HIGHLAND MARY

“Highland Mary.”

HIGHLAND
MARY

The Romance of a Poet

A
NOVEL

By
CLAYTON MACKENZIE LEGGE

Illustrated by
WILLIAM KIRKPATRICK

1906
C. M. CLARK PUBLISHING CO.
BOSTON

Entered at
Stationer’s Hall, London.

Dramatic and all other
Rights Reserved.

TO
The Rev. Dr. Donald Sage Mackay, D.D.,
Pastor of the Collegiate Church,
New York City.
I RESPECTFULLY DEDICATE THIS BOOK

FOREWORD

With apologies to Dame History for having taken liberties with some of her famous characters, I would ask the Reader to remember that this story is fiction and not history.

I have made use of some of the most romantic episodes in the life of Robert Burns, such as his courtship of Mary Campbell and his love affair with Jean Armour, “the Belle of Mauchline,” and many of the historical references and details are authentic.

But my chief purpose in using these incidents was to make “Highland Mary” as picturesque, lovable and interesting a character in Fiction as she has always been in the History of Scotland.

Clayton Mackenzie Legge.

HIGHLAND MARY

CHAPTER I

In the “but” or living-room (as it was termed in Scotland) of a little whitewashed thatched cottage near Auld Ayr in the land of the Doon, sat a quiet, sedate trio of persons consisting of two men and a woman. She who sat at the wheel busily engaged in spinning was the mistress of the cot, a matronly, middle-aged woman in peasant’s cap and ’kerchief.

The other two occupants of the room for years had been inseparable companions and cronies, and when not at the village inn could be found sitting by the fireside of one of their neighbors, smoking their pipes in blissful laziness. And all Ayrshire tolerated and even welcomed Tam O’Shanter and his cronie, “Souter Johnny.”

Tam was an Ayrshire farmer, considered fairly well-to-do in the neighborhood, while Souter (shoemaker) Johnny was the village cobbler, who seldom, if ever, worked at his trade nowadays. All the afternoon had they sat by the open fireplace, with its roomy, projecting chimney, watching the peat burn, seldom speaking, smoking their old smelly pipes, and sighing contentedly as the warmth penetrated their old bones.

Mrs. Burns glanced at her uninvited guests occasionally with no approving eye. If they must inflict their presence on her, why couldn’t they talk, say something, tell her some of the news, the gossip of the village? she thought angrily; their everlasting silence had grown very monotonous to the good dame. She wished they would go. It was nearing supper time, and Gilbert would soon be in from the field, and she knew that he did not approve of the two old cronies hanging around monopolizing the fireplace to the exclusion of everyone else, and she did not want any hard words between them and Gilbert. Suddenly with a final whirl she fastened the end of the yarn she was spinning, and getting up from her seat set the wheel back against the whitewashed wall.

Then going to the old deal dresser, she took from one of the drawers a white cloth and spread it smoothly over the table, then from the rack, which hung above it, she took the old blue dishes and quickly set the table for their evening meal. At these preparations for supper the old cronies looked eagerly expectant, for none knew better than they the excellence of the Widow Burns’ cooking, and a look of pleasant anticipation stole over their sober faces as they perceived the platter of scones on the table ready to be placed on the hot slab of stone in the fireplace.

Knocking the ashes from his pipe, Tam rose unsteadily to his feet, and standing with his back to the fire, he admiringly watched the widow as she bustled to and fro from table to dresser. “Ah, Mistress Burns, ye’re a fine housekeeper,” he remarked admiringly. “An’ ye’re a fine cook.”

Mrs. Burns turned on him sharply. “So is your guidwife,” she said shortly, glancing out through the low, deep, square window to where her second son could be seen crossing the field to the house. She hoped he would take the hint and go.

“Aye, Mistress, I ken ye’re recht,” replied Tam, meekly, with a dismal sigh. “But it’s a sorry bet o’ supper I’ll be gang hame to this night, an’ ye ken it’s a long journey, too, Mistress Burns,” he insinuated slyly.

“Sure it’s a lang, weary journey, Tam,” said Souter Johnny, commiseratingly. “But think o’ the warm welcome ye’ll be haein’ when ye meet your guidwife at the door,” and a malicious twinkle gleamed in his kindly but keen old eyes.

“How is your guidwife, Tam O’Shanter?” inquired Mistress Burns, as she placed some scones on the hot hearthstone to bake.

“She’s a maist unco woman, Mistress,” replied Tam sorrowfully. “There’s no livin’ wi’ her o’ late. She’s no a help or comfort to a mon at a’!” he whined. Here Tam got a delicious whiff of the baking scones, and his mouth as well as his eyes watered as he continued pathetically, “If she could only cook like ye, Mistress. Oh, ’twas a sorry day for Tam O’Shanter when he took such a scoldin’ beldame for wife,” and Tam sat down, the picture of abject distress.

Souter regarded his cronie with a grim smile. He had no pity for Tam, nor for any man, in fact, who would not or could not rule his own household. (Souter, by the by, had remained a bachelor.) However, he did his best to console Tam whenever his marital troubles were discussed.

“Never mind, Tam,” he said sympathetically, helping himself to a scone while Mistress Burns’ back was turned. “Ye ken where ye can find all the comfort and consolation ye can hold, if ye hae the tippence.”

Tam wiped away a tear (tears came easily to the old tyke in his constant state of semi-intoxication) and gave a deep, prolonged sigh. “Aye, Souter, an’ I feel mair at home in the Inn than I do with my guidwife,” he answered mournfully. “I dinna mind telling ye, she’s driven me to the Deil himsel’, by her daur looks an’ ways. The only friend I hae left is Old John Barleycorn,” and he wailed in maudlin despair.

“He’s your best enemy, ye mean,” retorted Souter dryly, relighting his pipe, after having demolished, with evident relish, the last of his stolen scone.

“Waesucks, mon,” he continued, assuming the tone of Dominie Daddy Auld, who had tried in vain to convert the two old sinners, much to their amusement and inward elation. “Your guidwife told ye weel. Ye’re a skellum, Tam, a blethering, blustering, drunken blellum,” and the old rogue looked slyly at Mistress Burns to note the effect of his harangue.

“Aye, ye’re right, Souter Johnny,” said the good dame, nodding approval to him, and going up to Tam, who was still sitting groaning by the fireside, she shook him vigorously by the shoulder. “Stop your groaning and grunting, ye old tyke, and listen to me,” she said sharply. “Take your friend’s advice and gi’ old John Barleycorn a wide berth.” Here her voice dropped to a whisper, “or some day ye’ll be catched wi’ warlocks in the mire, Tam O’Shanter.” He stopped his noise and straightened up in his chair.

“Aye, and ghosties and witches will come yelpin’ after ye as ye pass the auld haunted kirk at Alloway,” added Souter sepulchrally, leaning over Tam with fixed eyes and hand outstretched, clutching spasmodically at imaginary objects floating before Tam’s suspicious, angry eyes. Tam, however, was not to be so easily frightened, and brushing Souter aside, he jumped to his feet. “Souter Johnny, dinna ye preach to me, mon,” he roared menacingly. “Ye hae no reght. Let Daddy Auld do that! I dinna fear the witches or ghosties, not I.” He staggered to the window and pointed to an old white horse standing meekly by the roadside.

“Do ye see any auld faithful Maggie standin’ out there?” he cried triumphantly. Not waiting for their answer, he continued proudly, “Nae witches can catch Tam O’Shanter when he’s astride his auld mare’s back, whether he is drunk or sober,” and he glared defiantly at his listeners. At that moment the door from the “ben” opened, and Gilbert Burns entered the room. An angry frown wrinkled his forehead as his gaze fell upon the two old cronies. A hard worker himself, he could not abide laziness or shiftlessness in another. He strode swiftly up to Tam, who had suddenly lost his defiant attitude, but before he could speak the bitter, impatient words which rushed to his lips, his mother, knowing his uncertain temper, shook her head at him remonstratingly. “Ah, lad, I’m fair ye hae come in to rest a while, an’ to hae a bit o’ supper,” she hurriedly said. “Set ye doon. I hae some scones for ye, an’ Mollie has some rabbit stew. Noo gie me your bonnet and coat, laddie,” and taking them from him she hung them on the peg behind the door, while Gilbert with a look of disgust at the two old cronies sat down and proceeded to butter his scones in moody silence. Tam and Souter, however, did not appear in any wise abashed, and perceiving they were not to be invited to eat with Gilbert, they resumed their seats each side of the fireplace and heaved a disconsolate sigh.

Mrs. Burns, who had left the room for a moment, now entered bearing a large bowl of the steaming stew, which she set before her son, while directly after her appeared old Mollie Dunn, the half-witted household drudge. The time was when Mollie had been the swiftest mail carrier between Dumfries and Mauchline, but she was now content to have a home with the Burns family, where, if the twinges of rheumatism assailed her, she could rest her bones until relief came. She now stood, a pleased grin on her ugly face, watching Gilbert as he helped himself to a generous portion of the stew which she had proudly prepared for the evening meal.

“Molly,” said her mistress sharply, “dinna ye stand there idle; fetch me some hot water frae the pot.”

Molly got a pan from the rack and hurried to the fireplace, where Tam was relighting his pipe with a blazing ember, for the dozenth time. Molly had no love for Tam, and finding him in her way, she calmly gave a quick pull to his plaidie, and Tam, who was in a crouching position, fell backward, sprawling on the hearth in a decidedly undignified attitude. With the roar of a wounded lion, he scrambled to his feet, with the assistance of Souter, and shaking his fist at the laughing Molly, he sputtered indignantly, “Is the Deil himsel’ in ye, Molly Dunn? Ye’re an impudent hussy, that’s what ye are.” Molly glared at him defiantly for a moment, then calmly proceeded to fill her pan with hot water, while the old man, bursting with indignation, staggered over to the dresser where Mistress Burns was brewing some tea.

“Mistress Burns,” he remonstrated almost tearfully, “ye should teach your servants better manners. Molly Dunn is a——” but he never finished his sentence, for Molly, hurrying back with the hot water, ran into him and, whether by design or accident it was never known, spilled the hot contents of the pan over Tam’s shins, whereupon he gave what resembled a burlesque imitation of a Highland fling to the accompaniment of roars of pain and anger from himself and guffaws of laughter from Souter and Molly. Even Mrs. Burns and Gilbert could not resist a smile at the antics of the old tyke.

“Toots, mon,” said Molly, not at all abashed at the mischief she had done, “ye’re no hurt; ye’ll get mair than that at hame, I’m tellin’ ye,” and she nodded her head sagely.

“Molly, hold your tongue,” said Mistress Burns reprovingly, then she turned to Tam. “I hope ye’re nae burnt bad.” But Tam was very angry, and turning to Souter he cried wrathfully, “I’m gang hame, Souter Johnny. I’ll no stay here to be insulted; I’m gang hame.” And he started for the door.

“Dinna mind Molly; she’s daft like,” replied Souter in a soothing voice. “Come and sit doon,” and he tried to pull him toward the fireplace, but Tam was not to be pacified. His dignity had been outraged.

“Nay, nay, Souter, I thank ye!” he said firmly. “An’ ye, too, Mistress Burns, for your kind invitation to stay langer,” she looked at him quickly, then gave a little sniff, “but I ken when I’m insulted,” and disengaging himself from Souter’s restraining hand, he started for the door once more.

“An’ where will ye be gang at this hour, Tam?” insinuated Souter slyly. “Ye ken your guidwife’s temper.”

“I’m gang over to the Inn,” replied Tam defiantly, with his hand on the open door. “Will ye gang alang wi’ me, Souter? A wee droppie will cheer us both,” he continued persuasively.

Souter looked anxiously at Gilbert’s stern, frowning face, then back to Tam. “I’d like to amazin’ weel, Tam,” he replied in a plaintive tone, “but ye see——”

“Johnny has promised me he’ll keep sober till plantin’ is over,” interrupted Gilbert firmly; “after that he can do as he likes.”

“Ye should both be ashamed o’ yoursel’s drinkin’ that vile whisky,” said Mrs. Burns angrily, and she clacked her lips in disgust. “It is your worst enemy, I’m tellin’ ye.”

“Ye mind, Mistress Burns,” replied Souter, winking his left eye at Tam, “ye mind the Scriptures say, ‘Love your enemies.’ Weel, we’re just tryin’ to obey the Scriptures, eh, Tam?”

“Aye, Souter,” answered Tam with drunken gravity, “I always obey the Scriptures.”

“Here, mon, drink a cup of tea before ye gang awa’,” said Mrs. Burns, and she took him a brimming cup of the delicious beverage, thinking it might assuage his thirst for something stronger. Tam majestically waved it away.

“Nay, I thank ye, Mistress Burns, I’ll no’ deprive ye of it,” he answered with extreme condescension. “Tea doesno’ agree with Tam O’Shanter.” He pushed open the door. “I’m off to the Inn, where the tea is more to my likin’. Guid-day to ye all,” and, slamming the door behind him, he called Maggie to his side, and jumping astride her old back galloped speedily toward the village Inn. The last heard of him that day was his voice lustily singing “The Campbells Are Coming.”

After he left the room Mistress Burns handed Souter the cup of tea she had poured for Tam, and soon the silence was unbroken save by an occasional sigh from the old tyke as he sipped his tea.

Presently Gilbert set down his empty cup, rose and donned his coat. “Here we are drinking tea, afternoon tea, as if we were of the quality,” he observed sarcastically, “instead of being out in the fields plowing the soil; there’s much to be done ere sundown.”

“Weel, this suits me fine,” murmured Souter contentedly, draining his cup. “I ken I was born to be one o’ the quality; work doesno’ agree wi’ me, o’er weel,” and he snuggled closer in his chair.

“Ye’re very much like my fine brother Robert in that respect,” answered Gilbert bitterly, his face growing stern and cold. “But we want no laggards here on Mossgiel. Farmers must work, an’ work hard, if they would live.” He walked to the window and looked out over the untilled ground with hard, angry eyes, and his heart filled with bitterness as he thought of his elder brother. It had always fallen to him to finish the many tasks his dreaming, thoughtless, erratic brother had left unfinished, while the latter sought some sequestered spot where, with pencil and paper in hand, he would idle away his time writing verses. And for a year now Robert had been in Irvine, no doubt enjoying himself to the full, while he, Gilbert, toiled and slaved at home to keep the poor shelter over his dear ones. It was neither right nor just, he thought, with an aching heart.

“Ye ken, Gilbert,” said Souter Johnny, breaking in on his reverie, “Robert wasna’ born to be a farmer. He always cared more, even when a wee laddie, for writin’ poetry and dreamin’ o’ the lasses than toilin’ in the fields, more’s the pity.”

Mrs. Burns turned on him quickly. “Souter Johnny, dinna ye dare say a word against Robert,” she flashed indignantly. “He could turn the best furrough o’ any lad in these parts, ye ken that weel,” and Souter was completely annihilated by the angry flash that gleamed in the mother’s eye, and it was a very humble Souter that hesitatingly held out his cup to her, hoping to change the subject. “Hae ye a wee droppie mair tea there, Mistress Burns?” he meekly asked.

Mrs. Burns was not to be mollified, however. “Aye, but not for ye, ye skellum,” she answered shortly, taking the cup from him and putting it in the dishpan.

“Come along, Souter,” said Gilbert, going to the door. “We hae much to do ere sundown and hae idled too long, noo. Come.”

“Ye’re workin’ me too hard, Gilbert,” groaned Souter despairingly. “My back is nigh broken; bide a wee, mon!”

A sharp whistle from without checked Gilbert as he was about to reply. “The Posty has stopped at the gate,” exclaimed Mistress Burns excitedly, rushing to the window in time to see old Molly receive a letter from that worthy, and then come running back to the house. Hurrying to the door, she snatched it from the old servant’s hands and eagerly held it to the light. Molly peered anxiously over her shoulder.

“It’s frae Robbie,” she exclaimed delightedly. “Keep quiet, noo, till I read it to the end.” As she finished, the tears of gladness rolled down her smooth cheek. “Oh, Gilbert,” she said, a little catch in her voice, “Robert is comin’ back to us. He’ll be here this day. Read it, lad, read for yoursel’.” He took the letter and walked to the fireplace. After a slight pause he read it. As she watched him she noticed with sudden apprehension the look of anger that darkened his face. She had forgotten the misunderstanding which had existed between the brothers since their coming to Mossgiel to live, and suddenly her heart misgave her.

“Gilbert lad,” she hesitatingly said as he finished the letter, “dinna say aught to Robert when he comes hame about his rhyming, will ye, laddie?” She paused and looked anxiously into his sullen face. “He canna bear to be discouraged, ye ken,” and she took the letter from him and put it in her bosom. Gilbert remained silent and moody, a heavy frown wrinkling his brow.

“Perhaps all thoughts of poesy has left him since he has been among strangers,” continued the mother thoughtfully. “Ye ken he has been doin’ right weel in Irvine; and it’s only because the flax dresser’s shop has burned to the ground, and he canna work any more, that he decides to come hame to help us noo. Ye ken that, Gilbert.” She laid her hand in tender pleading on his sunburnt arm.

“He always shirked his work before,” replied Gilbert bitterly, “and nae doot he will again. But he maun work, an’ work hard, if he wants to stay at Mossgiel. Nae more lyin’ around, scribblin’ on every piece of paper he finds, a lot of nonsense, which willna’ put food in his mouth, nor clothe his back.” Mrs. Burns sighed deeply and sank into the low stool beside her spinning wheel, he hands folded for once idly in her lap, and gave herself up to her disquieting thoughts.

“Ye can talk all ye like,” exclaimed Souter, who was ever ready with his advice, “but Robert is too smart a lad to stay here for lang. He was never cut out for a farmer nae mair was I.”

“A farmer,” repeated Mrs. Burns, with a mirthless little laugh. “An’ what is there in a farmer’s life to pay for all the hardships he endures?” she asked bitterly. “The constant grindin’ an’ endless toil crushes all the life out o’ one in the struggle for existence. Remember your father, Gilbert,” and her voice broke at the flood of bitter recollection which crowded her thoughts.

“I have na forgotten him, mither,” replied Gilbert quietly. “Nor am I likely to, for my ain lot in life is nae better.” And pulling his cap down over his eyes, he went back to the window and gazed moodily out over the bare, rocky, profitless farm which must be made to yield them a living. There was silence for a time, broken only by the regular monotonous ticking of the old clock. After a time Mrs. Burns quietly left the room.

“Oh, laddie,” whispered Souter as the door closed behind her, coming up beside Gilbert, “did ye hear the news that Tam O’Shanter brought frae Mauchline?”

“Do you mean about Robert an’ some lassie there?” inquired Gilbert indifferently, after a brief pause.

“Aye!” returned Souter impressively, “but she’s nae common lass, Gilbert. She’s Squire Armour’s daughter Jean, called the Belle of Mauchline.”

“I ken it’s no serious,” replied Gilbert sarcastically, “for ye ken Robert’s heart is like a tinder box, that flares up at the first whisper of passion,” and he turned away from the window and started for the door.

“I canna’ understand,” reflected Souter, “how the lad could forget his sweetheart, Highland Mary, long enough to take up wi any ither lassie. They were mighty fond o’ each ither before he went awa’ a year ago. I can swear to that,” and he smiled reminiscently.

A look of despair swept over Gilbert’s face at the idle words of the garrulous old man. He leaned heavily against the door, for there was a dull, aching pain at his heart of which he was physically conscious. For a few moments he stood there with white drawn face, trying hard to realize the bitter truth, that at last the day had come, as he had feared it must come, when he must step aside for the prodigal brother who would now claim his sweetheart. And she would go to him so gladly, he knew, without a single thought of his loneliness or his sorrow. But she was not to blame. It was only right that she should now be with her sweetheart, that he must say farewell to those blissful walks along the banks of the Doon which for almost a year he had enjoyed with Mary by his side. His stern, tense lips relaxed, and a faint smile softened his rugged features. How happy he had been in his fool’s paradise. But he loved her so dearly that he had been content just to be with her, to listen to the sweetness of her voice as she prattled innocently and lovingly of her absent sweetheart. A snore from Souter, who had fallen asleep in his chair, roused him from the fond reverie into which he had fallen, and brought him back to earth with a start. With a bitter smile he told himself he had no right to complain. If he had allowed himself to fall in love with his brother’s betrothed, he alone was to blame, and he must suffer the consequence. Suddenly a wild thought entered his brain. Suppose—and his heart almost stopped beating at the thought—suppose Robert had grown to love someone else, while away, even better than he did Mary? He had heard rumors of Robert’s many amourous escapades in Mauchline; then perhaps Mary would again turn to him for comfort. His eyes shone with renewed hope and his heart was several degrees lighter as he left the house. Going to the high knoll back of the cottage, he gazed eagerly, longingly, across the moor to where, in the hazy distance, the lofty turrets of Castle Montgomery, the home of the winsome dairymaid, Mary Campbell, reared their heads toward the blue heavens.

CHAPTER II

Ye banks and braes and streams around

The Castle of Montgomery,

Green be your woods and fair your flowers,

Your waters never drumlie,

There summer first unfolds her robes,

And there the langest tarry,

For there I took the last farewell

O’ my sweet Highland Mary.

At the foot of the hill on which stood Castle Montgomery flowed the River Doon, winding and twisting itself through richly wooded scenery on its way to Ayr Bay. On the hillside of the stream stood the old stone dairy, covered with ivy and shaded by overhanging willows. Within its cool, shady walls the merry lassies sang at their duties, with hearts as light and carefree as the birds that flew about the open door. Their duties over for the day, they had returned to their quarters in the long, low wing of the castle, and silence reigned supreme over the place, save for the trickling of the Doon splashing over the stones as it wended its tuneful way to join the waters of the Ayr.

Suddenly the silence was broken; borne on the evening breeze came the sound of a sweet, high voice singing:

“Oh where and oh where is my Highland laddie gone,”

sang the sweet singer, plaintively from the hilltop. Nearer and nearer it approached as the owner followed the winding path down to the river’s bank. Suddenly the drooping willows were parted, and there looked out the fairest face surely that mortal eyes had ever seen.

About sixteen years of age, with ringlets of flaxen hair flowing unconfined to her waist, laughing blue eyes, bewitchingly overarched by dark eyebrows, a rosebud mouth, now parted in song, between two rounded dimpled cheeks, such was the bonnie face of Mary Campbell, known to all around as “Highland Mary.” Removing her plaidie, which hung gracefully from one shoulder, she spread it on the mossy bank, and, casting herself down full length upon it, her head pillowed in her hand, she finished her song, lazily, dreamily, letting it die out, slowly, softly floating into nothingness. Then for a moment she gave herself up to the mere joy of living, watching the leaves as they fell noiselessly into the stream and were carried away, away until they were lost to vision. Gradually her thoughts became more centered. That particular spot was full of sweet memories to her. It was here, she mused dreamily, that she and Robert had parted a year ago. It was here on the banks of the Doon they so often had met and courted and loved, and here it was they had stood hand in hand and plighted their troth, while the murmuring stream seemed to whisper softly, “For eternity, for all eternity.” And here in this sequestered spot, on that second Sunday of May, they had spent the day in taking a last farewell. Would she ever forget it? Oh, the pain of that parting! Her eyes filled with tears at the recollection of her past misery. But she brushed them quickly away with a corner of her scarf. He had promised to send for her when he was getting along well, and she had been waiting day after day for that summons, full of faith in his word. For had he not said as he pressed her to his heart:

“I hae sworn by the heavens to my Mary,

I hae sworn by the heavens to be true.

