet, but he clasped her hands tightly, though she did not feel

the pain, and pressed her into the seat again.

“Not yet, not yet, Mary!” he gasped. “I canna’ let ye go just yet. ’Tis

like tearing my heart out by its roots.”

“Ye mustna’ greet so, laddie,” said Mary, frightened by the vehemence of

his sorrow.

“’Tis all my fault,” he moaned, “all thro’ my sinful weakness that ye are

made to suffer noo, all my fault.”

She put her fingers on his lips. “Sh! dearie!” she remonstrated softly.

“Dinna’ blame yoursel’. If we suffer noo, we must na’ forget how happy

we have been, and we were happy, weren’t we, laddie?” and she smiled

in fond reminiscence, then continued a trifle unsteadily, “An—an hour’s

happiness is worth a year of pain, for when we get sad an’ lonely, we can

live it all over again, canna’ we?” She paused and sighed pathetically.

“Only it—it isna’ real, is it, laddie?” A sudden break in her voice

caused her to put her hand to her throat and look away with quivering

lips. Then she went on in plaintive, pleading gentleness, “Ye will

sometimes think of me—way up—in the Highlands, won’t ye, dearie? It

willna’ wrong—Jean, for—soon your Mary will be—in Heaven, in her castle

grand.”

The thunder rolled along the sky in angry reverberating echoes, stilling

the low voice, while frequent flashes of lightning leaped out like knives

suddenly drawn from dark sheaths—yet toward the north over Greenock the

sky was clearing, and streaks and beams of gold fell from the hidden

sun, with a soothing promise of a clear and radiant sunset. Mary’s face

brightened as she watched the sunbeams struggling through the lightened

clouds, and she went on dreamily, in the prolonged lull of the storm:

“My home there will be so fine, much finer than the castle in Edinburgh.”

She smiled tenderly and let her hand slip down from his head to his

heaving shoulder, where it rested in loving quiet. “How happy I was that

night,” she mused; “an’ the sweet gown was so pretty I—hated to take it

off, but it wasna’ mine.” She paused with quivering lips. “But—but—I

was going to buy one the next day for my own, wasna’ I? A white one—all

smooth and soft and shiny—for—for my wedding gown.” Her voice died away

in a hushed, mournful quaver.

“Don’t, don’t, Mary!” sobbed Robert unrestrainedly. “I canna’ bear to

think of that noo, noo when I maun give ye up forever.” He stroked her

face and covered her pale, thin, toil-worn hands with heart-breaking

kisses. Presently he grew calmer. “I shall never forget that night, Mary,

that night with its pleasures and pain,” he went on with dreamy pathos.

“It is ever in my thoughts; e’en in my dreams your dear bonnie face

haunts me with its sweet, pathetic smile, and your tender lips seem to

say, ‘laddie, ye were not true to your vows, ye have broken my heart.’”

She gave a little cry of pain.

“No, no, laddie, I never thought that,” she cried, and she looked at him

with gentle, pitying eyes.

“I wad try to speak, to implore your forgiveness for the misery I had

caused ye,” continued Robert, his husky voice heard faintly above the

wail of the wind, which shook the lattice with a sort of stealthy

clatter, like a midnight prowler striving to creep in to steal and

plunder. “And in my dumb despair and anguish I would clutch at your

floating garments only to have them vanish into air, and I would awake to

find myself—alone—with my bitter remorse and sorrow.” A low, choked sob

broke from his hollow breast—he covered his face with his hands. “Can ye

ever forgive me?” he murmured.

Mary regarded him with infinite compassion, a heroic smile on her tired,

quivering lips. “Freely do I forgive everything, laddie,” she replied,

“an’ when I am gone I want ye to remember always that Mary Campbell had

only love, pity and forgiveness in her heart for ye.” She raised her

trembling hands solemnly. “May God bring peace to your troubled heart,

laddie, and may your future dreams be filled with joy and happiness, of

love and prosperity.”

[Illustration: “The door opened and Jean quietly entered the room.”]