And so may the heavens forget me,

When I forget my vow.”

A whole year had passed. She had saved all her little earnings, and now her box was nearly filled with the linen which she had spun and woven with her own fair hands, for she did not mean to come dowerless to her husband. In a few months, so he had written in his last letter, he would send for her to come to him, and they would start for the new country, America, where gold could be picked up in the streets (so she had heard it said). They could not help but prosper, and so the child mused on happily. The sudden blast of a horn interrupted her sweet day dreams, and, hastily jumping to her feet, with a little ejaculation of dismay she tossed her plaidie over her back, and, filling her pail from the brook, swung it lightly to her strong young shoulder.

“An’ it’s o’ in my heart, I wish him safe at home,”

she trilled longingly, as she retraced her steps up the winding path, over the hill, and back to the kitchen, where, after giving the pail into the hand of Bess, the good-natured cook, she leaned against the lintel of the door, her hands shading her wistful eyes, and gazed long and earnestly off to where the sun was sinking behind the horizon in far-off Irvine. So wrapped was she in her thoughts she failed to hear the whistle of Rory Cam, the Posty, and the bustle and confusion which his coming had created within the kitchen. The sharp little shrieks and ejaculations of surprise and delight, however, caused her to turn her head inquiringly. Looking through the open door, she saw Bess in the center of a gaping crowd of servants, reading a letter, the contents of which had evoked the delight of her listeners. “An’ he’ll be here this day,” cried Bess loudly, folding her letter. “Where’s Mary Campbell?” she demanded, looking around the room.

“Here I am, Bess,” said Mary, standing shyly at the door.

“Hae ye heard the news, then, lassie?” asked Bess, grinning broadly.

“Nay; what news?” inquired Mary, wondering why they all looked at her so knowingly.

“I’ve just had word frae my sister in Irvine, an’ she said——” Here Bess paused impressively. “She said that Rob Burns was burnt out o’ his place, an’ that he would be comin’ hame to-day.” Bess, who had good-naturedly wished to surprise Mary, was quite startled to see her turn as white as a lily and stagger back against the door with a little gasp of startled surprise.

“Are ye sure, Bess?” she faltered, her voice shaking with eagerness.

“It’s true as Gospel, lassie; I’ll read ye the letter,” and Bess started to take it out, but with a cry of joy Mary rushed through the door like a startled fawn, and before the astonished maids could catch their breath she had lightly vaulted over the hedge and was flying down the hill and over the moor toward Mossgiel farm with the speed of a swallow, her golden hair floating behind her like a cloud of glorious sunshine. On, on she sped, swift as the wind, and soon Mossgiel loomed up in the near distance. Not stopping for breath, she soon reached the door, and without pausing to knock burst into the room.

Mrs. Burns had put the house in order and, with a clean ’kerchief and cap on, sat patiently at her wheel, waiting for Robert to come home, while Souter quietly sat in the corner winding a ball of yarn from the skein which hung over the back of the chair, and looking decidedly sheepish. When Mary burst in the door so unceremoniously they both jumped expectantly to their feet, thinking surely it was Robert.

“Why, Mary lass, is it ye?” said Mrs. Burns in surprise. “Whatever brings ye over the day? not but we are glad to have ye,” she added hospitably.

“Where is he, Mistress Burns, where’s Robbie?” she panted excitedly, her heart in her voice.

“He isna’ here yet, lassie,” replied Mrs. Burns, with a sigh. “But sit ye doon. Take off your plaidie and wait for him. There’s a girlie,” and she pushed the unresisting girl into a chair.

“Ye’re sure he isna’ here, Mistress Burns?” asked Mary wistfully, looking around the room with eager, searching eyes.

“Aye, lassie,” she replied, smiling; “if he were he wouldna’ be hidin’ from ye, dearie, and after a year of absence, too. But I ken he will be here soon noo.” And she went to the window and looked anxiously out across the moor.

“It seems so lang since he left Mossgiel, doesna’ it, Mistress Burns?” said Mary with a deep sigh of disappointment.

“An’ weel ye might say that,” replied Mrs. Burns. “For who doesna’ miss my laddie,” and she tossed her head proudly. “There isna’ another like Robbie in all Ayrshire. A bright, honest, upright, pure-minded lad, whom any mither might be proud of. I hope he’ll return to us the same laddie he was when he went awa’.” The anxious look returned to her comely face.

An odd little smile appeared about the corners of Souter’s mouth as he resumed his work.

“Weel, noo, Mistress Burns,” he asked dryly, “do ye expect a healthy lad to be out in this sinful world an’ not learn a few things he didna ken before? ’Tis only human nature,” continued the old rogue, “an’ ye can learn a deal in a year, mind that, an’ that reminds me o’ a good joke. Sandy MacPherson——”

“Souter Johnny, ye keep your stories to yoursel’,” interrupted Mrs. Burns with a frown. Souter’s stories were not always discreet.

“Irvine and Mauchline are very gay towns,” continued Souter reminiscently. “They say some of the prettiest gurls of Scotlan’ live there, an’ I hear they all love Robbie Burns, too,” he added slyly, looking at Mary out of the corner of his eye.

“They couldna help it,” replied Mary sweetly.

“An’ ye’re nae jealous, Mary?” he inquired in a surprised tone, turning to look into the flushed, shy face beside him.

“Jealous of Robert?” echoed Mary, opening her innocent eyes to their widest. “Nay! for I ken he loves me better than any other lassie in the world.” And she added naïvely, “He has told me so ofttimes.”

“Ye needna fear, Mary,” replied Mrs. Burns, resuming her place at the wheel. “I’ll hae no ither lass but ye for my daughter, depend on’t.”

“Thank ye, Mistress Burns,” said Mary brightly. “I ken I’m only a simple country lass, but I mean to learn all I can, so that when he becomes a great man he’ll no be ashamed of me, for I ken he will be great some day,” she continued, her eyes flashing, the color coming and going in her cheek as she predicted the future of the lad she loved. “He’s a born poet, Mistress Burns, and some day ye’ll be proud of your lad, for genius such as Rabbie’s canna always be hid.” Mrs. Burns gazed at the young girl in wonder.

“Oh, if someone would only encourage him,” continued Mary earnestly, “for I’m fair sure his heart is set on rhyming.”

“I ne’er heard of a body ever makin’ money writin’ verses,” interposed Souter, rubbing his chin reflectively with the ball of soft yarn.

“Ah, me,” sighed Mrs. Burns, her hands idle for a moment, “I fear the lad does but waste his time in such scribbling. Who is to hear it? Only his friends, who are partial to him, of course, but who, alas, are as puir as we are, and canna assist him in bringin’ them before the public. The fire burns out for lack of fuel,” she continued slowly, watching the flickering sparks die one by one in the fireplace. “So will his love of writin’ when he sees how hopeless it all is.” She paused and sighed deeply. “He maun do mair than write verses to keep a wife and family from want,” she continued earnestly, and she looked sadly at Mary’s downcast face. “And, Mary, ye too will hae to work, harder than ye hae ever known, even as I have; so hard, dearie, that the heart grows sick and weary and faint in the struggle to keep the walf awa’.”

“I am no afraid of hard work,” answered Mary bravely, swallowing the sympathetic tears which rose to her eyes. “If poverty is to be his portion I shall na shrink from sharin’ it wi’ him,” and her eyes shone with love and devotion.

Mrs. Burns rose and put her arms lovingly about her. “God bless ye, dearie,” she said softly, smoothing the tangled curls away from the broad low brow with tender, caressing fingers.

“Listen!” cried Mary, as the wail of the bagpipes was heard in the distance. “’Tis old blind Donald,” and running to the window she threw back the sash with a cry of delight. “Oh, how I love the music of the pipes!” she murmured passionately, and her sweet voice vibrated with feeling, for she thought of her home so far away in the Highlands and the dear ones she had not seen for so long.

“Isna he the merry one this day,” chuckled Souter, keeping time with his feet and hands, not heeding the yarn, which had slipped from the chair, and which was fast becoming entangled about his feet.

“It’s fair inspirin’!” cried Mary, clapping her hands ecstatically. “Doesna it take ye back to the Highlands, Souter?” she asked happily.

“Aye, lassie,” replied Souter. “But it’s there among the hills and glens that the music of the pipes is most entrancin’,” he added loyally, for he was a true Highlander. The strains of the “Cock of the North” grew louder and louder as old Donald drew near the farm, and Mary, who could no longer restrain her joyous impulse, with a little excited laugh, her face flushing rosily, ran to the center of the room, where, one hand on her hip, her head tossed back, she began to dance. Her motion was harmony itself as she gracefully swayed to and fro, darting here and there like some elfin sprite, her bare feet twinkling like will-o’-the-wisps, so quickly did they dart in and out from beneath her short plaid skirt. With words of praise they both encouraged her to do her best.

Louder and louder the old piper blew, quicker and quicker the feet of the dancer sped, till, with a gasp of exhaustion, Mary sank panting into the big armchair, feeling very warm and very tired, but very happy.

“Ye dance bonnie, dearie, bonnie,” exclaimed Mrs. Burns delightedly, pouring her a cup of tea, which Mary drank gratefully.

“Oh, dearie me,” Mary said apologetically, putting down her empty cup, “whatever came o’er me? I’m a gaucie wild thing this day, for true, but I canna held dancin’ when I hear the pipes,” and she smiled bashfully into the kind face bent over her.

“Music affects me likewise,” replied Souter, trying to untangle the yarn from around his feet, but only succeeding in making a bad matter worse. “Music always goes to my feet like whusky, only whusky touches me here first,” and he tapped his head humorously with his forefinger.

“Souter Johnny, ye skellum!” cried Mrs. Burns, noticing for the first time the mischief he had wrought. “Ye’re not worth your salt, ye ne’er-do-weel. Ye’ve spoiled my yarn,” and she glared at the crestfallen Souter with fire in her usually calm eye.

“It was an accident, Mistress Burns,” stammered Souter, awkwardly shifting his weight from one foot to the other in his efforts to free himself from the persistent embrace of the clinging yarn.

With no gentle hand Mrs. Burns shoved him into a chair and proceeded to extricate his feet from the tangled web which held him prisoner. Soon she freed the offending members and rose to her feet. “Noo gang awa’,” she sputtered. “Ye’ve vexed me sair. Gang out and help Gilbert. I canna bide ye round.” Souter took his Tam O’Shanter, which hung over the fireplace, and ambled to the door.

“Very weel,” he said meekly, “I’ll go. Souter Johnny can take a hint as weel as the next mon,” and he closed the door gently behind him and slowly wended his way across the field to where Gilbert was sitting, dreamily looking across the moor.

CHAPTER III

“Why doesna he come, Mistress Burns?” said Mary pathetically. They had come down to the field where Gilbert was now at work the better to watch for their loved one’s approach. “Twilight is comin’ on an’ ’tis a lang walk to Castle Montgomery at night. I canna wait much langer noo.”

“Never ye mind, lassie; ye shall stay the night with me,” replied Mrs. Burns soothingly, “if Robert doesna come.”

“I’ll take ye back, Mary,” said Gilbert eagerly, going up to her. Perhaps Robert was not coming after all, he thought with wildly beating heart.

“Thank ye, Gilbert, but I’ll wait a wee bit longer,” answered Mary hopefully; “perhaps he’ll be here soon,” and she dejectedly dug her bare toes into the damp earth.

“Well, lassie, I canna waste any mair time,” said Mrs. Burns energetically. “Ye can stay here with Gilbert, while I return to my spinning. Come, Souter, there’s some firewood to be split,” and she quickly walked to the house, followed more slowly by the reluctant Souter.

Gilbert, with his soul in his eyes, feasted on the pathetic loveliness of the sweet face beside him, gazing wistfully toward Mauchline, and his aching heart yearned to clasp her to his breast, to tell her of his love, to plead for her pity, her love, herself, for he felt he would rather die than give her up to another. He drew closer to her.

“What is the matter, Gilbert?” asked Mary anxiously, noting his pale face. “Are ye in pain?”

“Aye, Mary, in pain,” he answered passionately. “Such pain I’ll hope ye’ll never know.” He bowed his head.

“I’m so sorry, lad,” she replied innocently. “I wish I could help ye,” and she looked compassionately at the suffering man.

He raised his head suddenly and looked into her eyes.

“Are ye goin’ to marry Robert this summer, when he returns?” he asked abruptly, his voice husky with emotion.

“Aye, if he wishes it,” answered Mary simply, wondering why he looked so strangely white.

“He has been gone a year, ye ken,” continued Gilbert hoarsely. “Suppose he has changed and no langer loves ye?” She looked at him with big, frightened eyes. She had never thought of that possibility before. What if he did no longer love her? she thought fearfully. She looked about her helplessly. She felt bewildered, dazed; slowly she sank down on the rocky earth, her trembling limbs refusing to support her. Her fair head drooped pathetically, like a lily bent and bruised by the storm.

“If Robert doesna want me any more,” she murmured after a pause, a pathetic little catch in her voice, “if he loves someone else better than he does his Highland Mary, then I—I——”

“Ye’ll soon forget him, Mary,” interrupted Gilbert eagerly, his heart throbbing with hope. She raised her eyes from which all the light had flown and looked at him sadly, reproachfully.

“Nay, lad, I wouldna care to live any longer,” she said quietly. “My heart would just break,” and she smiled a pitiful little smile which smote him like a knife thrust. He caught her two hands in his passionately and pressed them to his heart with a cry of pain.

“Dinna mind what I said, lass,” he cried, conscience stricken; “dinna look like that. I dinna mean to grieve ye, Mary, I love ye too well.” And almost before he realized it he had recklessly, passionately, incoherently told her of his love for her, his jealousy of his brother, his grief and pain at losing her. Mary gazed at him in wonder, scarcely understanding his wild words, his excited manner.

“I’m fair pleased that ye love me, Gilbert,” she answered him in her innocence. “Ye ken I love ye too, for ye’ve been so kind and good to me ever since Robert has been awa’,” and she pressed his hand affectionately. With a groan of despair he released her and turned away without another word. Suddenly she understood, and a great wave of sympathy welled up in her heart. “Oh, Gilbert,” she cried sorrowfully, a world of compassion in her voice. “I understand ye noo, laddie, an’ I’m so sorry, so sorry.” He bit his lips till the blood came. Finally he spoke in a tone of quiet bitterness.

“I’ve been living in a fool’s paradise this past year,” he said, “but ’tis all ended noo. Why, ever since he went awa’ I have wished, hoped, and even prayed that Rob would never return to Mossgiel, that ye might forget him and his accursed poetry, and in time would become my wife.” He threw out his hands with a despairing gesture as he finished.

“Oh, Gilbert,” she faltered, with tears in her eyes, “I never dreamed ye thought of me in that way. Had I only known, I——” she broke off abruptly and looked away toward the cottage.

“Ye see what a villain I have been,” he continued with a bitter smile. “But ye have nothin’ to blame yoursel’ for, Mary. I had no right to think of ye ither than as Robert’s betrothed wife.”

“I’m so sorry, lad,” repeated Mary compassionately. Then her downcast face brightened. “Let us both forget what has passed this day, and be the same good friends as ever, wi’na we, Gilbert?” And she held out her hand to him with her old winning smile.

“God bless ye, lassie,” he replied brokenly. Quietly they stood there for a few minutes, then with a sudden start they realized that deep twilight had fallen upon them. Silently, stealthily it had descended, like a quickly drawn curtain. Slowly they wended their way back to the cottage. When they reached the door Mary suddenly turned and peered into the deepening twilight.

“Listen!” she said breathlessly. “Dinna ye hear a voice, Gilbert?” He listened for a minute. Faintly there came on the still air the distant murmur of many voices.

“’Tis only the lads on their way to the village,” he replied quietly. With a little shiver, Mary drew her plaidie closely about her, for the air had grown cool.

“I think I’ll hae to be goin’ noo,” she said dejectedly. “He willna be here this night.”

“Very well,” answered Gilbert. “I’ll saddle the mare and take ye back. Bide here a wee,” and he left her. She could hardly restrain the disappointed tears, which rose to her eyes.

Why didn’t Robert come? What could keep him so late? She so longed to see her laddie once more. She idly wondered why the lads, whose voices she now heard quite plainly, were coming toward Mossgiel. There was no inn hereabouts. By the light of the rising moon she saw them on the moor, ever drawing nearer and nearer, but they had no interest for her. Nothing interested her now. She leaned back against the wall of the cottage and patiently awaited Gilbert’s return.

“He’s comin’! he’s comin’!” suddenly exclaimed the voice of Mrs. Burns from within the cottage. “My lad is comin’! Out of my way, ye skellum!” and out she ran, her face aglow with love and excitement, followed by Souter, who was shouting gleefully, “He’s comin’! he’s comin’! Robbie’s comin’!” and off he sped in her footsteps, to meet the returned wanderer.

“It’s Robbie! it’s Robbie!” cried Mary joyously, her nerves a-quiver, as she heard the vociferous outburst of welcome from the lads, who were bringing him in triumph to his very door.

“Welcome hame, laddie!” shouted the crowd, as they came across the field, singing, laughing and joking like schoolboys on a frolic.

“Oh, I canna’, I darena’ meet him before them a’,” she exclaimed aloud, blushing rosily, frightened at the thought of meeting him before the good-natured country folk.

She would wait till they all went away, and, turning, she ran into the house like a timid child. Quickly she hid behind the old fireplace, listening shyly, as she heard them approach the open door.

“Thank ye, lads, for your kind welcome,” said Robert as he reached the threshold, one arm around his mother. “I didna’ ken I had left so many friends in Mossgiel,” and he looked around gratefully at the rugged faces that were grinning broadly into his.

“Come doon to the Inn and hae a wee nippie for auld lang syne,” sang out Sandy MacPherson, with an inviting wave of the hand.

“Nay, an’ he’ll not gang a step, Sandy MacPherson,” cried Mrs. Burns indignantly, clinging closely to her son.

“Nay, I thank ye, Sandy,” laughingly replied Robert. “Ye must excuse me to-night. I’ll see ye all later, and we’ll have a lang chat o’er auld times.”

“Come awa’ noo, Robert,” said Mrs. Burns lovingly, “an’ I’ll get ye a bite and a sup,” and she drew him into the house.

“Good-night, lads; I’ll see ye to-morrow,” he called back to them cheerily.

“Good-night,” they answered in a chorus, and with “three cheers for Robbie Burns” that made the welkin ring, they departed into the night, merrily singing “Should auld acquaintance be forgot?” a song Robert himself had written before leaving Mossgiel.

CHAPTER IV

“Ah, Souter Johnny, how are ye, mon?” cried Robert heartily, as his eyes rested on the beaming face of the old man. “Faith, an’ I thought I’d find ye here as of old. ’Tis almost a fixture ye are.”

“Ah, weel,” replied Souter nonchalantly, as he shook Robert’s outstretched hand, “ye ken the Scripture says, ‘an’ the poor ye have always wi’ ye.’” Robert laughed merrily at the old man’s sally.

“Thank goodness, they’ve gone at last,” said Mrs. Burns with a sigh of relief, as she entered the room. “Why, laddie, ye had half the ne’er-do-weels of Mossgiel a-following ye. They are only a lot of leeches and idle brawlers, that’s a’,” and her dark eyes flashed her disapproval.

“I’m sure they have kind hearts, mither, for a’ that,” replied Robert reproachfully.

“Ye’re so popular wi’ them a’, Robbie,” cried Souter proudly.

“Aye, when he has a shillin’ to spend on them,” added Mrs. Burns dryly. “But sit doon, laddie; ye maun be tired wi’ your lang walk,” and she gently pushed him into a chair beside the table.

“I am a wee bittie tired,” sighed Robert gratefully as he leaned back in the chair.

“I’ll soon hae something to eat before ye,” replied his mother briskly.

“I’m nae hungry, mother,” answered Robert. “Indeed, I couldna’ eat a thing,” he remonstrated as she piled the food before him.

“’Tis in love ye are,” insinuated Souter with a knowing look. “I ken the symptoms weel; ye canna’ eat.”

“Ye’re wrong there,” replied Robert with a bright smile. “Love but increases my appetite.”

“Aye, for love,” added Souter sotto voce.

“Ah, mother dear, how guid it seems to be at hame again, under the old familiar roof-tree,” said Robert a little later, as he leaned back contentedly in his chair and gazed about the room with eager, alert glances. As he sits there with his arms folded let us take a look at our hero. Of more than medium height, his form suggested agility as well as strength. His high forehead, shaded with black curling hair tied at the neck, indicated extensive capacity. His eyes were large, dark, and full of fire and intelligence. His face was well formed and uncommonly interesting and expressive, although at the first glance his features had a certain air of coarseness, mingled with an expression of calm thoughtfulness, approaching melancholy. He was dressed carelessly in a blue homespun long coat, belted at the waist, over a buff-colored vest; short blue pantaloons, tucked into long gray home-knit stockings, which came up above his knee, and broad low brogans, made by Souter’s hands. He wore a handsome plaid of small white and black checks over one shoulder, the ends being brought together under the opposite arm and tied loosely behind.

“’Tis a fine hame-comin’ ye’ve had, laddie,” cried old Souter proudly. “Faith, it’s just like they give the heir of grand estates. We should hae had a big bonfire burnin’ outside our—ahem—palace gates,” and he waved his hand grandiloquently.

“Dinna’ ye make fun of our poor clay biggin’, Souter Johnny,” cried Mrs. Burns rebukingly. “Be it ever so poor, ’tis our hame.”

“Aye, ’tis our hame, mother,” repeated Robert lovingly. “An’ e’en tho’ I have been roaming in other parts, still this humble cottage is the dearest spot on earth to me. I love it all, every stick and stone, each blade of grass, every familiar object that greeted my eager gaze as I crossed the moor to this haven of rest, my hame. And my love for it this moment is the strongest feeling within me.”

His roving eyes tenderly sought out one by one the familiar bits of furniture around the room, and lingered for a moment lovingly on the old fireplace. It was there he had first seen Mary Campbell. She had come to the cottage on an errand, and as she stood leaning against the mantel, the sunlight gleaming through the window upon her golden hair, he had entered the room. It was plainly love at first sight, and so he had told her that same day, as he walked back to Castle Montgomery with the winsome dairymaid. The course of their love had flowed smoothly and uneventfully; he loved her with all the depth of his passionate emotional nature, and yet his love was more spiritual than physical. She was an endless source of inspiration, as many a little song and ode which had appeared in the Tarbolton weekly from time to time could testify. How long the year had been away from her, he mused dreamily. To-morrow, bright and early, he would hurry over to Castle Montgomery and surprise her at her duties.

“Gazed straight into the startled eyes of Robert.”

Mary, from her hiding place, had watched all that happened since Robert had come into the room. She had not expected to remain so long hidden, she thought wistfully. She had hoped that Mrs. Burns would miss her, and that she, or Robert, or someone would look for her, but they had not even thought of her, and her lips trembled piteously at their neglect. And so she had stayed on, peeping out at them, whenever their backs were turned, feeling very lonely, and very miserable, in spite of the pride that thrilled her, as she watched her lover sitting there so handsome in the full strength of his young manhood. Perhaps they didn’t want her here to-night. Perhaps it was true, as Gilbert said, “that Robert didn’t love her any more.” The tears could no longer be restrained. If she could only slip out unobserved she would go home. She wasn’t afraid, she thought miserably. She wondered what they were doing now, they were so quiet? Peering shyly around the mantel, she gazed straight into the startled eyes of Robert, who with a surprised ejaculation started back in amazement.

“Why, Mary Campbell!” cried his mother remorsefully, as she caught sight of Mary’s face, “I declare I clear forgot ye, lass.” With a glad cry Robert sprang toward her and grasped her two hands in his own, his eyes shining with love and happiness.

“Mary, lass, were ye hidin’ awa’ from me?” he asked in tender reproach. She dropped her head bashfully without a word. “’Tis o’er sweet in ye, dear, to come over to welcome me hame,” he continued radiantly. “Come an’ let me look at ye,” and he drew her gently to where the candle light could fall on her shy, flushed face. “Oh, ’tis bonnie ye’re looking, lassie,” he cried proudly. He raised her drooping head, so that his hungry eyes could feast on her beauty. She stood speechless, like a frightened child, not daring to raise her eyes to his. “Haven’t ye a word of welcome for me, sweetheart?” he whispered tenderly, drawing her to him caressingly.

“I’m—I’m very glad to hae ye back again,” she faltered softly, her sweet voice scarcely audible.

“Go an’ kiss him, Mary; dinna’ mind us,” cried Souter impatiently. “I can see ye’re both asking for it wi’ your eyes,” he insinuated. And he drew near them expectantly.

“Hauld your whist, ye old tyke,” flashed Mrs. Burns indignantly. “Robbie Burns doesna’ need ye to tell him how to act wi’ the lassies.”

“I’ll not dispute ye there,” replied Souter dryly, winking his eye at Robert knowingly.

Robert laughed merrily as he answered, “Ye ken we’re both o’er bashful before ye a’.”

“Ah, ye’re a fine pair of lovers, ye are,” retorted Souter disgustedly, turning away.

“So the neighbors say, Souter,” responded Robert gayly, giving Mary a loving little squeeze.

And surely there never was a handsomer couple, thought Mistress Burns proudly, as they stood there together. One so dark, so big and strong, the other so fair, so fragile and winsome. And so thought Gilbert Burns jealously, as he came quietly into the room. Robert went to him quickly, a smile lighting up his dark face, his hand outstretched in greeting.

“I’m o’er glad to see ye again, Gilbert,” he cried impulsively, shaking his brother’s limp hand.

“So ye’ve come back again,” said Gilbert, coldly.

“Aye, like a bad penny,” laughingly responded Robert. “Noo that I am burned out of my situation, I’ve come hame to help ye in the labors of the farm,” and he pressed his brother’s hand warmly.

“I fear your thoughts willna’ lang be on farming,” observed Gilbert sarcastically, going to the fireplace and deliberately turning his back to Robert.

“I’ll struggle hard to keep them there, brother,” replied Robert simply. His brother’s coldness had chilled his extraordinarily sensitive nature. He walked slowly back to his seat.

“I ken ye’d rather be writin’ love verses than farmin’, eh, Robert?” chimed in Souter thoughtlessly.

“’Tis only a waste of time writin’ poetry, my lad,” sighed Mrs. Burns, shaking her head disapprovingly.

“I canna’ help writin’, mother,” answered the lad firmly, a trifle defiantly. “For the love of poesy was born in me, and that love was fostered at your ain knee ever since my childhood days.”

She sighed regretfully. “I didna’ ken what seed I was sowing then, laddie,” she answered thoughtfully.

“Dinna’ be discouraged,” cried Mary eagerly, going to him. “I’ve faith in ye, laddie, and in your poetry, too.” She put her hand on his shoulder lovingly, as he sat beside the table, looking gloomy and dejected. “Some day,” she continued, a thrill of pride in her voice, “ye’ll wake to find your name on everybody’s lips. You’ll be rich and famous, mayhap. Who kens, ye may even become the Bard o’ Scotland,” she concluded in an awestruck tone.

“Nay, Mary, I do not hope for that,” replied Robert, his dark countenance relaxing into a smile of tenderness at her wild prophecy, although in his own heart he felt conscious of superior talents.

“Waesucks,” chuckled Souter reminiscently. “Do you mind, Robbie, how, a year ago, ye riled up the community, an’ the kirk especially, over your verses called ‘Holy Willie’s Prayer’? Aye, lad, it was an able keen satire, and auld Squire Armour recognized the truth of it, for he threatened to hae ye arrested for blaspheming the kirk and the auld licht religion. He’ll ne’er forgive ye for that,” and he shook his head with conviction.

“He’s an auld Calvinistic hypocrite,” replied Robert carelessly, “and he deserved to be satirized alang wi’ the rest of the Elders. Let us hope the verses may do them and the kirk some good. They are sadly in need of reform.” Then with a gay laugh he told them a funny anecdote concerning one of the Elders, and for over an hour they listened to the rich tones of his voice as he entertained them with jest and song and story, passing quickly from one to the other, as the various emotions succeeded each other in his mind, assuming with equal ease the expression of the broadest mirth, the deepest melancholy or the most sublime emotion. They sat around him spellbound. Never had they seen him in such a changeable mood as to-night.

“And noo, laddie, tell us about your life in Irvine and Mauchline,” said Mrs. Burns.

Robert had finished his last story, and sat in meditative silence, watching the smoldering peat in the fireplace.

He hesitated for a moment. “There is little to tell, mother,” he answered, not looking up, “and that little is na worth tellin’.”

“I ken ye’ve come back no richer in pocket than when ye left,” remarked Gilbert questioningly. As his brother made no answer, he continued with sarcastic irony, “But perhaps there wasna’ enough work for ye there.” He watched his brother’s face narrowly.

“There was work enough for a’,” replied Robert in a low tone, an agony of remorse in his voice. “An’ I tried to fulfill faithfully the uncongenial tasks set before me, but I would sink into dreams, forgetting my surroundings, my duties, and would set me doon to put on paper the thoughts and fancies which came rushing through my brain, raging like so many devils, till they found vent in rhyme; then the conning o’er my verses like a spell soothed all into quiet again.” A far away rapt expression came over his countenance as he finished, and his dark glowing eyes gazed dreamily into space, as if communing with the Muses. Mrs. Burns and Mary both watched him with moist, adoring eyes, hardly breathing lest they should disturb his reverie. Gilbert stirred in his chair restlessly.

“Ye will never prosper unless ye give up this day dreaming,” he exclaimed impatiently, rising from his chair and pacing the floor.

Robert looked up, the fire fading from his eyes, his face growing dark and forbidding. “I ken that weel, Gilbert,” he answered bitterly. “An’ I despair of ever makin’ anything of mysel’ in this world, not e’en a poor farmer. I am not formed for the bustle of the busy nor the flutter of the gay. I’m but an idle rhymster, a ne’er-do-weel.” He walked quickly to the window and stood dejectedly looking out into the night.

“Nay, ye’re a genius, lad,” declared old Souter emphatically, patting him affectionately on the shoulder. “I havena’ watched your erratic ways for nothin’, an’ I say ye’re a genius. It’s a sad thing to be a genius, Robert, an’ I sympathize wi’ ye,” and the old hypocrite shook his head dolefully as he took his seat at the fireplace.

“I’m a failure, I ken that weel. I’m a failure,” muttered Robert despairingly, his heart heavy and sad.

“Nay, laddie, ye mustna’ talk like that,’tis not right,” cried Mary, bravely keeping back the sympathetic tears from her eyes and forcing a little smile to her lips. “Ye are only twenty-five,” she continued earnestly. “An’ all your life is stretchin’ out before ye. Why, ye mustna ever think o’ failure. Ye must think only of bright, happy things, and ye’ll see how everythin’ will come out all right. Noo mind that. So cheer thee, laddie, or ye’ll make us all sad on this your hame-comin’. Come, noo, look pleasant,” and she gave his arm a loving little shake. As his stern face melted into a sad smile, she laughed happily. “That’s right, laddie.” With a little encouraging nod she left him, and running to Mrs. Burns, she gave her a hug and a kiss, until the old lady’s grim features relaxed. Then like a bird she flitted to the other side of the room.

“Souter Johnny,” she saucily cried, “how dare ye look so mournful like. Hae ye a fit o’ the gloom, man?”

“Not a bit o’ it,” retorted Souter energetically, jumping lightly to his feet. “Will I stand on my head for ye, Mary, eh?”

Mary laughed merrily as Mrs. Burns replied in scathing tones, “Your brains are in your boots, noo, Souter Johnny.”

“Weel, wherever they are,” responded Souter with a quizzical smile, “they dinna’ trouble me o’er much. Weel, I think I’ll be turnin’ in noo,” he continued, stretching himself lazily. “Good-night to ye all,” and taking a candle from the dresser, he slowly left the room.

“Come, lads,’tis bedtime,” admonished Mrs. Burns, glancing at the old high clock that stood in the corner. “Mary, ye shall sleep with me, and, Robert, ye know where to find your bed. It hasna’ been slept in since ye left. Dinna’ forget your candle, Gilbert,” she called out as he started for the door. He silently took it from her hand. “Dinna’ forget your promise,” she whispered anxiously to him as he left the room in gloomy silence.

The look on his face frightened her. There was bitterness and despair in the quick glance he gave the happy lovers, who were standing in the shadow of the deep window. “The lad looked fair heart-broken,” she mused sorrowfully. For a moment she looked after him, a puzzled frown on her brow. Then suddenly the truth dawned on her. How blind she had been, why hadn’t she thought of that before? The lad was in love. In love with Mary Campbell, that was the cause of his bitterness toward his brother. “Both in love with the same lass,” she murmured apprehensively, and visions of petty meannesses, bitter discords, between the two brothers, jealous quarrels, resulting in bloody strife, perhaps; and she shuddered at the mental picture her uneasy mind had conjured up. The sooner Robert and Mary were married the sooner peace would be restored, she thought resolutely. They could start out for themselves, go to Auld Ayr or to Dumfries. They couldn’t be much worse off there than here. And determined to set her mind easy before she retired, she walked briskly toward the couple, who now sat hand in hand, oblivious to earthly surroundings, the soft moonlight streaming full upon their happy upturned faces. She watched them a moment in silence, loath to break in upon their sweet communion. Presently she spoke.

“Robert,” she called softly, “ye’d better gang to your bed noo, lad.”

With a start he came back to earth, and jumping up boyishly, replied with a happy laugh, “I forgot, mother, that I was keeping ye and Mary from your rest.” He glanced toward the recessed bed in the wall where his mother was wont to sleep. “Good-night, mither, good-night, Mary,” he said lovingly. Then taking his candle, he started for the door, but turned as his mother called his name and looked at her questioningly.

“Laddie, dinna’ think I’m meddling in your affairs,” she said hesitatingly, “but I’m fair curious to know when ye an’ Mary will be wed.”

Robert looked inquiringly at Mary, who blushed and dropped her head. “Before harvest begins, mither,” he answered hopefully, “if Mary will be ready and willing. Will that suit ye, lassie?” And he looked tenderly at the drooping head, covered with its wealth of soft, glittering curls.

“I hae all my linen spun and woven,” she faltered, after a nervous silence, not daring to look at him. “Ye ken the lassies often came a rockin’ and so helped me get it done.” She raised her head and looked in his glowing face. “’Tis a very small dowry I’ll be bringin’ ye, laddie,” she added in pathetic earnestness.

He gave a little contented laugh. “Ye’re bringin’ me yoursel’, dearie,” he murmured tenderly. “What mair could any lad want. I ken I do not deserve such a bonnie sweet sonsie lassie for my wife.” He looked away thoughtfully for a moment. Then he continued with glowing eyes, “But ye mind the verse o’ the song I gave ye before I went awa’?” he said lovingly, taking her hand in his. His voice trembled with feeling as he fervently recited the lines:

“We have plighted our troth, my Mary,

In mutual affection to join,

And cursed be the cause that shall part us,

The hour and moment o’ time.”

She smiled confidingly up into his radiant face, then laid her little head against his breast like a tired child. “Always remember, sweetheart,” he continued softly, as if in answer to that look, “that Robbie Burns’ love for his Highland Mary will remain forever the tenderest, truest passion of his unworthy life.”

CHAPTER V

Life at Mossgiel passed uneventfully and monotonously. Robert had settled down with every appearance of contentment to the homely duties of the farmer, and Gilbert could find no fault with the amount of labor done. Morning till night he plowed and harrowed the rocky soil, without a word of complaint, although the work was very hard and laborious. Planting had now begun and his tasks were materially lightened. He had ample leisure to indulge in his favorite pastime; and that he failed to take advantage of his opportunities for rhyming was a mystery to Gilbert, and a source of endless regret to Mary. But his mother could tell of the many nights she had seen the candle light gleaming far into the night; and her heart was sore troubled when in the morning she would see the evidence of his midnight toil, scraps of closely written paper scattered in wild disorder over his small table, but she held her peace. The lad loved to do it, she mused tenderly, and so long as he was not shirking his work, why disturb his tranquillity?

A few weeks after the return of our hero Mary and Mrs. Burns were seated in the living-room, Mrs. Burns as usual busy at her wheel, while Mary sat sewing at the window, where she could look out across the fields and see her sweetheart, who, with a white sheet containing his seed corn slung across his shoulder, was scattering the grain in the earth. She sang dreamily as she sewed, her sweet face beaming with love and happiness. No presentiment warned her of the approaching tragedy that was soon to cast its blighting shadow over that happy household—a tragedy that was inevitable. The guilty one had sown to the flesh, he must reap corruption. The seed had been sown carelessly, recklessly, and now the harvest time had come, and such a harvest! The pity of it was that the grim reaper must with his devouring sickle ruthlessly cut down such a tender, sweet, and innocent flower as she who sat there so happy and so blissfully unconscious of her impending doom.

Suddenly, with an exclamation of astonishment, she jumped excitedly to her feet. “Mistress Burns,” she cried breathlessly, “here are grand lookin’ strangers comin’ up the path. City folk, too, I ken. Look.”

Hastily the good dame ran to the window. “Sure as death, Mary; they’re comin’ here,” she cried in amazement. “Oh, lack a day, an’ I’m na dressed to receive the gentry.” A look of comical dismay clouded her anxious face as she hurriedly adjusted her cap and smoothed out her apron. “Is my cap on straight, Mary?” she nervously inquired. Mary nodded her head reassuringly. “Oh, dear, whatever can they want?” Steps sounded without. “Ye open the door, Mary,” she whispered sibilantly as the peremptory knock sounded loudly through the room. Timidly Mary approached the door. “Hist, wait,” called Mrs. Burns in sudden alarm. “My ’kerchief isna’ pinned.” Hastily she pinned the loose end in place, then folding her hands, she said firmly, “Noo let them enter.” Mary slowly opened the door, which, swinging inward, concealed her from the three strangers, who entered with ill-concealed impatience on the part of the two ladies who were being laughingly chided by their handsome escort. With a wondering look of admiration at the richly dressed visitors, Mary quietly stole out and softly shut the door behind her.

With a murmur of disgust the younger of the two ladies, who was about nineteen, walked to the fireplace, and raising her quilted blue petticoat, which showed beneath the pale pink overdress with its Watteau plait, she daintily held her foot to the blaze. A disfiguring frown marred the dark beauty of her face as her bold black eyes gazed about her impatiently.

“It’s a monstrous shame,” she flashed angrily, “to have an accident happen within a few miles of home. Will it delay us long, think you?” she inquired anxiously, addressing her companion.

“It depends on the skill of the driver to repair the injury,” replied the other lady indifferently. She appeared the elder of the two by some few years, and was evidently a lady of rank and fashion. She looked distinctly regal and commanding in her large Gainsborough hat tilted on one side of her elaborately dressed court wig. A look of amused curiosity came over her patrician face as she calmly surveyed the interior of the cottage. She inclined her head graciously to Mrs. Burns, who with a deep courtesy stood waiting their pleasure.

“We have just met with an accident, guidwife,” laughingly said the gentleman, who stood in the doorway brushing the dust from his long black cloak. He was a scholarly looking man of middle age, dressed in the height of taste and fashion. “While crossing the old bridge yonder,” he continued, smiling courteously at Mrs. Burns, “our coach had the misfortune to cast a wheel, spilling us all willy-nilly, on the ground, and we must crave your hospitality, guidwife.”

“Ye are a’ welcome,” quickly answered Mrs. Burns with another courtesy. “Sit doon, please,” and she placed a chair for the lady, who languidly seated herself thereon with a low murmur of thanks.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” continued the gentleman, coming into the room, his cloak over his arm. “I am Lord Glencairn of Edinburgh. This is Lady Glencairn, and yonder lady is Mistress Jean Armour of Mauchline.”

The young lady in question, who was still standing by the fireplace, flashed him a look of decided annoyance. She seemed greatly perturbed at the enforced delay of the journey. She started violently as she heard Mrs. Burns say, “And I am Mrs. Burns, your lordship.” Then she hurried to the old lady’s side, a startled look in her flashing eyes.

“Mistress Burns of Mossgiel Farm?” she inquired in a trembling voice.

“Yes, my lady,” replied Mrs. Burns. The young lady’s face went white as she walked nervously back to the fireplace.

“My dear Jean, whatever is the matter?” asked Lady Glencairn lazily, as she noticed Jean’s perturbation. “Is there anything in the name of Burns to frighten you?”

“No, your ladyship,” replied Jean falteringly, turning her face away so that her large Gainsborough hat completely shielded her quivering features. “I—I am still a trifle nervous from the upset, that is all.” She seemed strangely agitated.

“Was it not unlucky?” replied Lady Glencairn in her rich vibrating contralto. “’Twill be a most wearisome wait, I fear, but we simply must endure it with the best possible grace,” and she unfastened her long cloak of black velvet and threw it off her shoulders, revealing her matchless form in its tightly fitting gown of amber satin, with all its alluring lines and sinuous curves, to the utmost advantage.

“It willna’ be long noo, your ladyship,” replied Mrs. Burns, smiling complacently. She had quietly left the room while the two were talking, and seeing Souter hovering anxiously around, trying to summon up courage to enter, she had commanded him to go to the fields and tell the lads of the accident, which he had reluctantly done.

“My lads will soon fix it for ye,” she continued proudly. “Robert is a very handy lad, ye ken. He is my eldest son, who has just returned from Mauchline,” she explained loquaciously in answer to Lord Glencairn’s questioning look.

Jean nervously clutched at the neck of her gown, her face alternately flushing and paling. “Your son is here now?” she asked eagerly, turning to Mrs. Burns.

“Aye, he’s out yonder in the fields,” she answered simply.

“Oh, then you know the young man?” interrogated Lady Glencairn, glancing sharply at Jean.

“Yes, I know him,” she answered with averted gaze. “We met occasionally in Mauchline at dancing school, where we fell acquainted.”

Lady Glencairn looked at her with half-closed eyes for a moment, then she smilingly said, “And I’ll wager your love for coquetting prompted you to make a conquest of the innocent rustic, eh, Jean?”

Jean tossed her head angrily and walked to the window.

“Lady Glencairn, you are pleased to jest,” she retorted haughtily.

“There, there, Jean, you’re over prudish. I vow ’twould be no crime,” her ladyship calmly returned. “I’ll wager this young farmer was a gay Lothario while in Mauchline,” she continued mockingly.

“Oh, no, your ladyship,” interrupted Mrs. Burns simply. “He was a flax dresser.”

“Truly a more respectable occupation, madame,” gravely responded Lord Glencairn with a suspicious twinkle in his eye.

“Thank ye, my lord,” answered Mrs. Burns with a deep courtesy. “My lad is a good lad, if I do say so, and he has returned to us as pure minded as when he went awa’ a year ago.”

Lady Glencairn raised her delicately arched eyebrows in amused surprise. Turning to Jean, she murmured drily, “And away from home a year, too! He must be a model of virtue, truly.”

Jean gazed at her with startled eyes. “Can she suspect aught?” she asked herself fearfully.

“Could I be getting ye a cup of milk?” asked Mrs. Burns hospitably. “’Tis a’ I have to offer, but ’tis cool and refreshing.”

“Fresh milk,” repeated Lady Glencairn, rising with delight. “I vow it would be most welcome, guidwife.”

“Indeed it would,” responded her husband. And Mrs. Burns with a gratified smile hurried from the room.

“My dear, don’t look so tragic,” drawled Lady Glencairn carelessly, as she noticed Jean’s pale face and frightened eyes. “We’ll soon be in Mauchline. Although why you are in such a monstrous hurry to reach that lonesome village after your delightful sojourn in the capital, is more than I can conjecture,” and her keen eyes noted with wonder the flush mount quickly to the girl’s cheek.

“It is two months since I left my home, your ladyship,” faltered Jean hesitatingly. “It’s only natural I should be anxious to see my dear parents again.” She dropped her eyes quickly before her ladyship’s penetrating gaze.

“Dear parents, indeed,” sniffed Lady Glencairn to herself suspiciously as she followed their hostess to the door of the “ben.”

With a nervous little laugh Jean rose quickly from her chair by the window and walked toward the door through which they had entered. “The accident has quite upset me, Lady Glencairn,” she said constrainedly. “Would you mind if I stroll about the fields until my nerves are settled?” she asked with a forced laugh.

“No, child, go by all means,” replied her ladyship indolently. “The air will do you good, no doubt.”

“I warn you not to wander too far from the house,” interposed Lord Glencairn with a kindly smile. “We will not be detained much longer.” With a smile of thanks she hastily left the room just as Mrs. Burns entered from the “ben” bearing a large blue pitcher filled with foaming milk, which she placed on the table before her smiling visitors.

Jean breathed a sigh of relief as she closed the door behind her. She felt in another moment she would have screamed aloud in her nervousness. That fate should have brought her to the very home of the man she had thought still in Mauchline, and to see whom she had hurriedly left Edinburgh, filled her with wonder and dread. “I must see him before we leave,” she said nervously, clasping and unclasping her hands. But where should she find him? She walked quickly down the path and gazed across the fields, where in the distance she could see several men at work, repairing the disabled coach. Anxiously she strained her eyes to see if the one she sought was among them, but he was not there. Quickly she retraced her steps. “I must find him. I must speak with him this day,” she said determinedly. As she neared the cottage she turned aside and walked toward the high stone fence which enclosed the house and yard. Swiftly mounting the old stile, she looked about her. Suddenly she gave a sharp little exclamation, and her heart bounded violently, for there before her, coming across the field, was the man she sought, his hands clasped behind him, his head bent low in the deepest meditation. With a sigh of relief she sank down on the step and calmly awaited his approach.