The door opened and Jean quietly entered the room, her tense, white face

full of patient sorrow. She had sat in the kitchen for an eternity it

seemed to the waiting woman, while Mary was taking her farewell of her

husband. She had tried to talk to Gilbert, to interest herself in the

news of home, but the words simply refused to leave her lips, and so she

had sat there, listlessly watching the children playing around their

uncle’s knee, her ears straining to hear some sound from the other room.

No one knew how she suffered, to step aside, to welcome to her home his

former sweetheart, to know they were there clasped in each other’s arms;

and yet she did not feel bitter toward Mary somehow, strange as it might

seem. She pitied her, she pitied them both, and it filled her with a

strange feeling of surprise that she could feel so. Still loving Robert

as fondly as she did, she could not help the feeling of despair which

crept over her at times, to know, to fully realize, that she held only a

secondary place in his affections, to hear him calling for another, for

Mary. Sometimes in thought she caught herself bitterly arraigning him for

his thoughtlessness, his apparent heartlessness; then the thought of his

weak condition, his ill health, his distracted state of mind, these past

months, tempered her judgment. He was hardly responsible for his actions,

and if he were conscious of his own selfishness he had lost the power,

the strength of will, to restrain his feverish impulses. She wondered

vaguely if it would be different when—when she had passed away forever—if

her memory would still come between them. She hoped not—she prayed that

it might not be so.

Gilbert had left her to her silent musings, and had gone out to harness

the horses. Returning, he told her that they must start at once, so she

had opened the door to tell them, and as her eyes took in the misery

which was reflected in their white, drawn faces she was moved to intense

pity, and the tears rained slowly down her cheeks.

“Come, Mary, Gilbert says ’tis time to start,” she faltered. They both

looked up slowly at the sound of her voice, then gazed dully into each

other’s eyes. Presently Mary rose from her chair and stood up unsteadily,

stretching out her little, cold, white hands to Robert, who clutched

them in his own feverish palms as a drowning man clutches a straw.

“The time has come to part, laddie,” she said bravely, a wan little smile

on her bluish lips.

A violent shuddering seized him, he did not move for a moment. Finally

he staggered to his feet, and a quiver of agony passed over his face. He

looked at her with dulled, glazed eyes and his face assumed a ghastly hue.

“’Tis so hard, so cruel, to say good-by forever,” he breathed huskily,

for his throat was dry and parched. His swaying figure tottered a moment,

then he drew her slowly into his arms and pressed his lips to her

forehead. “’Tis the last time on earth, Mary,” he whispered brokenly. Her

lips trembled, but she would not give way to the feeling of dizziness

that threatened to rob her of her consciousness. She must leave him with

a smile, she told herself; she must not make it harder for him. “Yes, for

the last time, Robert,” she repeated slowly. “May God bless and watch

over ye, Robin Adair—till—we—meet in Heaven. Good-by.” Her voice died

away inarticulately, and she sank forward into his arms, where she lay

motionless with closed eyes, utterly spent in body and spirit, and save

for a shivering sob that now and then escaped her, she seemed almost

insensible. Jean rushed quickly forward and drew her into a chair, while

Gilbert fetched a glass of water, which he held to her white lips.

The wind shook the doors and whistled shrilly through the crevices, then

as though tired of its own wrath, surged away in hoarse murmurs, through

the branches of the creaking old beech, toward the Loch, and there was a

short, tense silence while they waited to see signs of life appear in the

face of the stricken girl. Presently she opened those azure blue eyes and

smiled up in their anxious faces; then she struggled to her feet, but she

put her hand quickly to her heart and tottered.

“Oh, my—poor—weak heart,” she gasped faintly. Jean caught her quickly

in her strong arms and stroked her soft cheek with a curious yearning

sensation of love tugging at her heartstrings.

“Poor dear,” she said compassionately, “you’re too weak to stand so much

excitement,” and she put her back firmly in the chair. Mary attempted to

rise again, but Jean would not permit her. “Gilbert shall carry you to

the carriage,” she told her. Gilbert stepped to her side.