CHAPTER VI

Robert flung the last of his seed corn into the earth with a sigh of thankfulness, for though he gave the powers of his body to the labors of the farm, he refused to bestow on them his thoughts or his cares. He longed to seek the quiet of his attic room, for his soul was bursting with song and his nervous fingers fairly itched to grasp his pencil and catch and hold forever the pearls dropped from the lap of the Goddess Muse into his worshipful soul, ere they faded and dissolved into lusterless fragments. Mechanically he turned his footsteps toward the cottage, plunged in deep reverie. As he walked slowly along his mind suddenly reverted to the year he had spent in Mauchline. It had been his first taste of town life. Blessed with a strong appetite for sociability, although constitutionally melancholy, and a hair-brained imagination, he had become an immediate favorite and welcome guest wherever he visited. Vive l’amour and vive la bagatelle had soon become his sole principle of action. His heart, which was completely tinder, was eternally lighted up by some goddess or other, and it was not long before he regarded illicit love with levity, which two months previously he had thought of with horror. Poesy was still a darling walk for his mind, but it was only indulged in according to the humor of the hour. Having no aim in life he had been easily led from the paths of virtue into many forms of dissipation, which, when indulged in, afterwards plunged him into the deepest melancholy. A few months after his advent into the village he had met Jean Armour, the daughter of a master builder. She was one of the belles of Mauchline, a wild, willful, imprudent lass, whose sensual charms soon ensnared the susceptible heart of the unsophisticated farmer lad. The fatal defect of his character was the comparative weakness of his volition, and his passions, once lighted up, soon carried him down the stream of error and swept him over the precipice he saw directly in his course.

Such being their temperaments, it was not to be wondered at when their procedure soon became decidedly irregular, their intimacy becoming the common talk and gossip of Mauchline.

A few months before Robert returned to Mossgiel farm Jean had received an invitation from her god-parents, Lord and Lady Glencairn, to visit Edinburgh, which she had accepted with eagerness, for she was becoming tired of her latest conquest and longed for the gay life of the capital.

Robert saw her leave Mauchline with no pangs of regret at her inconstancy and caprice. He was in a state of profound melancholy at the time, the thoughts of how he had fallen from the paths of truth and virtue, the thoughts of the pure love of his sweetheart at home, filling his heart with grief and remorse. He was thinking of all this as he approached the stile. How wretchedly weak and sinful he had been to forget his sworn vows to Mary, he thought remorsefully. “May no harping voice from that past ever come to disturb her peace of mind,” he prayed fervently.

Jean watched him, drawing ever nearer, with eyes filled with sudden shame and dread at what she had to tell him. Why had her brief infatuation for the poverty-stricken farmer led her into such depths of imprudence and recklessness? she thought angrily. As he reached the bottom of the stile she softly spoke his name, and noted with chagrin his startled look of surprise and annoyance as he raised his eyes to hers.

“Jean Armour?” he cried in amazement.

“Aren’t you glad to see me?” she asked coquettishly, his presence exercising its old fascination for her.

“What has brought ye to Mossgiel?” he asked abruptly, ignoring her outstretched hand.

“An accident,” she replied flippantly. “I was on my way home and would have been there ere this had it not been for a fortunate mishap.”

“Fortunate mishap?” he repeated questioningly.

“Yes,” she retorted amiably, “otherwise I should have missed seeing you,” and she smiled down into his pale startled face.

“I dinna understand why ye left Edinburgh,” he began, when she interrupted him.

“Because I thought you were still in Mauchline,” she explained quickly. He look at her questioningly. “I left Edinburgh for the sole purpose of seeing you, Robert,” she announced quietly, making room for him to sit beside her, but he did not accept the invitation.

“Well, noo, that was very kind of ye, Jean,” he replied a little uneasily. “But I’m not so conceited as to believe that. I ken the charms o’ Edinburgh town, with its handsome officers, soon made ye forget the quiet country village, and a’ your old flames, including your bashful humble servant,” and he made her a mocking bow.

His tone of satirical raillery made her wince. “Forget?” she cried passionately, jumping to her feet. “I wish to heaven I might forget everything, but I cannot—I cannot.” The sudden thought of her predicament caused her haughty, rebellious spirit to quail, and covering her face with her hands, she burst into a paroxysm of tears and sank heavily down upon the step.

He regarded the weeping woman silently. Was her attachment for him stronger than he had believed? Could it be possible she still entertained a passion for him? he asked himself anxiously. But no, that couldn’t be; she had left him two months ago with a careless word of farewell on her laughing lips. Yet why these tears, these wild words she had just uttered? A wave of pity for her swept over him as he realized, if such were the case, that he must repulse her advances gently but none the less firmly. He had done with her forever when he said his last farewell. There could be no raking over of the dead ashes.

Jean angrily wiped away her tears. She must not give way to such weakness. She had an errand to perform which would need all her courage. He was evidently waiting for some explanation of her strange behavior, she told herself with a vain effort to steel her heart. Now was the time to tell him all, she thought fearfully, peeking out from behind her small linen ’kerchief, with which she was dabbing her eyes, at his cold, wondering face. The sooner it was done the sooner she would know what to expect at his hands. How should she begin? After a long, nervous pause she faltered out, “Have you forgotten the past, Robert, and all that we were to each other?”

“Nay, Jean, I remember everything,” he answered remorsefully. “But let us not speak of that noo, please. Ye ken that is all ended between us forever.” He turned away pale and trembling, for her presence, her looks and words recalled many things he wanted to forget, that shamed him to remember.

“Ended?” she repeated, an angry flush rising to the roots of her black hair. She looked at him in amazement. He, the poverty-stricken farmer, had repulsed her, the belle of Mauchline? Could she have heard aright? He who had always been at her beck and call, two months ago her willing slave, could it be that he was over his infatuation for her? She had not thought of that possibility. She had expected him to be humble, gratefully flattered by her condescension in seeking him out. If he should refuse the proposal she had come so far to make! she thought in trepidation. “He must not refuse, he shall not refuse,” and her face grew hard and set. But perhaps he was piqued because she had left him so unceremoniously two months ago, because she had not written him. Her tense lips relaxed into a smile. Oh, well, she would be nice to him now; she would make him think she was breaking her heart for him, work on his sympathy, then perhaps it would not be necessary to confess her humiliating plight. No farmer doomed to lifelong poverty would be averse to winning the hand of the daughter of the rich Squire Armour. These thoughts, running through her mind, decided her next move, and with a fluttering sigh she rose from her seat and descended the step. She drew close to him and looking languishingly up into his face, murmured, “Why should it be ended, Robert? I love you just the same as I did in the past,” and she threw her arms about his neck, clinging to him passionately. “You do love me a little, tell me you do.”

“Jean, ye must be daft,” he panted, vainly trying to disengage himself from her embrace.

But she continued softly, alluringly, “Think of the old days, when I lay in your arms like this, Robbie. Think of those happy hours we spent together on the banks of the Doon. You were not cold to me then. Oh, let us live them all over again. How happy we will be. Kiss me, Rob,” and she lifted her flushed, piquant face, her crimson lips pursed temptingly, close to his. The warmth of her seductive body, the white bare arms in their short sleeves, which embraced his neck, the half-closed passionate eyes gazing invitingly, languorously into his own, fired his naturally ardent blood, making his senses to reel from the contact. Slowly his arms, which had been restraining her amorous embrace, tightened their hold on her, drawing her closer and closer, while the drops of sweat poured down his white, yielding face, as with wild bloodshot eyes he battled with the temptations which beset him so wantonly, so dangerously. With a thrill of elation not unmixed with desire she felt him yielding to her embrace, and knew that she had won him again. With a cooing cry of delight she was about to press her warm lips to his, when suddenly a bird-like voice singing in the distance arrested her impulse.

“Oh where and oh where is my Highland laddie gone?”

rang out the voice of the singer plaintively. With a cry of brief and horror Robert tore the clinging arms from about his neck and threw her madly from him. “What is the matter, Robert?” she cried fearfully, looking at him in amazement.

“I think ye had better go noo, Jean,” he answered harshly, not looking at her. “’Twill be best for us both. Oh, how I despise my weakness, I had no right, no right noo.” And there was an agony of shame and remorse in his voice.

“Do you mean,” she asked white with rage. “That you are not free to do as you like?” He remained silent a moment.

Then his face grew calm and peaceful. “The lass whom ye hear singing is Mary Campbell, my betrothed wife,” he answered simply. “We are to be married when the plantin’ is done. We have been sweethearts for years, and if I have in my weakness forgotten my sworn vows to her, by God’s help I’ll strive to be more faithful in the future.” His voice vibrated with intense feeling as he made the resolution. Then he continued softly and tenderly, “And the love I bear my faithful Mary will never cease as long as this crimson current flows within me.” A mocking laugh greeted his words as he finished.

“I tell you, Robert Burns,” cried Jean threateningly, “she shall never be your wife, for I will——” But the angry words died suddenly on her lips at an unlooked-for interruption.

“Jean, Jean,” called a lazy voice. Turning quickly she saw with apprehension Lady Glencairn standing in the open doorway of the cottage, beckoning leisurely to her. Had she heard her imprudent words? she asked herself in terror. But no, that were not possible. She had not raised her voice. For a moment she hesitated, not knowing what to do. Should she tell him the truth now? It would only mean a hurriedly whispered word or two, but as she looked at him standing there so proudly erect, the angry, puzzled flush which her last hasty words had occasioned still mantling his swarthy face, she felt her courage slipping away from her. Why not wait and write him? she temporized; that would be much better than creating a scene now, with the sharp eye of Lady Glencairn fastened upon them. Yes, she would do that, she decided hastily. She turned calmly and mounted the stile and without one backward glance descended to the other side. “Are you coming?” she asked indifferently over her shoulder, and without waiting for his answer walked quickly toward the house. Robert after a moment’s indecision gravely followed her, the look of puzzled concern still wrinkling his forehead.

“Oh, I beg your pardon; I didn’t know you were indulging in a tête-à-tête,” said Lady Glencairn frigidly as they reached the door.

“Lady Glencairn, this is Mr. Robert Burns,” stammered Jean nervously, with a flush of embarrassment at her ladyship’s sarcastic smile.

“Oh, indeed, delighted I’m sure,” said her ladyship, with a careless nod, which changed to surprised interest as Robert with simple, manly dignity removed his Tam O’Shanter and bowed low before the haughty beauty. “What an air for a peasant,” she mused. “What dignity,” and she surveyed him critically from the top of his head, with its black clustering locks which gleamed purple in the sunshine, to the tip of his rough leather brogans; noting with admiration his stalwart frame, the well-shaped head and massive neck, the strength suggested in the broad shoulders, the deep chest, the herculean limbs with the swelling muscles displayed to such advantage within the tightly fitting breeches of doe skin. “What a handsome creature,” she thought with a thrill of admiration, as she took the mental inventory of his good points. “And decidedly interesting, I’ll wager, if not dangerous,” she added, smiling contemplatively as she caught the look of respectful admiration which gleamed in his wonderfully magnetic eyes.

“Oh, James,” she called languidly reëntering the room, “here is the young man who has so kindly assisted in repairing the coach—the young man who has just returned from Mauchline,” she added significantly.

“Nay, your ladyship, ’tis my brother Gilbert you must thank for his assistance, not me,” replied Robert, flushing. As the deep tones of his sonorous voice fell on her ear she felt an indefinable thrill of emotion steal over her that startled her. She looked at him wonderingly. What peculiar magnetism was there in this farmer’s voice that could so easily move her, who had always prided herself on her coldness, her indifference to all men, including her husband, who was blissfully unconscious of his beautiful wife’s sentiments regarding him?

“Your brother had no easy task, I fear, Mr. Burns,” remarked Lord Glencairn genially. Then he turned smilingly to Jean, who was standing impatiently in the doorway. “What have you been doing all this time, my dear Jean?” he asked lightly.

“Ask Mr. Burns,” insinuated Lady Glencairn with an odd little smile at Jean’s embarrassed countenance. He looked inquiringly at the surprised face of the young farmer.

“Miss Armour has done me the honor of listening to some of my rhyming,” quietly replied Robert with a quick glance at Jean, his ready wit coming to her rescue.

“So then you are a poet,” murmured Lady Glencairn, with a smile. “Do you write love sonnets to your sweethearts, or does the muse incline at this season to songs of springtime?”

“Aye, my lady, he has the gift indeed,” spoke up Mrs. Burns deprecatingly. “But I dinna’ ken if it amounts to aught.”

“My mother doesna’ care for my poetry,” said Robert simply, turning to her ladyship.

“Dinna’ say that, laddie,” replied his mother earnestly. “Ye ken I’m o’er fond of those verses to Highland Mary, but——”

“‘Highland Mary’? what a dear name,” interrupted Lady Glencairn sweetly, smiling at Robert. “Who is she, may I ask?” and she leaned forward questioningly in her chair.

“She is a—a friend,” he replied, flushing to the roots of his hair. Then he continued, softly, his eyes lighting up with love and devotion, “An’ she is as sweet and fragrant as a sprig of pure white heather plucked from her native Highlands.”

“Aye, and she’ll make a fine wife for Robert,” added Mrs. Burns complacently.

“Aye, finer than I deserve, mither,” he replied, looking uneasily at Jean, who had started violently, then quickly leaned back against the door post, pale and trembling.

“Marry her? Never! He cannot, he must not,” she muttered to herself, frantically.

“Why, Jean!” cried Lady Glencairn, going to her in sudden alarm. “What ails you, why do you look so wild?”

“I—I’m—a pain gripped my heart most suddenly,” she faltered. “I find it over warm here,” she gasped. “I’ll await you without,” and she left the room, a strange, frightened look on her pale face.

With a puzzled frown Lady Glencairn turned and sank thoughtfully into a chair. Looking up suddenly, she caught Robert’s eye fastened upon her face in eager scrutiny. “Let me see, what were we speaking about?” she inquired indifferently.

“Ye were kind enough to ask me about my poetry,” answered Rob quietly. Jean’s queer behavior troubled him. What did it all mean? He feared she had aroused suspicion in her ladyship’s mind.

“Oh, to be sure, and I vow I’m curious,” she replied brightly. “I should like to read one of your poems, Mr. Burns, if you have one at hand.”

“He has bushels of them in the attic, your ladyship,” eagerly spoke Mrs. Burns.

“Aye, mother,” laughed Robert, “all waiting for the publisher. Here is one I but this day scribbled off, if—if ye really care to read it,” he added bashfully, taking a scrap of paper from the pocket of his loose shirt and handing it to Lady Glencairn.

She took it with a smile of amused indifference. A farmer and a poet! the idea was absurd. With an almost imperceptibly sarcastic lifting of her delicate eyebrows she read the title, “‘Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes.’” Then she read the verse in growing wonder and astonishment. She had thought to please him with a word of praise, even if they were laughably commonplace and prosaic; but it was with genuine enthusiasm that she heartily cried, “Really, ’tis a gem, Mr. Burns, so charming withal, such beautiful sentiment, and writ in most excellent style. Read it, James,” and she handed it to Lord Glencairn, who carefully perused it with apparent delight in its rhythmic beauty of composition.

“Thank ye, my lady,” replied Robert, flushing. “Your praise is o’er sweet to my hungry ear.” She gazed at him in open admiration.

“Here, Robert, are some more,” cried Mrs. Burns, entering the room with a box, which she placed before her son. “Show his lordship these, laddie,” and she hovered nervously around, her face flushed with excitement, watching anxiously every look and expression that passed over the faces of their guests.

Robert opened the box and selected a few of the poems at random, which he handed to Lord Glencairn without a word.

“‘A man’s a man for a’ that,’ ‘Willie brewed a peck of malt,’ ‘Holy Willie’s Prayer,’ ‘The Lass of Balbehmyle,’” read Lord Glencairn slowly, glancing over their titles. Then he read them through earnestly, his noble face expressing the interest he felt; then with a sigh of pleasure he passed them to Lady Glencairn, who devoured the written pages eagerly, her face flushed and radiant. When she had finished, she leaned back in her chair and fixed her luminous eyes upon her husband’s beaming face.

“James,” said she decidedly, “you will please me well if you will influence some publisher to accept this young man’s poems and place them before the public. I’m sure he is most deserving, and—he interests me greatly.” There was a peculiar glitter in her half-closed eyes as she gazed intently at Robert with an enigmatic smile parting her red lips. The gracious lady with her high-bred air, her alluring smile, her extreme condescension, was a revelation to the country-bred lad, who was brought in close contact for the first time with one so far above his station in life. He felt his awkwardness more than he had ever thought possible as he felt her critical eyes fastened upon him and heard her honeyed words of praise and encouragement.

“Mr. Burns,” said his lordship earnestly, “your poems interest me greatly, and I declare such genius as you display should be given an opportunity to develop. It will afford me much pleasure to take these verses, with your permission, back with me to Edinburgh and submit them to Sir William Creech, who is the largest publisher there, and a personal friend of mine, and if he accepts these poems as a criterion of your artistic ability, without the least doubt your success will be at once assured.” He put them carefully in the large wallet he had taken from an inside pocket while he was talking, and replaced it within his coat.

Robert looked at him, hardly daring to believe his ears. “I—I canna find words to express my unbounded gratitude to you, my lord,” he faltered, his voice low and shaking.

“I’d advise you to make a collection of your poems, my lad,” continued Lord Glencairn quietly, touched by the sight of Robert’s expressive features, which he was vainly trying to control. “Chiefly those in the Scottish dialect; they are new and will create a sensation. Have them ready to forward to town when sent for.” There was a tense silence for a moment when he had finished.

Robert dared not trust his voice to speak, to utter his thanks. Finally he burst out. “My lord, how can I ever thank ye for this unlooked-for generosity to an absolute stranger!” he cried brokenly. “For years I have been praying for a publisher to edit my songs, but I could see no silver lining to the dark clouds of obscurity hanging over my unhappy, friendless head, clouds which threatened to engulf me in their maddening embrace. But now,” he continued eloquently, his voice ringing with gladness, “the bright sunlight is peeping around the fast disappearing cloud, warming my very soul with its joyous rays. Oh, my lord, if ever the name of Robert Burns should e’en become familiar to his countrymen,’twill be through your graciousness, your benevolence, to a poor unknown, humble plowman,” and his eyes filled with tears of love and gratitude for his noble benefactor.

Lord Glencairn took a pinch of snuff from the small oblong box he held in his hand, and used his handkerchief vigorously to conceal the tears of sympathy which had welled up in his eyes as he listened to the recital of Robert’s ambitions, his hopes and fears.

“My dear lad,” he said, trying to speak lightly, “I have done nothing as yet to deserve such fulsome words of thanks. ’Tis but a trifling thing I propose doing, and it pleases me, else perhaps I might not trouble myself to speak in your behalf.”

“Ah, noo, sir,” cried Mrs. Burns, wiping away the tears of joy, “’tis your big, noble heart which prompts ye to assist a struggling genius to something better, higher, and nobler in this life. God bless ye for it.”

The door opened, and Gilbert Burns quietly entered the room. Removing his Tam O’Shanter, he bowed respectfully to Lord Glencairn and said briefly, “Your Lordship’s coach is repaired.”

With a word of thanks Lord Glencairn rose and assisted his wife into her cloak.

“Thank goodness we can proceed on our journey while it is yet light,” she said animatedly, going to the door.

“I assure you, Mistress Burns, we have enjoyed your hospitality amazing well,” said Lord Glencairn, turning to their hostess. “Believe me, we’ll not forget it.”

They left the house, followed by their admiring hosts. Suddenly Lady Glencairn gave a little cry of delighted surprise as her eyes rested on the drooping figure of Highland Mary, sitting disconsolately on a large rock beside the old well. “What a sweet, pretty flower of a lass!” she cried enthusiastically. “Come here, child,” she called aloud. Mary looked up quickly with a little gasp of surprise, for she had not noticed them come out. She rose bashfully to her feet and stood hesitating, her eyes timidly fixed on a piece of heather she was holding in her hand.

Lady Glencairn laughed amusedly. “I vow ’tis an uncommon modest shy wildflower truly,” she said to her husband. “Come here, child, I’ll not bite you,” and she held out her hands toward the wondering girl.

With a little silvery, timid laugh Mary walked quickly toward her. “I’m no afraid, my lady,” she replied quietly, but her heart was beating very fast, nevertheless, as she stood before the great lady, who was watching the flower-like face, with the delicate pink color coming and going, with such apparent admiration.

“That’s our Highland Mary,” triumphantly cried Souter, who had just come upon the scene.

“Oh, indeed,” replied her ladyship brightly. “So you are Highland Mary.”

“Yes, my lady,” answered Mary with a quaint little courtesy.

“Isn’t she a dear,” said Lady Glencairn aloud to her husband.

She turned to Robert, who was proudly watching Mary, with eyes aglow with love and happiness. “No wonder, Mr. Burns,” she said, a sigh involuntarily escaping her as she noted his rapt gaze, “that you have sought to portray in song and verse the sweet loveliness of this fair maiden.” Then she turned suddenly to Mary.

“You’re a very pretty child,” she said carelessly. “But I suppose you know that well ere this.” She laughed cynically and turned away.

“She isna used to such compliments, your ladyship,” said Robert, noticing the embarrassed blush that mounted to Mary’s cheek. “She’s o’er shy, ye ken.”

“That’s the kind we raise in the Highlands,” declared Souter with a satisfied air.

“Come, James, it grows late,” wearily said Lady Glencairn, taking her husband’s arm. “And here is the coach.” As the vehicle with its prancing black horses champing restlessly at their bits drew up to the gate, she turned to Mary and said condescendingly, “Good-by, child; I suppose some day, when Mr. Burns is the Bard of Scotland, we’ll see you in town with him. Be sure to come and see me at Glencairn Hall.”

“Thank ye, my lady,” replied Mary, courtesying deeply, fortunately not discerning the sarcasm in the tired tones of the great lady’s voice.

Lord Glencairn helped her into the coach, and then turned to Robert with outstretched hand. “My lad,” he said cordially, “you may expect to hear from me or Sir William Creech very shortly. Good-by.”

“Good-by, sir,” replied Robert, “and may Heaven bless you.”

“Oh, Lud,” cried Lady Glencairn as they were about to start, “we’re forgetting Jean.”

“The young lady strolled alang,” answered Gilbert quietly. “She said you would overtake her on the road.”

Lady Glencairn thanked him with a careless nod, and then leaned far out of the door to Robert. “Remember, Mr. Burns,” she said softly, pressing his hand, “I expect to see you in Edinburgh very soon, don’t forget,” and with another lingering look, full of meaning, she withdrew into the coach, and soon they were gone in a cloud of dust, while he stood there gazing after them like one in a dream with the last rays of the setting sun lighting up his dark, passionate face.

“Hurra! ’tis luck ye’re in, laddie,” shouted Souter in his ear. “The gentry have noticed ye. Ye should be dancing for joy, mon. I’m off to tell the lads of your good fortune,” and away he sped to the village, eager as any old gossip to spread the glorious news.

“Isna it all like a dream, Mary?” sighed Mrs. Burns rapturously, leading the way into the house, followed by the two lovers, who entered hand in hand and seated themselves in blissful silence on the high-backed settle under the window, their favorite seat. For a few moments they sat motionless, regarding each other with moist eyes. It almost seemed too good to be true. In a few weeks perhaps Robert would be a great man, thought Mary proudly. “Weel, I always did have faith in Robert’s poetry,” suddenly declared Mrs. Burns with conviction.

Robert smiled at his mother’s words. “They would all say that now,” he thought, but without bitterness, for it was only the way of the world after all.

“Ye’ll soon hae riches noo,” said Mary happily.

“Aye, then ye shall hae a fine new gown, and—and we will be married noo, instead of waiting,” answered Robert, taking her tenderly in his arms.

“’Tis a bonnie, bonnie pair ye make,” said Mrs. Burns lovingly. “May God bless ye,” and she softly stole away, leaving them to their feast of love.

“Slipped quickly behind an old beech tree.”

CHAPTER VII

Jean left the house filled with terrified dismay. Robert going to marry another? then what would become of her? She would be disgraced and ruined. The thought drove her frantic. “He shall not marry her; he shall give me the protection of his name, for the time being at least,” she said to herself angrily. Afterward, the marriage could be easily annulled; she did not want him. She did not want to be tied for life to any farmer, not she. She would then return to Edinburgh. But suppose he would not consent to such an arrangement? Well she would scare him into it. He was as much to blame as she was anyway. She would not wait to write him after all; she would tell him now. There was nothing to fear. She would wait until the others had started, then come back and force her claim. If they went on without her, it did not matter much; it was not far to the Inn, she mused determinedly. She stopped in her rapid walk and retraced her steps. As she neared the cottage the door opened and her god-parents came out, and with them were Robert and the others. Before they could perceive her, however, she slipped quickly behind an old beech tree back of the well and nearest the house. Breathlessly, impatiently, she waited while they talked, and talked, till she thought they would never go. Then when the coach came and the attendant excitement of its departure, like a guilty creature she stole noiselessly across the intervening space to the cottage, slipped through the open door, and hid herself behind the fireplace, where Mary had concealed herself some weeks before.

After Mrs. Burns left the room Jean came boldly out from her hiding place and stood before the startled couple, who gazed at her in amazement. She looked at them insolently, a sneer on her full lips.

“Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Burns,” she interrupted sarcastically. The color slowly faded from his ruddy face. Was she going to expose that shameful page in his past history to this innocent child? Would she dare, could she be so reckless, so shameless? he asked himself fearfully.

“I thought ye had gone,” he said, dangerously calm, stepping up to her.

“I could not go till I had delivered a message,” she explained, dropping her eyes before the determined light in his.

“What is it?” he asked, puzzled by her tone and manner.

“It is of great importance and for your ears alone,” she replied glibly. “I’m sure this lady—Miss Campbell, is it not?—will not mind leaving us for a moment,” and she smiled amiably into Mary’s innocent inquiring face.

He led Mary gently to the door. “It’ll be only for a moment, Mary,” he said quietly.

“I dinna’ mind,” she answered brightly. “’Tis near time for me to be going hame, ye ken,” and with a smile she left them together.

“Noo, then, what is your message?” he said with calm abruptness, as the door closed.

“This!” and she threw back her head defiantly. “You must give up this Mary Campbell.”

He looked at her in amazement. “What do ye mean?” he gasped, opening his eyes in bewilderment.

“I mean you must make me your wife.” Her pale and agitated face made him wonder if she had gone quite daft. Before he could answer she continued stridently, “You must marry me now, before it is too late, too late to save my name from dishonor and disgrace. Now do you understand?”

A look of incredulous horror slowly blanched his face to ashy whiteness. Had he heard aright? Surely she was jesting; it could not be possible—and yet, why not? His haggard eyes searched her colorless face as though he would read her very soul. Calmly she bore the scrutiny and then, with a groan of anguish, he sank into a chair, weak and trembling. “I canna, I willna, believe,” he muttered hoarsely. “It’s a lie, it’s a lie, Jean Armour!”

“It’s the truth, I tell you,” she cried passionately, wringing her hands. “What else think you would force me, the rich Belle of Mauchline, to humble my pride and stoop to plead to a poverty-stricken farmer to wed me?” She laughed wildly.

“Can it be true, can it be true?” he whispered to himself dully. He felt dazed by the suddenness, the total unexpectedness, of the blow. He closed his eyes wearily. What was it she wanted him to do, he could not think. He sat dumbly waiting for her to speak again.

“You must write out an acknowledgment and sign your name to it,” she continued, her voice low and insistent. “It is an irregular marriage I know, but it will save me from my father’s wrath, when I can keep my plight from him no longer.” He still remained silent, his face hidden in his hands. “Will you do this?” she demanded anxiously, “or,” and her voice grew hard and threatening, “or shall I appeal to the Parish officers to help me save my good name from disgrace?” Quickly he raised his head. At his look of indignant scorn she winced and turned away, flushing angrily.

With a mirthless little laugh he retorted with bitter emphasis, “Your good name, indeed!”

She turned on him defiantly. “I was no worse than other girls,” she flippantly retorted. “Only more unfortunate. Will you do what I ask? Quick, tell me, someone is coming!” She nervously caught his hand. He did not speak. His face grew haggard and old-looking as he stood motionless, forming his resolution. It seemed to her an eternity before he answered her.

“So be it,” he answered hoarsely, drawing his hand away from hers and moving slowly to the door. “I’ll send ye the lines by the posty to-morrow.”

With a cry of delight she gratefully held out her hand to him. But he quietly opened the door, and, without a word or look at her, stood silently holding it back, his head bowed low on his bosom, his face cold and repellent. Slowly Jean walked past him out into the deepening twilight. She felt a dawning pity in her heart for the wretched lad. She could not quite forget those old, happy days, those stolen walks and trysts along the banks of the Ayr. No one could make love so ardently as he, she thought with a sigh. Of all her lovers he had been the favorite, he was so ingenuous, so trustful and confiding, and yet so reckless, so imprudent and weak. She knew well he had never really loved her, and the thought had made her strive all the harder to win him. He was flattered by her open preference for him, and soon became an easy victim, a slave, to her seductive charms and sophisticated fascinations, for he was only human. And now the heart of that little dairymaid would be broken. A quick pang of shame and regret stole over her, but she instantly stifled it. She must think of self first, she told herself uneasily. Anyway she only wanted the marriage lines in case people should point an accusing finger at her. Later—well, the marriage could be annulled privately, and no one be the wiser, for marriages were easily annulled in Scotland. She walked briskly to where the coach was standing, for they were waiting for her, determined to cast all gloomy, depressing thoughts from her for the time at least.

Robert mechanically closed the door behind her and walked slowly to the dresser. Taking from it a bottle of ink and a quill, he carried them to the table, and placing them upon it, sank heavily in a chair. Long he sat there, pen in hand, the victim of the profoundest melancholy, the deepest despair. The thought that it was his own fault, his indifference to consequences, his recklessness, his weak, sinful folly, that had plunged himself and others into the awful abyss of grief and sorrow, was like the bitterness of death to him. As he sat there with drawn and haggard face, while bitter regret gnawed deeply at his conscience, the plaintive tones of Mary’s voice came through the window, singing softly:

“Ye banks and braes of bonnie Doon,

How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair?”

A groan of agony escaped the grief-stricken man at the sound of the voice, which was sweeter than all else in the world to him.

“Mary, my lost Highland Mary!” he cried aloud, “how can I give ye up forever?” and throwing himself across the table he wept bitter tears of anguish and remorse.

“How can ye chant, ye little birds,

An’ I sae weary, fu’ o’ care?”

continued the sweet voice in mournful cadence. Softly the words floated to the ears of the sorrowing man, like the echo of his own harrowing thoughts.

As Mary reached the open window she paused and gazed into the room eagerly. As she sees her lover sitting there so silent and alone, her smile is very sweet and tender.

“Dear laddie; asleep,” she whispers softly. “He must be o’er tired after his hard day’s work. God bless my laddie,” and with a smile of ineffable sweetness, she wafted a kiss to the bowed head and quickly passed on, wending her lonely way back to Castle Montgomery, while the man sitting there in agonized silence, with clenched teeth and tense muscles, slowly raised his head to listen, in heart-broken silence, to her sweet voice floating back to him in silvery melody, as she took up the broken thread of her song:

“Thou’lt break my heart, thou warbling bird,

That wantons thro’ the flow’ring thorn.

Thou minds me o’ departed joys,

Departed, never to return.”

The song died away in the distance.

“God pity her, God pity me,” he murmured brokenly.

CHAPTER VIII

From the huge, low ceilinged kitchen of Castle Montgomery, which was ablaze with light, came the gladsome sound of mirth and revelry, for

“Some merry countre folks togither did convene,

To burn their nits and pou’ their stocks, and hold their hallowe’en,

For blythe that night.”

For miles around the annual invitations had been sent broadcast, and to-night the capacious kitchen was taxed to its utmost. It was, however, a singularly good-natured, if over-hilarious, gathering that had assembled to do justice to old Bess’s cooking, and to test their fate through the medium of the many charms so well known to all the peasantry.

There was Poosie Nancy in her stiffly-starched frilled cap and her new kirtle, complacently nodding here and there to all of her acquaintances as they flocked about her. Poosie Nancy was a merry old soul. For years she had been the mistress of the Arms Inn, the public house on the high road, where Souter and Tam O’Shanter were wont to idle away their time and, incidentally, their “siller.” Standing on one foot behind her was Molly Dunn. Molly was consciously resplendent in a new plaid frock, made by her own unskilled hands, and while it was certainly not a thing of beauty, it surely was a joy forever, to the lassies, who laughingly twitted her about her handiwork. But she heeded not their good-natured jibes. She was admiringly watching Daddy Auld, the little old minister, who sat in the midst of an admiring group of his parishioners at the other side of the room, who evidently stood in no awe of him, judging from the bursts of laughter which greeted his frequent attempts at jocularity.

“Where is Tam O’Shanter, Souter Johnny?” suddenly asked old Bess, who was proudly doing the honors as mistress of ceremonies. Souter was assiduously paying court to the comely Poosie Nancy in the opposite corner with an eye to future possibilities.

“He willna be here till late,” he replied impatiently, addressing the crowd. “I left him at the Arms Inn, an’ if he drinks much mair whisky, he will na’ be here at all, I’m thinkin’,” and he turned eagerly to his inamorata, who was fanning herself indifferently with a plantain leaf.

“He’ll fall into the Doon some night an’ be drowned, sure as fate,” said she, carelessly dismissing the subject.

“Take your partners for the reel!” shouted big Malcolm Macræ stentoriously, at this juncture. Old Donald tuned up his fiddle with gleeful alacrity.

Souter ceremoniously offered Poosie his arm, which she condescendingly accepted, and majestically they walked to the middle of the floor. With much laughing and joking and good-natured rivalry, they were all quickly paired off, and soon the rafters rang with the happy voices of the hilarious dancers as they merrily sang to the tune that blind Donald was scratching out on his old and faithful, though unmelodious, fiddle.

Mary had taken no part in the merrymaking, for she felt heavy and sad at heart. From her seat in the corner, where the light was the dimmest, she had watched the door with patient anxiety, hoping against hope that Robert would come, but she had waited in vain, and now the evening was nearly spent and soon they would be going home, happy and tired after their sport and entertainment, while she would steal away to her quarters over the kitchen and cry herself to sleep, as she had done for many nights past. Souter Johnny, who was in his element and the merriest of them all, had tried vainly to induce her to join the revelers in their sport, and many an honest laddie had sought her hand in the dance, only to be shyly refused. So gradually she was left in peace, and soon forgotten amid the excitement of their diversions. They had tried some of the famous charms, which decided the destinies of many of the lads and lassies that night, and now old Bess brought forth her long-hoarded bag of nuts, which she divided among them. Amid shouts of mirth and laughter, they proceeded to test the most famous of all the charms. As they rushed pell-mell to the fireplace and laid each particular nut in the fire, for which they had named the lad or lassie of their choice, and stood there eagerly watching, open-mouthed, to see how they would burn, Mary, with a quickly beating heart, stole unperceived close to the front row of watchers, and with a little prayer, quietly threw her pair into the fire. For a moment they burned slowly side by side, then with a hop and a jump they popped madly about, and finally at opposite sides of the fireplace they glowed redly for a time, then expired altogether. With a little, suppressed sob, unheeded in the general excitement, she hurried back to her seat, pale and trembling. It was as she had feared: the course of their love was never again to run smoothly, the charm had spoken. It had never been known to predict wrongly. Why had she sought to find out her fate? she asked herself pathetically. Unheeding the merry songs and dances going on around her, of which they never seemed to weary, and the unco tales and funny jokes, she sat there thinking her sweet, sad thoughts, and patiently waiting till they should depart for their homes, that she might seek the quiet of her bed, where her aching heart might find relief in the tears which nowadays were so hard to control. Suddenly the laughter subsided, and Mary with a start raised her head to see all eyes turned on her.

“Mary, come here, lass,” called Souter Johnny, who was fanning himself vigorously.

“It’s your turn noo, Mary,” they cried boisterously. “So gie us a dance or a song,” and they all pressed around her with good-natured suggestions.

Old Bess took the shrinking girl by the hand, and leading her forward, with a deep courtesy announced, “Hieland Mary will favor us wi’ a song,” then she left Mary standing in the center of the room suffering agonies of dread as she raised her frightened eyes to the group of laughing, good-natured, gaping faces about her.

“I canna’ sing, I canna’ sing, Souter,” she faltered, turning to him beseechingly.

“Yes, ye can, dearie, just a—a verse, there’s a girlie,” he answered encouragingly. “Come and stand beside me, if that’s any inspiration to ye,” he added, smiling good-humoredly.

She ran to his side, and clutching him by the arm, tried to muster up her courage, for the good-natured audience were clamorously demanding a song. With a frightened little gasp she began to sing the first thing that came to her mind. “Oh, where, and oh, where is my Highland laddie gone?” she faltered out. A little titter passed through the crowd, for they knew that “Rab Burns was nae longer sweet on Mary Campbell,” as they told each other in loud whispers. At the cruel sound Mary, whose lips had trembled ominously as she thought of her recreant lover, with an indignant look at the thoughtless ones, burst into a flood of tears. Quickly Souter led her sobbing to a seat, while the others anxiously crowded round, conscience-stricken at their thoughtless levity.

“What’s happent? what’s happent? Has she fainted?” they asked in helpless confusion, gazing from one to the other.

“She’s only a wee bittie tired,” answered old Souter, tenderly smoothing the hair of the sorrowing lass. “Let her alone an’ she’ll be all right. Donald,” he called, “start your fiddle; we’re gang to hae anither dance.”

The blind old patriarch smiled serenely, and raising his fiddle to his chin began to play, and soon the mirth and fun grew fast and furious as the dancers reeled and set, and crosst and cleekit.

While old Donald was playing, and the dance was well started, Souter quietly led Mary out in the open air, and sitting down on the doorstep, he drew her gently beside him. “Noo, Mary, what is the matter?” he inquired kindly. “Winna ye tell old Souter Johnny your trouble?”

“Ye ken why I am unhappy, Souter Johnny,” answered Mary apathetically. He sighed and remained silent.

“Have ye an’ Robert quarreled?” he asked presently.

“No,” she answered sadly.

“Weel, come tell old Souter; it may ease your mind, lassie,” and he drew her plaid about her shoulders, for the night air was keen.

“Well, ye ken, Souter,” she faltered, a pitiful little break in her voice, “Robbie an’ I were to be married after the plantin’ was o’er, and ’tis noo harvest time, but ne’er a word has he spoke of our marriage since that day. He is so changed, Souter, I—I canna understand him at all,” and she leaned wearily against his shoulder like a tired child.

“That Armour lass is at the bottom of it all, I ken,” thought Souter angrily, drawing her close to him.

“Perhaps,” continued Mary sadly, “perhaps he has grown tired of his Highland Mary.” She plucked idly at the fringe of her plaid, a look of resignation on her sweet face.

“Tired o’ ye?” repeated Souter incredulously. “A man would be a most fearful fool to gie up such a bonnie, sweet lassie as ye are. Noo, if I were only younger, Robbie Burns wouldna hae things all his own way, I tell ye,” and he nodded his head vigorously.

“I ken he has some trouble,” said Mary, not heeding his jocular efforts to cheer her, “that makes him so unhappy like; if he would only let me share that trouble wi’ him, whate’er it is, how gladly I would do it.”

Souter rubbed his bearded chin reflectively.

“Weel, Mary, ye ken Robert’s a genius,” he answered soberly. “An’ ye can ne’er tell how a genius is gang to act, therefore ye must ne’er be surprised, Mary, at whate’er he does, for genius is but anither name for eccentricity an’—an’ perverseness,” and he sighed deeply, his kind old face wrinkled with perplexity.

“I feel, Souter,” she continued, pathetically calm, “that I am slowly, but surely, drifting out o’ his life forever.” She gazed suddenly into the face bending over her solicitously.

“Dinna ye know the cause, Souter?” she asked beseechingly.

He brushed his hand across his eyes and slowly shook his head. She sighed patiently and turned away her head and gazed listlessly into space. For a few moments there was deep silence, broken only by the bursts of laughter which came to them at intervals from within.

“Lassie, listen to me,” finally said the old man, his voice cheery and hopeful once more. “Ye mustna be so down-hearted; there is a cause for everything in this world, an’ I ken Robert loves ye wi’ all his heart, just the same as ever. Why, ye can see the glimmer o’ love in his e’e whene’er he looks at ye.” He smiled approvingly as Mary’s face brightened, then continued decidedly, “Robert is well-nigh daft that he hasna heard frae Lord Glencairn all this time; that is why he is sae worrid an’ nervous, sae moody an’ neglectful; noo cheer thee, lassie, it’ll all come right in time,” and he patted her shoulder lovingly.

“Oh, I feel sae much better, Souter,” she murmured, pressing his hand gratefully. “An’ noo I’ll na borrow trouble any mair, thinkin’ Robert doesna’ love me.” She smiled happily and jumped lightly to her feet.

“Whist, Mary, why dinna ye make sure o’ that?” whispered Souter, looking around him mysteriously. She looked at him wonderingly. “’Tis Hallowe’en, ye ken, an’ a’ the witches an’ fairies are about this night an’ will grant any wish made. Try a charm, lassie.”

“I did try one,” replied Mary with a sigh. “I burned the nuts, but it didna’ come out right; that’s what made me sad.”

“Ah, weel, try anither; go pull a stock.”

“Oh, nay, I’m afraid to go out in the field at night,” she replied timidly, drawing back. “But I’ll go if ye’ll come wi’ me.” She held out her hand to him.

“Nay, thank ye, Mary,” he said grimly. “I dinna’ care to see the face o’ my future wife just yet; I fear I couldna’ stand the shock.”

“Well, I darena’ go alone,” answered Mary decidedly, her hand on the latch. “Think of anither charm, one I can do indoors.”

“An’ do ye think the fairies will come around where ’tis light?” he cried in amazement. “Och, no, ye must go to the darkest place ye can find.” His little round eyes gazed into hers with solemn earnestness.

Mary shivered with apprehension and peered into the darkness. “Oh, Souter, think o’ the witches,” she said nervously.

“They willna’ hurt ye,” he answered a little impatiently. “Ye maun sow a handful of hempseed an’ harrow it o’er wi’ anything ye can draw after ye, an’ repeat o’er and o’er,” assuming a guttural monotone:

“Hempseed, I sow thee; hempseed, I sow thee,

And him that is to be my true love,

Come after me and draw thee.”

“And will I see him then?” whispered Mary eagerly, drawing near to him.

“Aye,” returned Souter hoarsely. “Look over your left shoulder an’ ye’ll see your future husband pullin’ hemp. Noo, off wi’ ye; ye’ll find some seed in the barn.” Mary tried to summon up her courage, for she was highly superstitious, like all the peasantry, and was anxious to test the potency of the charm, and finally succeeded in taking a few faltering footsteps in the direction of the barn, when suddenly the door behind them opened, and Molly Dunn appeared in the doorway. She held in one hand a lighted candle, while in the other she carried a broken piece of looking-glass, into which she was gazing intently, her eyes fixed and staring. Behind her, crowding through the doorway, followed the now noiseless revelers, who were stifling their laughter to breathlessly watch the outcome of the well-known charm, whose power Molly had decided to put to a test, though believing staunchly in its potency. Molly majestically walked down the steps and across to the well, where, depositing her mirror on the curbing, she took from the pocket of her skirt a round, red apple, from which she bit a goodly piece and began vigorously to chew upon it, the while holding her candle above her head and anxiously watching her reflection in the mirror.

“Molly’s eatin’ the apple at the glass,” chuckled Souter to Mary softly. “She’s lookin’ for the face o’ her future husband. Let’s hae some fun wi’ her.” He motioned to them all to keep silent, and stealing softly over to the unconscious Molly, intoned in a deep sepulchral voice, “Molly Dunn, if ye would see your future husband, dinna’ ye dare turn your head this way.”

Molly gave a shriek of terror, thereby choking herself with the piece of apple she was industriously eating, and falling on her knees, her teeth chattering in fear, she cried frantically, “The witches! the witches!”

“Nay, I’m the Deil himsel’,” answered Souter in awe-inspiring accents. Molly groaned aloud, in mortal terror, not daring to turn around. “An’ I’ve come for ye, Molly Dunn,” slowly continued her tormentor.

“Nay, nay!” cried Molly, her eyes staring wildly in front of her. “I want naught to do wi’ ye; gang awa’, gang awa’!” and she wildly waved her hands behind her.

“Not till ye’ve seen the face o’ the man ye’ll wed,” replied the voice. “Beauteous fairy of Hallowe’en, come forth,” he commanded majestically, beckoning to Mary to come nearer. She did so. “Speak, kind fairy.” He whispered to her what to say to the awestruck Molly.

Thus admonished, Mary, who was once more her old light-hearted winsome self, raised her sweet voice and spoke in a high falsetto, “Gaze in the looking-glass, Molly Dunn; eat o’ the apple, think o’ the one ye desire to see, an’ his face will appear beside yours.”

“Behold, I pass the magic wand o’er your head, ye faithless woman,” added Souter threateningly.

Hurriedly Molly complied with the injunctions, and patiently she knelt there, apple in hand, the candle light glaring full on her eager, ugly face, and the wisp of faded hair tied tightly on top of her head, which was waving wildly about, while she waited for the face to appear beside her own reflection in the glass.

“Do ye see him yet?” asked Mary eagerly, forgetting her rôle of “The Fairy of Hallowe’en,” and speaking in her natural tone, while the group at the doorway drew closer to the kneeling woman in their excited curiosity.

“Nay, not yet,” replied Molly in an awestruck whisper.

“Hold the candle higher,” admonished Souter, “an’ eat quicker.” Molly did so. “Noo do you see your handsome lover?” He crept up slyly behind Molly, and bending over her shoulder, peered into the glass, where he beheld the shadowy reflection of his own face looming up beside that of the wondering Molly. With a gasp of pleasure not unmixed with fear, she dropped the glass, and turning quickly grabbed the surprised Souter and held him close. As she raised her candle to see whom the fairies had sent to her, she recognized her tormentor, and with a shriek of rage, she clouted the laughing Souter over the head with her candlestick, amid peals of laughter from the delighted spectators, until he called for mercy.

“Dinna I suit ye, Molly?” he asked in an injured tone, nursing his sorely punished head.

“Ye skelpie limmer’s face, ye, how dare ye try sich sportin’ wi’ me?” she cried angrily.

“The glass canna’ lie,” called out old Bess with a shake of her frilled cap.