“I will be a light burden noo, Gilbert,” she faltered, smiling

pathetically into his strong, rugged face, which bore traces of his deep,

bitter grief. Jean gently put her arms about her and in silence implanted

a kiss on her pure, sweet face; then she turned away and covered her face

with her hands. Gilbert bent over and picked up the frail body, and in

spite of his efforts to restrain his emotion, a sigh that was almost a

groan escaped him, for she was no heavier than a child of a few summers.

He carried her past his brother, who was sitting with head bowed upon his

breast in an attitude of absolute despair.

“Greet not for me, dearie,” whispered Mary faintly, stretching out her

hand and letting it rest tenderly on his head. “God’s—will—be—done,” and

her dry, burning eyes took their last look, and said their last farewell

as Gilbert slowly carried her from the room and closed the door, shutting

Robert out from her lingering gaze.

CHAPTER XXVIII

Then whilst his throbbing veins beat high

With every impulse of delight,

Dash from his lips the cup of joy,

And shroud the scene in shades of night;

And let despair, with wizard light,

Disclose the yawning gulf below,

And pour incessant on his sight,

Her spectred ills and shapes of woe.

For some moments Robert sat there, apparently dead to his surroundings.

He had not looked up or moved as the door closed upon the retreating

figures. He seemed to be in a state of complete exhaustion of mind and

body. Presently the sound of the carriage rolling over the swishing,

muddy driveway roused him from his lethargy. Raising his head he looked

wildly around the room—then paused and listened—he was as one in a dream,

realizing nothing plainly. He could hardly remember what had taken place

during the past few minutes; he could grasp nothing tangible in thought

or memory, till with a wild start he seemed to awake, as the rattle of

the passing wheels brought back recollection. He staggered to the window

and, throwing back the lattice, gazed out at the rapidly retreating

blur of moving wheels and horses and shapeless figures, and watched it

till it was lost to sight. As he stood there a soft change, a delicate

transparency, swept over the dark bosom of the sky. Pale pink streaks

glittered on the dusky horizon—darts of light began to climb upward into

the clouds, and to plunge downward upon the waving field of hay; the

radiance spread swiftly, till suddenly the whole heavens were bathed in

the glorious light, and the last cloud, fading into nothingness, revealed

the sun in all its matchless glory, hanging low in the sky just above

the hills, behind which it would soon drop in stately splendor. Slowly

the watcher sank down to his knees and leaned his tired head against the

sash, his eyes closed and sunken.

“She is gone, gone,” he murmured brokenly, “an’ I am left all alone noo,

all alone.” Jean bent over him with pathetic tenderness, and taking his

limp hand in her own warm palm, she said with timid reproach:

“Not alone, Robert, while you have your—bairns—and me.” She feared to

call his attention to herself in the midst of his grief, lest he might

revile her for standing between him and happiness; but he did not hear.

“Oh, Jean, how can I take up the burden of life again?” he cried

weakly, clinging to her hand with despairing strength. It thrilled her

strangely to feel the grasp of his hand, to feel his weakness, his sudden

dependence, the appeal in his dark, mournful eyes raised to hers so

pitifully; she knelt beside him and drew his head down on her heaving

bosom.

“Ye must be brave,” she told him, her voice trembling with a new-found

happiness, a sudden joy. He needed her now, needed her love and care more

than ever. Then she continued softly, her voice vibrating with thrilling

intensity, “Ye have much to live for yet, lad. Ye must be strong, ye must

be brave. Pluck up your courage! I’ll help ye.”

He looked at her wonderingly, then he slowly bowed his head. “Yes, Jean,”

he said humbly, “I will be strong; I’ll try to be brave.”

She helped him to his chamber, and placed him beside the window, where he

could no longer watch the road, and left him. For a while he gazed out

over the fields in apathetic calm, his mind a blank. Across the field he

could see Souter Johnny at work in his garden. Suddenly he straightened

up and listened. Souter was singing.

“O where, an’ O where is my Highland laddie gone?”

came the old cracked voice. He closed his eyes wearily, but he could not

shut out the sound.

“Oh, Mary, my lost Highland Mary,” he whispered under his breath.

THE END

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End of Project Gutenberg's Highland Mary, by Clayton Mackenzie Legge