“An’ ye seen Souter’s face there, Molly,” laughed Poosie Nancy loudly. “There’s no gainsaying that.”

“I want a braw mon, a handsome mon,” whimpered Molly. “Ye’re no a mon at all, ye wee skelpie limmer.” The burst of laughter which greeted this sally was very disconcerting to Souter, whose height, five feet two inches, was distinctly a sore subject.

“Try anither charm, Molly,” said Mary, feeling sorry for the poor innocent.

“Aye, I will,” replied Molly eagerly, drying her tears with the back of her hand.

“Then come alang,” said Souter, ready to make amends. “Come an’ pull a stock. Gie me your hand.” She did so eagerly. “Noo shut your eyes tight; that’s it; come along noo.” But Molly braced herself and refused to move.

“I’m afeered o’ the dark an’ the witches,” she faltered, her teeth chattering, her eyes so tightly closed that her face was drawn into a mass of deep wrinkles.

They all crowded round the couple with words of praise and encouragement, and presently Molly was persuaded to take a step forward and then another, and finally the two moved slowly away and were swallowed up in the darkness.

Meanwhile the rest of the revelers, after a whispered consultation, hurried to the outhouse, amid smothered shrieks of laughter.

Molly and Souter walked slowly and timidly toward the field of corn, which looked unreal and shadowy in the pale moonlight. Molly’s few remaining teeth were now chattering so loudly that Souter began to grow nervous. He jerked her arm impatiently.

“Be a mon, Molly,” he hoarsely whispered, his voice a little shaky.

“I’m afeered to,” she answered, opening her eyes and looking fearfully around. They took a few more stumbling step, then stopped.

“Och, get off my foot, ye towsie tyke!” cried Souter. Molly hastily removed the offending member and on they went again. Suddenly they stopped, rooted to the spot in terror. A low, blood-curdling moan had rent the stillness. Again it came, chilling the very blood in their veins by its awful weirdness.

“The witches! the witches!” gasped Molly in abject fear.

Turning, they beheld a sight that caused their hair to stand on end, “the marrow to congeal in their bones,” as Souter afterward explained the sensation which came over him. Coming toward them was a score or more of hideous apparitions with fire blazing from their eyes and their horribly grinning mouths, and groaning and moaning like lost souls. With a mortal cry of terror, the frightened couple sped on wings of fear back to the friendly light of the kitchen, the ghostly figures darting after them with diabolical bursts of laughter. As they slammed the door of the house behind them their pursuers stopped and quickly blew out their Jack-o’-Lanterns and then threw them to one side.

“I didna ken mortal mon could e’er run so fast,” snickered Poosie Nancy to the others as they noiselessly entered the kitchen in time to hear the wonderful tale of Souter’s hairbreadth escape from the witches.

Another hour of mirth and jollity, of dance and song soon sped around. Souter and Molly were still the center of an admiring group, for they had seen the witches with their own eyes, and that distinction was theirs alone that night. Suddenly the old clock struck twelve, then began a merry scrambling for bonnets and plaids. Having donned them, they noisily crowded around their hostesses, who were lined up against the wall, waiting ceremoniously to be thanked for their hospitality and to bid their parting guests godspeed. As the darts of homely wit and repartee flew back and forth among them, causing the lads to burst into uproarious laughter or to grin in awkward bashfulness, and the lassies to turn their heads away blushingly or to toss their curls coquettishly, the door burst in suddenly, and Tam O’Shanter staggered to the center of the floor, pale, wild-eyed, and disheveled.

“Tam O’Shanter!” they cried, gazing at him in startled amazement. Souter quickly reached his old cronie’s side.

“What’s the matter, mon? hae ye seen a ghost?” he asked concernedly.

“Aye, worse than that, much worse,” hoarsely replied Tam, wiping the sweat from off his forehead with a trembling hand.

“What’s happened?” cried old Bess fearfully.

“Calm yoursel’ an’ tell us, Tam,” said Souter soothingly. They brought him a chair, for he trembled like an aspen leaf. Throwing himself into it, he gazed about him fearfully, the while struggling to regain his breath.

“Well,’tis this way, Souter,” he began presently in a husky whisper. “I left the Arms Inn about an hour ago or thereabouts an’ started for hame, for ’tis a long ride to Carrick, ye ken, an’ a most uncanny ride e’en in the daylight.”

“That’s true,” affirmed Poosie Nancy with a nod of conviction to the others.

“Weel,” continued Tam impressively, “a few miles beyond the Maypole road ye have to pass a dark, uncanny spot, the cairn where the hunters found the murdered bairn. Ye ken the spot, Souter?” turning to him for confirmation.

Souter nodded his head quickly. “Aye, Tam, I ken it weel, for ’twas near there old Mingo’s mother hanged hersel’.” Old Bess looked over her shoulder nervously.

“Aye,” eagerly assented Tam, then he continued, “Weel, a weird sight awaited me there; my blood runs cold noo. Suddenly I heard a sound o’ music and revelry, and Maggie stopped still, frightened stiff. I looked up, and glimmering thro’ the trees was auld Kirk Alloway all a blaze o’ light.” He paused to note the effect of his astounding statement.

They looked at each other disbelievingly. Some turned angrily away, muttering to themselves. Was old Tam making sport of them?

“Go alang, mon,” cried Poosie Nancy with an incredulous sniff of her pug nose. “’Tis naught but an old tumbled down ruin.”

“I’m telling ye gospel truth,” replied Tam earnestly. They crowded around again, ready to be convinced, though still eying him distrustfully.

“Well, I was nae afraid,” continued Tam bashfully, “for I was inspired by bold John Barleycorn, so I rode Maggie close to the wall an’ there thro’ the openin’, I saw inside, and wow! I saw an unco sight!” Tam was becoming warmed up with his recital. The eager, excited faces crowding around him had restored his courage and flattered his vanity. He paused impressively, his eyes fixed and staring, gazing straight past the faces of his listeners as though he saw the unco sight again. He noted with pleasure the frightened glances they gave over their shoulders. Then he proceeded slowly in a sibilant whisper, “There were warlocks and witches dancin’ hornpipes and jigs around the Kirk, dressed only in their sarks. There were open coffins standin’ around like clothespresses, an’ in each coffin stood a corpse holdin’ in its cauld hand a burnin’ light. An’ by that light I saw two span-lang wee unchristened bairns, white and cold upon the holy table.” Tam wiped the sweat off his brow and moistened his dry lips; then he proceeded with his harrowing tale. “Beside the bairns lay a bloody knife wi’ gray hairs still sticking to the heft an’——”

But with a shudder of fear, their faces blanched and drawn, they exclaimed in doubting horror, “Nay!” “Stop!” “Out on ye, mon!” “It’s nae true!” etc. Tam was not to be cut off in the midst of his tale so unceremoniously.

He rose excitedly from his seat and continued rapidly. “The dancers were twisting and turning like snakes, and there in a winnock-bunker sat Auld Nick himsel’, in the shape of a beast, playing the pipes. Och, friends, it was an inspirin’ sight, and in my excitement I yelled out——”

“What?” cried the lads in unison.

“‘Well done, Cutty Sark!’” shouted Tam, proudly, well pleased at his own temerity.

They boisterously applauded him for his courage, but the lassies still clung to each other nervously.

“Then what happened, Tam?” asked Souter quizzingly. He could not quite bring himself to believe Tam’s improbable tale, he knew the old sinner so well.

“Weel, the lights went out in an instant,” continued Tam dramatically. “I had no sooner turned Maggie’s head than out poured those unco witches like bees buzzin’ in anger. I didna’ stop to meet them, for Maggie, knowing her danger, bounded off like a terrified deer and plunged off desperately through the trees toward the brig with all these witches followin’ wi’ eldritch screeches, close to her heels till I could feel their breath on my clammy neck. Oh, what an awful moment for me! but I knew if I could but reach the keystone of the auld brig I would be safe, for witches darena cross a running stream, ye ken. Mag did her speedy utmost, but old Nannie pursued close behind and flew at me with tooth and nail, but she didna’ know my Maggie’s mettle,” Tam laughed gleefully, “for with one grand leap she reached the brig and saved her master’s life, just as that Carline Nannie caught her by the rump, an’ my poor Maggie left behind her old gray tail.”

As he finished his recital he gazed around him triumphantly. There was an audible sigh of relief from all.

“That’s a burning shame,” said old Bess sympathetically, alluding to the loss of Maggie’s tail.

“What a wonderful experience ye had, Tam,” cried Poosie Nancy admiringly. They all congratulated him on his narrow escape and pressed food and drink on him, showered him with words of praise, and in short made him out a daring hero, much to Souter’s disgust. He sat apart from the rest in dignified silence, his heart wounded and sore, for was not his late ghostly exploit completely ignored and forgotten? “Le Roi est mort, vive le Roi,” he might have said to himself.

“Listen,” cried Tam, jumping to his feet, his face tense with eagerness. Faintly the patter, patter of a horse’s hoofs was heard drawing nearer and nearer.

“’Tis only someone comin’ alang the highway,” said Souter carelessly.

“’Tis my Maggie,” cried Tam almost tearfully. “She’s comin’ back for her master,” and with a bound he reached the open doorway. A few steps took him to the stone wall along the other side of which ran the King’s Highway. “She’s comin’, she’s comin’, my faithful Maggie is comin’,” he cried joyfully.

“She must be an unco sight wi’out a tail, Tam,” sneered Souter. A roar of laughter greeted this sarcastic retort.

“Dinna’ ye dare laugh,” cried Tam, turning on them furiously. The hoofbeats stopped suddenly. In the misty moonlight they caught a glimpse of a huge white creature, looking very spectral and ghost-like, impatiently tossing its head from side to side as if in search of something or someone. With a glad cry Tam vaulted the fence, old as he was, and dashed down the road, calling lovingly, “I’m comin’, Maggie, I’m comin’ to ye.” A whinny of delight, a snort of pleasure, greeted him as he reached his old mare’s side. Then like a phantom, the old gray mare and her rider sped swiftly past them on into the night and away toward Carrick.

Silently they watched them, while the hoofbeats grew fainter and fainter and then were lost to sound. Such was Tam O’Shanter’s tale, the fame of which soon spread throughout all Ayrshire.

CHAPTER IX

In a sequestered spot beside the brook which runs through the lower end of the big field at Mossgiel farm, Robert sat dreamily watching the shallow brook at his feet slowly trickle along over the stones. He had left the field, his heart filled with anger against his brother, who had been reproving him for his thoughtlessness, his absent-mindedness; but gradually his temper had melted, and removing his bonnet from his fevered brow, he had given himself up to his reveries. A little later Gilbert found him there, his loose unbleached linen shirt open at the neck, eagerly writing on a scrap of paper he held in his hand.

The last few weeks Gilbert had thrown off his cloak of habitual reserve, and had treated his brother with less harshness, less severity. He had watched the slowly drifting apart of the lovers with wonder and delight. Could it be that they were tiring of each other? he asked himself over and over again. If that were so then perhaps some day—but he would not permit himself to think of the future. He would be happy in the present. For he was comparatively happy now, happier than he had ever expected to be. Since Robert’s avoidance of her, Mary had again turned to him for sympathy, and once more they were on their old friendly footing. True she was a sad, despondent companion, but he was blissfully happy just to walk beside her from kirk, to listen to the sound of her sweet voice, even though his brother was the only topic of conversation, to feel the touch of her little hand as he helped her over the stile. He thought of all this now as he regarded his brother in thoughtful silence. Presently he called his name. Receiving no answer, he strode through the overhanging willows and touched him quietly on the shoulder.

With a start Robert looked up into his brother’s face, then he turned slowly away. “What is wrong noo, Gilbert?” he asked bitterly. “It seems I will be doing nothing right o’ late.”

“Nothin’ is wrong, lad,” replied Gilbert, his face reddening. “I—I only came to tell ye I am sorry I spoke sae harshly to ye just noo.”

“Say no more, brother,” replied Robert quickly, rising with outstretched hand, his face bright and smiling. So ready was he to forgive any unkindness when his pardon was sought. “’Tis all forgot. I ken I do try your patience sore wi’ my forgetfulness and carelessness, but I couldna’ help it. The voice of the Goddess Muse, whom I adore, suddenly whispered in my ear and I forgot my work, my surroundings, and stood enraptured, entranced behind my patient steed, catchin’ the thoughts and fancies that were tumblin’, burstin’ from my brain, eager to be let loose, and this is the fruit o’ my inspiration almost perfected.” He handed his brother the paper on which he had been writing.

“Is it a song of harvesting?” asked Gilbert sarcastically without glancing at it.

“Nay,” replied Robert softly. “’Tis called the ‘Cotter’s Saturday Night,’ an’ ye will recognize, no doubt, the character and the theme, for ’tis partly of our own and of our father’s life I have written. ’Tis my best work, Gilbert, I ken truly.” He eagerly watched his brother’s face as he slowly read the verses through.

“May the light of success shine on it,” he said kindly, when he had finished. “But it seems o’er doubtful noo that the world will e’er see this, or any of your verses, for not a word hae ye heard from Edinburgh since ye sent Sir William Creech your collection of poems.”

Robert raised his head and regarded his brother in despairing hopelessness. “I ken it weel, brother,” he replied. “And my heart grows sick and weary, waitin’, waitin’, for tidings, be they good or bad. Two lang months have passed since I sent him my collection, an’ still not a word, not a sign. Nae doubt they were thrown in a corner, overlooked an’ neglected.” For a moment he stood there gazing across the fields, his vision blurred by the tears of disappointment which filled his eyes. “Oh, why did Lord Glencairn raise my hopes so high?” he cried passionately, “only to have them dashed to the ground again.” Gilbert remained silent, his eyes cast down. The sight of his brother’s misery touched him keenly. But there was nothing he could say. “I believed him and trusted to his honor, his promise,” continued Robert dejectedly, “an’ for what?” He put on his bonnet and clasping his hands behind him in his characteristic attitude, slowly walked toward the cottage, a prey to his gloomy thoughts.

“Be patient, Rob, yet a while,” said Gilbert encouragingly, as he walked along beside him. “Who kens what the morrow will bring forth?”

“The morrow?” repeated Robert grimly. “Methinks I’ll ne’er know peace an’ tranquillity again on this earth.”

They strode on in silence. As they neared the cottage Gilbert laid his hand on his brother’s shoulder, bringing him to a standstill. “Robert,” he said quietly and firmly, “I want to speak to ye about Mary.”

Robert turned his head away abruptly. “What of her?” he asked in a low voice.

“What are your intentions toward her?” demanded Gilbert earnestly. “Do ye intend to marry her, or are ye but triflin’ idly wi’ her affections?”

Robert turned on him quickly. “Triflin’?” he repeated indignantly. “Nay, Gilbert, ye wrong me deeply.”

“Forgive me, but ye ken Mary is not like other lassies to think lightly o’,” said Gilbert, his eye searching his brother’s face keenly.

“Heaven forbid,” ejaculated Robert in a low, tense voice.

“I canna’ understand your conduct o’ late,” continued Gilbert earnestly. “I fear your stay in Mauchline is responsible for the great change in ye, for ye are not the same lad ye were when ye left hame. I fear ye have sadly departed from those strict rules of virtue and moderation ye were taught by your parents, Robert.”

“What mean ye, Gilbert?” inquired Robert, startled.

“Ah, Rob,” responded Gilbert, shaking his head sadly, “I ken mair than ye think; reports travel e’en in the country.”

The thought that his wild escapades were known to his narrow-minded though upright brother, and perhaps to others, filled Robert with sudden shame. “Weel, Gilbert,” he replied, trying to speak lightly, “Ye ken that I have been fallin’ in love and out again wi’ a’ the lassies ever since I was fifteen, but nae thought of evil ever entered my mind, ye ken that weel.”

“Aye, I ken that,” answered Gilbert quickly, “until ye went to Mauchline. And noo ye have come back a changed lad, your vows to Mary forgotten. If I thought ye would try to wrong her——” he stopped abruptly, for Robert had faced him, white and trembling, his eyes flashing indignantly.

“Stop, Gilbert!” he commanded, intensely calm. “Mary Campbell’s purity is as sacred to me as an angel’s in heaven. I would sooner cut my tongue out by the roots than to willingly say aught to cause her a moment’s misery or sorrow. Ye cruelly misjudge me, Gilbert.” He turned away, feeling hurt and angry that he should be so misunderstood by his brother, and yet was he misjudging him, was he not indeed causing her much sorrow? he asked himself bitterly.

Soon the whole guilty truth must be disclosed, his faithlessness, his unworthiness. If she suffered now, what would be her misery when she learned that an insurmountable barrier had arisen between them, cruelly separating them forever. The thought filled him with unspeakable anguish.

“Forgive me, Rob, for my hasty words,” said Gilbert remorsefully. “But ye ken Mary is very dear to—to us all; that is why I spoke so plainly.”

At that moment the door of the cottage opened and the object of their discussion stepped into view. The poor little moth could not help fluttering around the candle, and so she was to be found at Mossgiel whenever her duties would permit her to steal away.

“Oh, here ye are, lads,” she called out to them, her face brightening. “Will ye be comin’ in to tea noo?” They did not answer. “My, what long faces ye both have,” she continued, smiling. “This isna’ the Sabbath Day, so there’s no need of such sorrowful faces.”

“I didna’ ken ye were here,” answered Gilbert, going toward her.

Robert sat down by the well, the look of pain on his melancholy face deepening as he listened to her gentle voice. He closed his eyes wearily and leaned back against the curbing, the paper held loosely in his hand. It was so hard to realize that never again would he press that form to his aching heart, that he must renounce her utterly. Oh, if he could only die now, how much better it would be for them all, he weakly told himself.

“I’m going to stay here to tea wi’ ye this night,” said Mary wistfully. Why didn’t Robert speak to her just one word of greeting? she thought sadly. “Your mother bade me tell ye supper is waiting whenever ye are ready.” She took a few halting steps toward the well. “Are ye comin’ in, Robert?” she inquired timidly.

“In a wee,” he answered quietly, without looking at her. “After I have finished my poem.” Mary turned back, crushed to the heart by his apparent coldness.

“Weel, lads,” cried Mrs. Burns brightly, stepping out on the low, broad stoop followed by Souter, who held a cup of steaming tea in one hand and some oatcakes in the other, on which he nibbled with evident relish. “I heard your voices and couldna’ stay within,” and she beamed on them lovingly.

“Ye’re at it again, I see, Robert,” observed Souter tactlessly. Robert flushed angrily. He was easily irritated in his present state of mind. “Ye’ll write yoursel’ into the grave, mon; ye’re not lookin’ very peart the noo.”

Mrs. Burns regarded her eldest son with anxious eyes. “Aye, I fear, laddie, ye are too intent on your rhymin’,” she said solicitously. His abstracted moods, his melancholy moroseness had filled her loving heart with gloomy forebodings. “Sae much livin’ in the clouds, my son, is unhealthful, an’ does but make ye moody an’ uncertain in temper. Is it worth while to wreck body, mind an’ soul to gain a little fame an’ fortune, which, alas, seem so very far off?” she asked, putting her hand lovingly on his bowed head.

“Ye dinna’ understand, mither,” he replied sadly. “I love to write. ’Tis my very life; thought flows unbidden from my brain.” He rose to his feet and pointing to the stream, which could be faintly seen at the foot of the hill, continued with mournful finality, “Why, mother, I might as well try to stop the waters of yonder rushin’ brook as to attempt to smother the poetic fancies that cry for utterance. Nay, ’tis too late noo to dissuade me from my purpose,” and he turned and watched the setting sun slowly sink behind the distant hills in a flood of golden splendor.

Souter noticed with uneasiness the gloom which had settled upon them all as the result of his careless words. Why was he such a thoughtless fool? Ah, well, he would make them forget their troubles.

“Och, Mistress Burns,” he cried, smacking his lips with apparent relish, “’tis a mighty fine cup of tea, a perfectly grand cup. It fair cheers the heart of mon,” and he drained it to the bottom.

“An’ where do ye think the oatcakes were made, Souter?” asked Mary brightly.

“Weel, I’m no’ a good hand at guessin’,” he answered, thoughtfully scratching his head; “but by their taste an’ sweetness, I should say that Mistress Burns made them hersel’.”

The good dame regarded him witheringly. “I didna’ ken that oatcakes were sweet, Souter,” she retorted.

Mary laughed softly at his discomfiture. “Weel, they come frae my sister in Applecross.”

“Applecross!” he repeated, his face lighting up with pleasure. “Noo I mind they did have the Highland flavor, for true.”

“Aye, an’ ye finished the last one for that reason, no doubt,” replied Mrs. Burns wrathfully. “Ye’re a pig, mon. Come awa’, lads, your supper will be gettin’ cold,” and she led the way inside, followed meekly by Souter. Gilbert waited for Mary to enter, but she stood wistfully gazing at Robert. With a sigh he left them together, and Robert entered the cottage.

Mary slowly approached Robert as he stood looking across to the distant hills, and patiently waited for him to speak to her, but he stood there in tense silence, not daring to trust himself to even look at the pure flower-like face held up to his so pleadingly.

“Robbie,” she said timidly after a pause, which seemed interminable to them both, “willna’ ye let the sunlight enter your heart an’ be your old bonnie sel’ once mair? It will make us all sae happy.” She put her hand on his arm lovingly. “Why are ye sae changed, laddie? Dinna’ ye want me to love ye any mair?”

At the gentle touch of her fingers an uncontrollable wave of passionate love and longing came over him, sweeping away all resolutions resistlessly. “Oh, my Mary, my Mary,” he cried hoarsely. “I do want your love, I do want it noo an’ forever,” and he clasped her lovingly to his aching heart. Blissfully she lay in his strong arms while he showered her flushed and happy face with the hungry, fervent, loving kisses which he had denied himself so long, and murmured little caressing words of endearment which filled her soul with rapture and happiness. “How I love ye, Mary,” he breathed in her ear again and again as he held her close.

“An’ how happy ye make me once mair, laddie,” she answered, nestling against him lovingly.

“An’ how happy we will——,” he began, then stopped pale and trembling, for grim recollection had suddenly loomed up before him with all its train of bitter, ugly facts; and conscience began to drum insistently into his dulled ear. “Tell her the truth now, the whole truth,” it said. But the voice of the tempter whispered persuasively, saying, “Why tell her now? wait, let her be happy while she may, put it off as long as possible.”

“What is it, Robbie?” cried Mary fearfully. “Tell me what is troublin’ ye; dinna’ be afraid.” His bowed head bent lower and lower.

“Oh, Mary, I’m sae unworthy, sae unworthy of all your pure thoughts, your tender love,” he faltered despairingly, resolved to tell her all. “Ye dinna’ ken all my weakness, my deception, and into what depths of sin I have fallen.” She sought to interrupt him, but he continued rapidly, his voice harsh with the nervous tension, his face pallid from the stress of his emotions. “I have a confession to make ye——”

“Nay, nay, laddie,” cried Mary, putting her hand over his trembling lips. “Dinna’ tell me anything. I want nae confession from ye, except that o’ your love,” and she smoothed his cheek tenderly. “Ye ken that is music to my ears at all times, but if ye are deceivin’ me, if ye have na always been true to me, an’ your vows, why, laddie, keep the knowledge to yourself’. I am content noo, and ye ken happiness is such a fleetin’ thing that I mean to cling to it as long as I can.” She took his hands in both her own and held them close to her heart. “Ye ken, Robbie, ill news travels apace and ’twill reach my ears soon enough,” she continued with a mournful little quaver in her voice. “But no matter what comes, what ye may do, my love for ye will overlook it all; I will see only your virtues, my love, not your vices.”

Robert bowed his head in heart-broken silence. Grief, shame, and remorse like tongues of fiery flames were scorching and burning into his very soul. Quietly they sat there engrossed in their thoughts, till the voice of Mrs. Burns calling to them from the cottage to come to supper roused them from their lethargy.

“We’re comin’ right awa’,” answered Mary brightly. “Come, laddie, we mustna’ keep the folks waitin’.”

She took his listless hand and drew him gently to the door and into the cottage.

Silently they took their places at the table, around which the others were already seated.

“By the way,” said old blind Donald, the fiddler, who had dropped in on his way to Mauchline for a bite and a cup, “Poosie Nancy told me to tell ye, Mistress Burns, that she wa drop in to see ye this night.”

“We’ll be glad to see her,” replied Mrs. Burns hospitably.

“And Daddy Auld says he’ll be along, too,” continued Donald, grinning broadly. “That is, if he isna’ too busy convertin’ souls.”

“Convertin’ souls,” sneered Souter incredulously.

“Aye, ye should see the Jolly Beggars he was haranguin’. They were jumpin’, an’ rantin’, an’ singin’ like daft Methodists.”

“The auld hypocrites!” cried Mrs. Burns, buttering a scone which she placed in the old man’s tremulous hand. “They didna’ go to the manse for conversion; ’tis a square meal they are after. They ken the kind old heart o’ Daddy Auld.”

Souter leaned back in his chair and smiled reminiscently. “That reminds me o’ a guid story,” he began, chuckling.

“Never mind that story noo,” remonstrated Mrs. Burns, who was in constant dread of Souter’s risque stories. “That’ll keep.”

“I never can tell that damn story,” ejaculated Souter wrathfully.

CHAPTER X

They had finished their meager supper, and now sat comfortably around the fire, Mrs. Burns and Mary busy with their knitting, the men contentedly smoking, while old Donald discordantly tuned up his fiddle.

“Noo, Donald,” said Souter briskly, “play us something lively.”

“Aye, I’ll play ye the Highland Fling, Souter Johnny, an’ ye can dance. Come alang noo,” and he started to play vigorously, keeping time with his foot.

“Aye, get out on the floor, Souter,” said Gilbert, pulling him out of his chair.

“Nay, nay, lad,” expostulated Souter fretfully, “I be too old to fling the toe noo.”

“Go alang wi’ ye, mon,” retorted Mrs. Burns encouragingly; “a Scotsman, and a Highlander besides, is ne’er too old to——”

“To learn,” interrupted Gilbert brightly, swinging the old man to the middle of the floor. “Let her go.”

“I havena danced for years,” said Souter apologetically. Carefully knocking the ashes out of his pipe he deposited it in the pocket of his capacious waistcoat and proceeded to divest himself of his coat. “Ye ken I was the champion dancer of my clan, Clan McDougal, when I was a young lad,” he announced boastingly. “An’ mony a time I have cheered an’ amused the lads, while tentin’ on the fields of Culloden, before the big battle. An’ that reminds me o’ a guid——”

“Never mind the story,” said Gilbert impatiently. “Gie us a dance.”

After a few preliminary movements Souter caught the swinging measure of the dance, and once started he limbered up surprisingly. On he danced nimbly, and untiringly, soon ably proving to his delighted audience that he had not forgotten his old-time accomplishment. “I’ll show these Lowlanders what a Highlander can do,” thought the old man proudly. Panting with excitement and eagerness he failed to hear the metallic patter of horses’ hoofs drawing near the cottage. Nearer and nearer they came unheeded by all save one.

From his seat by the fireplace, where he sat in melancholy silence, Robert heard the sound, but gave it no heed. Suddenly it ceased. He raised his head to listen. Someone had surely stopped at the gate, he thought, straining his ears eagerly, but the noise of the fiddle and the dancing drowned all sound from without. He glanced quickly at the smiling faces of the others as they good-naturally watched the dancer. “I must hae been mistaken,” he muttered uneasily. Suddenly he leaned forward, grasping his chair hard; surely he had heard his name faintly called. He listened intently. Yes, there it was again; this time the voice was nearer. A woman’s voice, too. What could it mean? He rose to his feet, his heart thumping fiercely, his muscles alert and tense, his eyes fixed on the door, his mind filled with gloomy presentiment.

At that moment an imperative knock sounded loudly through the room, and almost at the same time the door flew open violently, and Jean Armour impetuously dashed in. Closing the door quickly behind her she leaned back against it, pale and exhausted. Her riding habit of green and gold was splashed and discolored with mud. The large hat with its gleaming white plume hung limply over her shoulder, while her black disheveled hair streamed over her face and down her back in bewildering confusion. She had evidently ridden fast and furious, for she stood there with her eyes closed, her hand on her heart, gasping for breath.

Quickly Mrs. Burns led the exhausted girl to a seat. In a few moments she raised her drooping head and with wild frightened eyes searched the room till her gaze fell on Robert, who was leaning white and speechless against the fireplace, a great fear in his heart.

She rose quickly and going to him said in a tense, rapid whisper, “Robert, my father knows all, but through no fault of mine. Some idle gossip reached his ear to-day, and when he returned home and learned my condition his rage was terrible. He cursed you like a madman, and would have done me bodily harm had I remained within sight. But I feared for my life, and fled before I had explained the truth to him. I have come to you to protect me.”

He listened to her in stony silence. The blow had fallen so suddenly, so unexpectedly, it found him totally unprepared to ward off its paralyzing effects. He tried to speak, but the words refused to leave his parched tongue. He felt benumbed and cold, all the blood in his body seeming to have suddenly congealed. As he stood there with the eyes of all riveted upon him he felt like the veriest criminal that walked the earth.

For a moment there was a tense silence. Jean stood there anxiously gazing into Robert’s stricken face, as he vainly strove to utter a sound. Mary had watched the little scene before her in growing wonder and alarm and now leaned back against the wall, her heart beating with some unknown, nameless fear. What did this highborn lady want with her laddie? she asked herself jealously.

“‘She is my wife, mither.’”

Mrs. Burns stood grimly waiting for some explanation of the scene she had just witnessed, but had not heard nor understood. “Robert, my son,” she said finally, her voice cold and firm, “what does Squire Armour’s daughter want of ye?” There was no answer. “What is she to ye, Robert?” she sternly insisted. Slowly he raised his head. As she saw his wild and haggard face, from which all the life and youth had fled, she started back in horror, a startled exclamation on her lips.

With a despairing, heart-broken look at Mary’s wondering face, he bowed his head and falteringly uttered the fatal words, “She is my wife, mither.”

Had a thunderbolt from a clear sky unroofed the humble cot, it would not have created the consternation, the terror which those few words struck to those loving hearts.

Mrs. Burns was the first to rally from the shock. “Your wife?” she repeated incredulously, looking from one to the other.

With a cry of grief and pain Mary sank weak and trembling into a chair, like a deer wounded unto death. She gazed at them heart-brokenly, while her little hands nervously fluttered about her face. No, no, he could not mean it. They were only joking, surely. “Not that, Robbie, ye dinna mean that, dearie?” she gasped piteously, holding out a beseeching hand to him. His bowed head bent lower.

“Do ye mean ye have legally married this lass?” asked Gilbert eagerly. Mary would be free then, he thought wildly. Free to be wooed and won.

“We were married a few weeks ago,” answered Robert dully. “I had not the courage to tell ye before.”

“Besides,” interposed Jean, arranging her disordered toilet, “I wished to keep the marriage from my father for a—a time.” She blushed crimson.

“I willna believe my son ever married ye of his own free will,” cried Mrs. Burns bitterly, “fine rich lady that ye are. He loves only that sweet lass, Mary Campbell.” Quickly she reached Mary’s side, and, raising the stricken child in her motherly arms, she kissed her tenderly and pressed the golden head gently against her loving heart.

Jean looked at them, a look of resentment in her flashing eyes. “I know that full well,” she answered sullenly. “I know Robert hasn’t married me because he wanted to, but because——” she looked down shame-faced. “Because there was no alternative. Now you know the truth,” she concluded bitterly.

“Ye shameless creature!” cried Mrs. Burns, her eyes blazing with indignation. “Ye have trapped him into this marriage, but ye shall na stay beneath this roof, ye limmer,” and she glared at the flushed defiant girl in righteous anger.

“Mither, mither!” cried Robert distractedly, “dinna, for God’s sake; she is my wife in truth, an’ she must stay wi’ me noo till I can prepare anither hame for her. Dinna make it harder for me.” He gazed pleadingly in his mother’s stern and angry face.

Mary pressed her lips to the quivering cheek. “Mistress Burns,” she said softly, “what is to be, will be. I forgive them both wi’ all my heart.” She paused and sighed with gentle resignation. Then she continued, “An’—an’ I hope they will both find peace in their new life.” She turned quietly to Jean, who was nervously tapping her whip against her skirt. “I ken ye’ll make Robert a good wife,” she said earnestly. “So dinna let any thought o’ me sadden your heart, or—or yours, Robert.” She turned and looked at him tenderly. “I—I forgive ye,” she whispered. Turning to Mrs. Burns again, she continued pleadingly, “Ye must welcome Robert’s wife to her new hame, Mistress Burns. We all maun make this a merry hame-comin’ for—the—bride.” Her plaintive voice broke abruptly, and the burning tears welled up to her eyes, but she dashed them quickly away and continued bravely, a pathetic little smile hovering about her trembling lips, “I’ll go out noo an’ make some fresh tea for ye, and ye’ll all stay right here, till I come back, an’ Donald shall play for ye again—an’ we’ll—all—be—sae merry—won’t w-we? I’ll bring it w-when—it’s quite—ready.” She smiled at them through her tears. Then she took the teapot from the dresser and softly left the room.

“God bless her brave and noble heart,” breathed Robert brokenly.

As she left the room Mrs. Burns drew herself sternly erect, and after a moment’s hesitation turned slowly to Jean. “I bid ye welcome to Mossgiel Farm,” she said coldly. “I am sorry I spoke so bitterly to ye just noo. I—I will try to love ye as Robert’s wife, but noo I—I can only think o’ Mary an’ her sorrow. I’ll leave ye for a bit; Mary may need me.” Her voice faltered and broke, and with a sob of grief she hurriedly left the room.

CHAPTER XI

Ever since the morning she had received her marriage lines Jean had been trying to summon up sufficient courage to tell her father the whole truth about her secret marriage to Robert, to throw herself upon his mercy, but each time when she had approached him in fear and trembling, her courage had ignominiously failed her. She knew only too well her father’s irascible temper and uncertain moods. And so days passed into weeks and still she procrastinated, but she knew she could not conceal from his observing eyes her condition much longer. But whether to confess all and run the risk of being thrown from her father’s door like some abandoned outcast, or to contrive some excuse to leave home to pay a visit to some friend, and then, when it was all over, to return, that was the question which disturbed her waking thoughts. If she did the latter, she thought, she could easily have her marriage annulled and no one would be the wiser. But did she really want to have her marriage annulled? she asked herself thoughtfully. She didn’t understand herself at all these days. He had strangely stirred her heart at their last meeting, to its very depths. She knew he did not love her, that he loved the little dairymaid, but almost imperceptibly a great change was taking place in her feelings toward him. At times a great longing came over her to go to him, throw herself at his feet and beg to share his hardships, his poverty, with him. But she had not the courage, and so she battled with the conflicting emotions that constantly beset her day and night. Her temper soon became moody and uncertain, she was in constant fear of her mother’s anxious, watchful eyes, and yet she felt she would go daft if she remained alone in her chamber with her disturbing thoughts. So day after day she could be found in her saddle madly galloping over the country, trying to get away, far away, from her trouble. But all in vain; it was always before her; there was no escaping it. But at last the day came when she knew she must make her decision, and almost in desperation she decided on her course of procedure. Hastily galloping home, she left her horse at the door, and going to her room, scribbled a short note to her father and left it on the table in his study. Then she had slipped guiltily past the room where her mother sat peacefully sewing, and sped swiftly along the hall to the door. As she reached it, it burst inward and she staggered back half fainting, for there on the threshold stood her father, his face white with rage, his jaw set and determined. He seized her roughly by the arm, and thrusting her back into the house, had taken one understanding look at her figure in its tight-fitting habit, then with an outburst of bitter anger and shame he cursed her and the author of her disgrace, cursed her like a madman, cursed her till he was spent with the force of his passion. She tried to explain, to tell him the truth, that she was a wife, but the words froze on her lips. His words and manner struck terror to her very soul; she feared for her very life’s safety. With all her despairing strength she freed herself from his clutch and stood cowering, panting, her hands raised to shield herself from the blow she expected every moment to fall on her defenseless body from the insane man. As he approached her with hand upraised, she gave one quick shriek, one wild look around and darting under his arm reached the door. Quickly she opened it and sped like a swallow to the side of her waiting horse. With one bound she was on his back, and away she galloped like the wind, leaving her astonished father standing in the doorway shaking his fist after her in impotent anger.

She had given rein to her horse, not heeding or caring where he took her. Her one and only thought was to get away, far away; so she rode on and on, over brook and brush, through bog and mire till gradually her fear had subsided, and, reining in her horse, she looked around, and with a thrill of joy and wonder she saw Mossgiel Farm in the distance. Surely fate had guided her horse’s footsteps in this direction, she thought eagerly. Her course was clear now, she would go to him, to her husband, he would protect her. So she had continued her journey to the cottage, where she brought naught but misery and sorrow to its inmates.

As Mrs. Burns left the room Jean gazed after her in bitter silence. She wished she had not come. She knew she was not welcome. Far better to have faced her father’s anger. “But the die is cast. I have made my bed,” she told herself wearily. She realized how futile it was to repine over the past, and she felt too exhausted, too miserably unhappy to think of the future. She would stay here perhaps a night, then she didn’t know, couldn’t think what would happen. At all events she could never return to her father’s home now. He had spurned her from him, and she was not wanted here. Nobody wanted her now. Her lips quivered convulsively and big tears of self-pity rolled quietly down her pale cheeks.

Gilbert looked uneasily from his brother’s grief-stricken face to the weary, wan face of the bride. How long were they going to sit there side by side without a word to each other? he thought uneasily. He felt a great wave of pity well up in his heart for the unwelcome, unloved addition to their family. True she was mostly to blame for her present misfortune. Her imprudence, her misconduct had been well known to many, before his brother had gone to Mauchline to live. He felt sorry for Robert, too, even while he bitterly reproached him for being the author of Mary’s unhappiness. They must make the best of things now, he thought philosophically. “Ye had better take off your bonnet, lassie,” he said kindly, breaking the oppressive silence. “Ye’ll be staying here the night.” She raised her head and looked at him with flashing eyes.

“Full well I know that all here hate and despise me,” she burst forth bitterly, not heeding his request.

Robert slowly raised his head and looked at her. There was sorrow and compassion in his dark melancholy eyes. “Jean,” he said quietly, “our lives have been linked togither by a stern, inexorable fate. We have both been guilty of a grievous sin, and noo we must face the results bravely.” He rose and walked to her and stood humbly by her side. “I hope ye’ll forgive me, Jean, for wreckin’ your life and plungin’ ye into sae much misery.”

Slowly Jean bowed her head, her face flushing guiltily. Surely she had the more need to ask his forgiveness. She had not expected to find such nobility of character, and it moved her deeply.

“There is naught to forgive,” she cried in a low stifled voice. “I alone am to blame. I am unfit, unworthy to be your wife. Oh, I’m so miserable, so unhappy,” and she burst into tears.

Souter led old Donald silently out of the room. There was nothing either one could say to the wretched couple, so they sat outside and talked it all over in the way old men have. They had not been seated long, however, when they espied coming toward them, at a furious gallop, a horse and rider. As they drew near Souter perceived with sudden apprehension that it was none other than Squire Armour. He rose anxiously to his feet.

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

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

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

“I’d better warn the lass,” said Souter hastily, as the Squire drew up to the gate. Going to the door he quickly told them of the newcomer, then turned to intercept the irate visitor, who was coming swiftly up the walk.

“Heavens, my father here!” cried Jean in a frightened whisper. “Oh, I dare not face his wrath. Protect me, Robert,” and she clung to him fearfully.

“Out o’ my way, mon!” they heard the harsh voice of Squire Armour shouting. “Out o’ my way,” and pushing aside the courageous little man he strode wrathfully into the room.

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

“So, my lass,” cried the old Squire triumphantly, “I’ve found ye just where I expected ye’d be, in the arms o’ your dissolute lover. Come awa’, ye shameless bairn.”

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

“Keep back, Squire Armour,” he said firmly. “I’m nae a mild-mannered man, an’ ye may learn it to your cost.”

Squire Armour glanced at him savagely. “Dinna ye dare talk to me, ye libertine, ye blasphemous rhymster. Ye dare to stand there wi’ my daughter, proclaiming her dishonor to my very eyes?”

“There is no dishonor, Squire Armour,” replied Robert calmly, “for your daughter is—my wife.”

“Your wife!” echoed the old man, staggering back in amazement. “I’ll nae believe it. It’s a lie. I’d rather see my daughter disgraced forever than be your wife.”

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

“An’ ye an Elder in the Kirk, a so-called ‘God-fearin’ man’!” cried Robert scathingly, his eyes blazing with scorn. “I tell ye, Squire Armour, she is my wife, an’ all your bitter, unreasoning hatred o’ me canna’ alter that unhappy fact.”

For a moment the old man stood gazing at them in helpless rage. Then he turned to Jean, his voice trembling with suppressed emotion. “What proofs have ye?” he asked hoarsely.

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

“Where were ye married?”

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

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

“No,” she faltered. “It was——”

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

“There was no minister, father.”

“Nae minister!” he exclaimed in horror.

“Wait, father, you don’t understand,” cried Jean quickly; “’twas a Scotch marriage; ye ken what that is—and,” she bowed her head guiltily, “why it is. And here are my lines signed by Robert acknowledging me as his wife.” She took from the bosom of her gown a folded paper which she handed to her father.

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

“’Tis perfectly legal, Squire Armour,” replied Robert calmly, “even if it is irregular, and is as binding as though we were married in Kirk.”

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

“Oh, father,” cried Jean tearfully, going to his side. “’Tis too late now; would you shame me in the eyes of the world?”

“Do these few written lines make your shame any the less?” he shouted wrathfully. “Will not all the neighbors know why he had to give them to ye? Ye would throw awa’ your life on this poverty-stricken, shiftless rhymster, but ye shall not do it; ye must give him up, do ye hear?” and he raised his arm menacingly.

“No, no, no, father,” she exclaimed frantically, falling on her knees beside him; “I cannot give him up now, I cannot.” After all the weary weeks of anxious fears and doubts she knew at last that she had found her heart, and now asked no greater happiness than to be allowed to remain with her husband to share his humble life, to be the mother of his family. All the old ambitious thoughts were gone forever. She wondered that they ever existed.

“Ye shameless bairn, ye must an’ shall!” he replied fiercely. “This is the end o’ it all,” and he vindictively tore into little bits the paper Jean had given into his hands. “We’ll hear nae mair of that, my lass, an’ I swear ye shall never see Robert Burns again, make up your mind to that.”

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

As he witnessed Squire Armour’s fiendish act Robert’s heart gave a great bound that sent the blood coursing madly through his veins. The marriage lines were destroyed; then he was free, free! Oh, the music in that word! Free to do as he wished. A sob of anguish caused him to look around at the kneeling figure of the unfortunate girl. Quickly the eager light died out of his face as he noted her suffering. Going to the kneeling girl he raised her gently to her feet, and holding her by the hand faced the inhuman father. “Squire Armour, ye would condemn your ain flesh an’ blood to shame an’ disgrace because o’ your hatred for me,” he said quietly, “but it shall not be. I defy ye. Come, Jean, we will go to the Kirk at once and Daddy Auld will marry us.” They turned to go, but the old man stepped between them and the door, his arms upraised, his eyes wild and glaring.

“I’d sooner see her in her grave than bear the accursed name of Robert Burns,” he cried with solemn intensity. “Great though her imprudence has been, she can still look to a higher, an’ better connection than a marriage with ye.” Turning to Jean he continued sternly, “Speak, lass, say that ye’ll obey me, or the bitter curse o’ your parents will haunt an’ follow ye all the rest o’ your days.”

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

“We’ll forget and forgive it all if ye’ll come back,” he replied, the great love for his child revealing itself in his eager tones. “Ye’re nae longer that man’s wife. Come an’ none will ever know o’ your dishonor.”

“My God, mon!” exclaimed Robert in horrified accents, “where is your father’s pride, your ain honor, your manhood!”

But Squire Armour heeded him not. “Come, my daughter, come,” he said tenderly, leading the weak, wavering girl to the door.

“Ye canna expect to keep this a secret from the world, Squire Armour,” cried Robert indignantly. “Matters have gone too far for that; soon your daughter’s name will be blasted irretrievably, while mine will be coupled with that of blackguard. It must not be. Ye must let Jean go to the Kirk wi’ me this very night or I shall inform the Elders in the Kirk.”

“Ye’ll have no time to turn informer, my laddie,” snarled Squire Armour, turning on him fiercely; “for I mean to have ye brought before the Kirk sessions, an’ ye’ll be punished as ye deserve for the sin ye have committed, an’ ye shall sit on the cutty stool, where all your friends an’ neighbors can jeer an’ scoff at ye. This very night will I send the parish officers after ye, Robert Burns. Ye can take this warning or no, just as ye please, but I hope they find ye here. Come, lass, we’ll go hame to your mither, noo.” He drew the terrified, half-fainting girl firmly through the door and down the path to the road.

“Ye’re an old hypocrite!” hooted Souter, following them to the gate, where he stood shaking his fist angrily after the departing visitors, and shouting his frank opinion of the Squire in no mild or flattering terms.

“I alone am to blame,” cried Robert despairingly, as he watched them gallop madly away into the threatening night. “An’ only the bitterest sorrow, the most poignant grief will I know until that wrong is righted.”

“What will ye do noo, lad?” asked Mrs. Burns, breaking in upon the melancholy sadness which enveloped him like a pall. (She had entered the room in time to hear Squire Armour’s parting injunction.) “Ye heard what the Squire threatened. Oh, dinna disdain the littleness of prudence, my son.”

“I willna, mother,” replied Robert dully, after a pause. “I have decided to go awa’ from Mossgiel.”

“Go awa’?” she repeated fearfully. “Nay, nay, laddie, ye mustna! I fear for ye in your present state o’ mind.”

“I must, mother,” he answered wildly. “I willna sit on the cutty stool to be made the laughing stock o’ the whole neighborhood, to bring shame on ye all.” He walked restlessly up and down the room as he continued feverishly, “I willna stay here to skulk from covert to covert under all the terrors of a jail, for I ken that in a little while the merciless pack of the law will be baying at my heels like bloodhounds.” He turned to her suddenly, “Mother, I mean to leave Scotland, perhaps forever.”

“Oh, nay, nay, my bairn; I canna, I willna, let ye go,” answered his mother, clinging to him passionately.

“There, there, mither, dinna make it harder for me.” He put his arm around her tenderly and pressed her to him for a moment. “Noo, mother,” he said quietly, “will ye pack my chest? I have nae time to spare,” and he led her gently to the door.

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

“To the Indies, to Jamaica,” replied Robert quickly. “Ye ken Dr. Douglas has a place for me there as overseer of his plantation. He has offered it to me mony times.” He turned in nervous haste to his mother, who stood in the doorway anxiously watching him. “Hurry, mither, please, I am in torture o’ mind.”

“Very well, laddie,” she answered sorrowfully. “God will direct your footsteps aright,” and she closed the door behind her and quickly made her way to his chamber.

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

He felt an infinite pity for his brother, who was leaving behind him everything he held dear.

“If she will come to me,” faltered Robert. “Tell her I’m goin’ an’ that I will go wi’ a lighter heart if she bids me godspeed. Watch o’er an’ protect her, Gilbert,” he continued, placing his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “An’ I hope one day she may forget faithless Robert Burns, an’—an’ ye, Gilbert, will be made happy.” He turned away as he finished, grief gnawing at his heart.

An eager light flashed in Gilbert’s eyes as he answered fervently, “I would lay doon my life to serve her,” and with a quick look into the averted face he quietly left the room.

Mechanically Rob took his bonnet from the peg and throwing his long plaid around him went out into the air, and silently, sorrowfully he stood there watching the gloomy clouds that hung low in the heavens through eyes misty with tears. His soul was filled with unutterable sorrow at the coming parting, with dread of the unknown future to be passed alone in a strange, inhospitable foreign land. Oh, the agony of that thought, alone! Suddenly there came floating softly, peacefully, borne on the back of the south wind, which was blowing gently against his face, the alluring, seductive voice of the Goddess Muse. Insistently she urged her way into the dulled and listless ear of the grief-stricken man. Not for long was she denied admission, however. With a cry of joy, that even in that dreaded hour of parting his Goddess had not deserted him, he eagerly opened the book he held in his hand, his favorite book, “Tristam Shandy” by Sterne, and wrote quickly, lovingly on the flyleaf the impassioned words which were being whispered in his ear. Hungrily the pencil sped over the paper, till, with a sigh of regret, he dropped his hand, the voice was hushed, the message was finished. As he stood there eagerly reading his verses by the light which streamed through the window, the door softly opened and Mary came swiftly to his side, her pure face pitiful in its childlike sorrow.

“Is it true ye are gang awa’ frae Scotland, Robbie?” she asked breathlessly. He bowed his head. “Oh, my heart beats heavy for ye, laddie.” There was infinite compassion in her voice. “But ye maun be brave noo if ever ye were.” She nestled her little hand in his. He clasped it fervently.

“O, Mary, my Highland lassie!” he cried passionately, “I want to hear ye say before I go that ye forgive me for the sorrow I have brought into your pure young life.”

“Hush, laddie,” she answered softly, “there is naught to forgive; ye had to do your duty like an honorable mon. I hae been very happy wi’ ye, laddie, an’ the memory o’ that happiness will be wi’ me always.” She leaned against him for a brief moment, then slowly drew herself away and looked tenderly up into his face. “In this sad parting hour,” she faltered, “I can tell ye without shame that I love ye wi’ a’ my being, an’ will until I dee.”

“Heaven bless ye, Mary,” he whispered brokenly. “The thought of your love will gie me courage to bear my exile bravely.”

“Exile!” she repeated shuddering. “Oh, what a drear word, to think ye must be exiled in your noble youth, that ye maun leave your hame, your country, to live alone in some foreign clime.” The tears streamed down her pallid cheeks. “We will a’ miss ye sair, lad,” she continued bravely, “and we will pray for ye, an’—an’—oh, ’twill be sae hard to say good-by, perhaps forever.” She threw her arms about his neck and clung to him passionately.

He held the weeping child in his strong, loving embrace, his face close to hers. “Oh, why was I born, only to bring sorrow, pain an’ disgrace to those I hold dear?” he cried in an agony of grief and remorse. “Bitterly am I atonin’ for my act o’ imprudence; an exile, a failure,” he gave a mirthless little laugh; “aye, a failure, for e’en the hopes of success held out to me have a’ vanished in disappointment. Oblivion has enveloped me in its darkening pall, for whichever way I turn naught but darkest gloom, with not e’en a ray of light, meets my wretched gaze.” A flash of lightning pierced the darkness, followed shortly by a heavy, prolonged roll of thunder. She nestled closer to his side.

“Be not discouraged, laddie,” she said; “’tis always darkest before dawn, an’ who kens what may yet happen?”

“Ah, nae, nae,” he interrupted with a despairing shake of his head, “e’en the elements conspire against me, for I maun face this coming storm on foot to reach Greenock. ’Tis all a part of my just punishment.” The wind had risen and with it a driving mist which soon enveloped them in its damp embrace. But they heeded it not.

“Bide a wee, dinna go to-night,” she pleaded, while the wind tossed her tangled curls seductively around his neck and in his sorrowing face. “Listen to the wind. Oh,’tis a bad night to start on a journey,” and she clung to him tighter, her skirts flapping about his limbs like some live thing, thrilling him by their touch.

“Before ye came out, lassie,” he replied quietly, stilling the tumult in his heart, “I wrote some verses in this book as a parting song; how appropriate they are for this occasion ye will see. Listen,” and holding the book up to the light he began to read:

“The gloomy night is gathering fast,

Loud roars the wild inconstant blast;

Yon murky cloud is foul with rain,

I see it driving o’er the plain;

Chill runs my blood to hear it rave,

I think upon the stormy wave,

Where many a danger I must dare,

Far from the bonnie banks of Ayr;

’Tis not the surging billows’ roar,

’Tis not that fatal deadly shore,

Tho’ death in every shape appear,

The wretched have no more to fear;

But round my heart the ties are bound,

That heart transpierced with many a wound;

These bleed afresh, these ties I tear,

To leave the bonnie banks of Ayr.”

The wind had risen rapidly and the old beech tree was shrieking and groaning overhead as its branches strove like maniac arms with the tempest. The Ayr could be plainly heard roaring its diapason on its rocky banks in the darkness below, while the thunder crashed overhead and the lurid glare of lightning ever and again lit up the yard.

Unheeding its warning he continued, his melancholy sonorous voice, with its mournful cadences, floating out with passionate longing, filling his listener with unutterable sadness:

“Farewell, old Coila’s hills and dales,

Her heathy moors and winding vales;

The scenes where wretched fancy roves,

Pursuing past unhappy loves.

Farewell my friends, farewell my foes,

My peace with thee, my love with those;

The bursting tears my heart declare,

Farewell the bonnie banks of Ayr.”

As his voice died away he heard the sound of sobbing, and looked up, to see his mother standing in the doorway.

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

Silently they entered the cottage. Robert crossed the room to his brother’s side.

“Gilbert,” he said quietly, “ye take the songs an’ verses ye will find on my table an’ send them to Mr. Aiken. Mayhap they will bring you in a bit o’ money to help ye in your struggle wi’ poverty, an’ forgive me that I maun leave ye to battle wi’ misfortune alone.” Turning to Mary he continued, lovingly, “Mary, lass, will ye accept my Bible as a parting gift?” She looked at him with shining eyes. “Ye’ll find it in the oak box with the glass lid in the attic.”

“I’ll prize it for aye, Robert,” she sobbed gratefully, pressing his hand, “an’ our prayers will follow ye to that far distant land, where I hope success awaits ye.”

He drew her to him gently and pressed a kiss on her pure brow. “Farewell, lassie, may ye be happy,” he breathed fervently. Turning again to Gilbert he spoke rapidly, “Farewell, brother, give my love to the dear brothers an’ sisters when they come hame.” He shook his hand warmly.

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

Gently Robert drew his weeping mother into his arms. Tenderly he pulled down the apron which she had flung over her head to hide her sorrow, and wiped away her tears. “Noo, mother,” he whispered brokenly, “I—I maun say good-by; the day has drawn to its close an’ I maun start on my journey to Greenock. Dinna greet, dear mither.” He let her weep on unconstrainedly a few moments.

Finally her bitter sobbing ceased and looking up into his face she cried passionately, “I canna give ye up, my son, never to see ye again.” She took his cheeks lovingly between her hands.

“Ye’re making it hard for me to go, mither,” he cried, utterly distracted. “But the die is cast, my hands are on the plow, an’ I canna turn back noo. Ye ken there is naught but disappointment an’ disgrace to look forward to here, an’——” Suddenly a loud cheer from outside the cottage interrupted him. They listened in silent wonder. Above the noise of the wind, which had risen to a gale, and the swish of the rain, which now beat in swirling gusts about the cottage, came the voices of Souter and Donald shouting and cheering like boys on a frolic. Quickly they opened the door. A gust of wind dashed the rain fiercely in their faces. Through the mist and gloom they could vaguely make out the outlines of a coach standing at the gate, which had approached unheard in the storm.

“Robert, Robert!” cried Souter, looming up out of the darkness and looking decidedly weatherbeaten. “’Tis news I have, great and glorious news.”

“News?” they all repeated in wonder.

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

“It can speak for itsel’,” replied Souter gleefully, “for here it is.” He pointed behind him. They looked down the path and saw rapidly approaching the door a tall man, enveloped in a long cloak, escorted by a servant in livery. At that moment the light fell on his wet face and they started forward in amazement.

“Lord Glencairn?” cried Robert incredulously, his heart throbbing with a strange new-born hope.

“Aye, my lad, and near drowned,” laughed the visitor genially. Robert grasped his outstretched hand and drew him to the door.

With words of welcome and delight they made room for him to enter. Quickly he removed his wet cloak from his shoulders and threw it to his servant, who hung it beside the fire, while descanting on the inclemency of the weather. Nervously and anxiously they waited for the great man to speak his errand.

Presently he turned from the fireplace, and, addressing Robert, he said brightly, “Well, Mr. Burns, you see I have not forgotten you.”

“Oh, my lord,” faltered Robert, his face white with suppressed feeling, “I—I had despaired of seein’ you mair; do ye—bring me—hope? Is it—am I——” his faltering voice stopped abruptly, but his eager eyes continued to search the noble face which was looking so kindly into his, as if he would draw the news from him.

“It is good news,” answered Lord Glencairn, smiling brightly, “and you are famous; yes, my lad, your poems are at last published and already have become the rage in Edinburgh; the name of Robert Burns is on the tongue of all, high and low, prince and peasant.”

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

Mrs. Burns turned excitedly to her son, her hands clasped nervously. “Oh, laddie, laddie, ye’re a great mon, noo!” she exclaimed proudly.

For a moment Robert stood there speechless, a look of incredulous wonder on his face. “My lord,” he faltered at last, “can it be true, what you’re telling me, that my songs are—accepted, read an’—praised in Edinburgh?” Lord Glencairn bowed. “Oh, sir,” he continued, with a nervous catch in his voice, “it seems too good to be true, too good.”

Gradually the warm color came back to the pale face, the hurried breathing, which seemed almost to smother him, became calmer, the nervous, excited tension relaxed, and, with a smile of rapture and content on his upturned face, he exclaimed fervently, “At last my hopes and ambitions are realized, the bright sunlight of success has crowned my efforts; my verses are known an’ loved in Edinburgh! Oh, do ye hear that, my loved ones?” He stretched out his arms lovingly to them. “Nae mair poverty for us noo, mither, nae—nor disappointments.” He turned to Lord Glencairn, who was being assisted into his cloak. “Oh, sir, I canna tell ye what is in my heart,” he continued earnestly, “but ’tis overflowing wi’ love an’ gratitude to ye.”

“There, there, my lad, time is precious,” replied Lord Glencairn kindly, buttoning up his cloak. “’Tis late and we have far to go and the postchaise is awaiting us. I came here not only to bring you news, Mr. Burns, but to take you back with me to Edinburgh.” He laughed heartily at the look of startled amazement that appeared on the faces before him.

“To Edinburgh!” gasped Robert unbelievingly.

“Aye, lad,” replied his lordship earnestly, his eyes flashing with admiration for the modest young genius. “To Edinburgh, where fame and fortune await you, where society stands with outstretched arms to receive you as a conquering hero come to claim his own. To the capital city, where all unite in paying homage to the wonderful genius of Robert Burns, our Scottish Bard. Will you come?” and he held out his hand invitingly to the wondering lad, who was gazing at him, his soul in his eyes.

“Am I dreaming?” he cried slowly, looking about him for some confirmation of his fears. “Go to Edinburgh wi’ ye, sir, as the Bard of Scotland? O God, can this be true? My wildest hopes ne’er held out such dreams o’ greatness, such happiness.” His voice vibrated with feeling. He paused and took a deep breath, then he continued joyfully, all the sorrows of the past forgotten in his excitement, “A few moments ago, my lord, I was bidding farewell to these, my loved ones, forever. I was about to start for the Indies, a wretched exile, a disappointed failure, and noo fate once mair alters my destiny.” With a glad laugh he seized Lord Glencairn’s outstretched hand, and, turning to his loved ones, he cried, his voice ringing out clear and strong, a conscious thrill of pride running through it, “Nae more tears, mither, except those of happiness, nae more sorrow or care, for I can leave ye all wi’ a light heart noo, wi’ joy instead o’ sadness. ’Tis true I go from here an outcast, but I’ll return to ye a hero.”

BOOK II

CHAPTER XII

The scene that opened on our hero in Edinburgh was altogether new, and in a variety of other respects highly interesting, especially to one of his disposition of mind. To use an expression of his own, he “found himself suddenly translated from the veriest shades of life,” into the presence, and indeed into the society, of a number of persons previously known to him by report as of the highest distinction in his country. From those men of letters in general his reception was particularly flattering. And they interested themselves collectively and individually in the cultivation of his genius.

In Edinburgh literature and fashionable society are a good deal mixed. Our Bard was an acceptable guest in the gayest and most elevated circles, and received from female beauty and elegance those flattering attentions above all others most grateful to him. A taste for letters is not always conjoined with habits of temperance and regularity, and Edinburgh at this period contained perhaps an uncommon proportion of men of considerable talents, devoted to social excesses, in which their talents were wasted and debased.

Robert entered into several parties of this description with his usual vehemence. His generous affections, his ardent eloquence, his brilliant and daring imagination fitted him to be the idol of such associations. The sudden alteration of his habits of life operated on him physically as well as morally. The humble fare of the Ayrshire peasant he had exchanged for the luxuries of the Scottish metropolis, and naturally the effect of this change could not be inconsiderable. He saw the danger, and at times formed resolutions to guard against it, but he had embarked on the tide of dissipation and was borne along its stream. Some six months after his triumphant entrance into the city he had returned to Mossgiel for a fleeting visit to his home, and to assist his brother, who had taken upon himself the entire support of their aged mother, and who was struggling with many difficulties on the farm of Mossgiel. It will easily be conceived with what pleasure and pride he was received by his mother, his sisters, and brothers. He had left them poor and friendless; he returned to them high in public estimation and easy circumstances. He returned to them unchanged in his ardent affections, and ready to share with them to the uttermost farthing the pittance that fortune had bestowed. He had been keenly disappointed not to find Mary there. He learned, to his sorrow, that she had gone back to the Highlands shortly after he left for Edinburgh. He felt that she was lost to him now forever, for, while his heart prompted him to hurry to her side, reason told him that the visit would but fill her cup of sorrow to the brim. For, believing as he did, that he was still bound to Jean in spite of the destruction of her marriage lines, he knew he would only have to part from her again, to leave her there with her sad thoughts, her loneliness, while he returned to the gay life, where it was so easy to forget or at least to still the voice of sorrow. Having remained with them a few days he proceeded again to Edinburgh, first stopping off at Mauchline to call at the home of Squire Armour, only to be met with curses and to be driven from the door by the stern, unyielding man.

Robert returned to Edinburgh, his heart filled with bitterness and sorrow. For a while he brooded over his troubles, which threatened to plunge him into a state of extreme melancholy. But at last resentment and anger crowded out all other thoughts, and it was not long before he succeeded in drowning recollection in the midst of the society and dissipation of the metropolis.

A year passed by, during which time he had vainly tried to get word to Jean Armour. He had heard that she had given birth to twins, and the thought that they were without the protection of a father’s name filled him with grief and remorse. Time and again he had written her, only to have his letters returned unopened. Finally he had received a letter from her father, stating that “the children were dead and that Jean had quite forgotten him, and was about to be joined in wedlock with a neighboring rich farmer; that now he hoped Robert would leave him and his daughter in peace,” etc., etc. He laid down the letter with a thrill of joy stirring his blood. Free at last! He had done his duty as a man of honor, and now, after all the bitter heartache and the long separation, he was free to marry his little sweetheart. “Oh, thank God!” he cried aloud, in an ecstasy of joy. “Thank God, the miserable tangle in our lives will soon be straightened.” He had long entertained a desire to visit those parts of his native country which were so celebrated in the rural songs of Scotland, and he would now gratify that desire with Mary’s home as the objective point. As soon as arrangements could be made he started for the Highlands on horseback, accompanied by a friend, one Will Nichol, and, his fame having preceded him, they were royally entertained on their journey through the country. Finally they arrived in Dornoch, where Mary was living quietly with her sister, and soon the long parted lovers were clasped in each other’s arms. Later that day he told her the glorious news of his release, his freedom from all ties, told her of his undying love, and swore that never again should they be parted in this life. And Mary with a prayer of thankfulness in her faithful heart, blushingly gave her willing consent to a speedy marriage. The next day they all returned by easy stages to Edinburgh. Mrs. Dunlop, an old friend of Robert’s, took the country maiden under her protecting wing and gave her a home until the marriage could be solemnized, the date having been set one month from the time of their arrival.

CHAPTER XIII

John Anderson, the proprietor of the “Bull’s Head,” stood gazing wrathfully upon the scene of disorder which met his eyes as he opened the door of the sitting-room of his distinguished lodger’s apartments. It was early evening, and still that lodger remained in bed, although he had been called at different intervals throughout the day by the irate, though kind-hearted, landlord himself. “Dear—dear—dear,” he muttered to himself, as he arranged the furniture, “I’ll just give Robbie a bit o’ my mind.” He went to the door of the sleeping apartment and looked in. “Sleepin’ like a bairn,” he said softly, “an’—an’ wi’ his boots on. Ma certie!” He raised his hands in horror. “Weel, I’m glad ye’re nae under the bed. Ah, weel, young blood must hae its course. I mind I was young mysel’, an’ if I do say it I could drink mair whusky than any mon in the toon. Oh, those were happy days,” and he sang softly to himself, as he continued his work about the room:

“We are na fou’

We’re nat that fou’,

But just a droppie in our ee.

The cock may craw,

The day may daw’,

An’ ay we’ll taste the barley bree.”

A knock on the door interrupted his song.

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

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

“A lassie,” exclaimed John in amazement. “Oh, Robbie, ye devil.” He swung open the door and stood back to allow the gorgeously dressed lady to enter the room. Her dress of rich purple brocaded silk, cut in the extreme of fashion, rustled stiffly over the polished floor. Her head with its powdered wig was held haughtily erect as she surveyed the room with sparkling black eyes that nervously took in her surroundings, through the tiny holes in the black mask which concealed her face.

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

“Weel, what may ye be wantin’ wi’ Mr. Burns?” asked John cautiously. He had been bothered to death with answering the questions of the silly women who flocked to the parlors of the inn in hopes of seeing their idol.

The lady turned on him sharply. “None of your business, my good man,” she retorted haughtily. “How dare you question me, sirrah?”

John was quite taken aback by the imperious tones, but he still had his suspicions. “Weel, I thought perhaps ye were one o’ the artless bonnie wenches who were here last night wi’ the lads makin’ merry till the wee sma’ hours. If ye are——” he paused significantly.

She flashed him an angry look. “Make your mind easy on that score, my good fellow,” she retorted icily. “I have called to interview Mr. Burns on an important matter. Is he at home?”

“Aye; he is in there asleep,” replied John, pointing to a door beside the large book cabinet, which nearly occupied one side of the room.

“Asleep!” she repeated incredulously. “Lud, he retires uncommon early for a gallant,” and there was a note of disappointment in her deep contralto voice.

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

“What?” she ejaculated in horror. “Not all day? Then you must awaken him immediately. I must have speech with him at once,” and she spread her voluminous draperies over the wide lounge and calmly seated herself. “Do you hear?” she cried impatiently, as John made no move.

“I hae excellent hearin’, mum,” replied John carelessly, “but I ken when I’m well off, an’ I hae nae desire to feel the toe o’ Robert’s boot.”

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

“An’ I hae my doubts o’ a lass who comes to a mon’s lodgings at night,” continued John, resenting her impatience. “It’s na respectable.”

She looked him over insolently, then shrugged her shoulders. “I protest, landlord,” she replied, in a mocking tone, “I am quite respectable, even if I am here unchaperoned. But, Lud, I like not conventionalities, and this adventure suits my madcap spirit well.” She walked to the door of the sleeping chamber and was about to open it, when his voice arrested her.

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

“Landlord!” she gasped in astonishment.

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

“Peace, fool!” she exclaimed furiously. “I am Lady Glen——” she stopped and bit her lips angrily at the indiscreet slip of her tongue. Suddenly a daring thought entered her mind. One glance at his face told her that he had not caught the name. To think was to act with my lady. Then she continued glibly, “I am Lady Nancy Gordon, daughter of the Duke of Gordon, of Gordon Castle. It will be all over town in a day,” she thought with malicious satisfaction.

John staggered back as though he had been shot. “Ye Lady Nancy?” he gasped in amazement. “Oh, my lady, I ask your pardon.”

“’Tis not easily granted, numskull,” replied the imperious beauty, her black eyes flashing dangerously. The sound of a carriage rolling over the cobble stones suddenly arrested her attention. For a moment she listened intently, then, with a startled exclamation, she turned to John and said in a frightened whisper, “’Fore heaven! if it should be my husband—my father, I mean, in pursuit of me.” She ran hastily to the window from where a view of the street could be obtained and threw open the casement.

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

“Great heavens! ’tis my uncle, Sir William Creech!” she gasped. Then she said aloud, “Landlord, ’tis my father, as I feared! Oons! what a scrape I’m in.” She closed the shutter hastily.

“’Twill ruin your reputation to be found here at night, my lady,” cried John concernedly, trotting nervously to the window.

“O Lud,” she replied airily, “I’m not concerned over my reputation, ’tis already torn to ribbons by my dear friends. ’Tis my—my father’s wrath I fear. He is like to do some mischief.” An imperious knocking sounded on the door below.

“He has found ye, lassie,” cried old John excitedly. “Go down to him; dinna let him find ye here in Robbie’s chamber. Ye ken the blame will all fall on the lad,” and he sought to escort her to the door, but she evaded his outstretched hand with laughing unconcern.

“Nay, nay, my good fellow. I protest, I will not see him,” she exclaimed, with reckless abandon. She would keep up the impersonation till the end. Another such chance to blast her enemy’s reputation would not come to her in a lifetime, she thought wickedly. “Listen,” she cried impetuously. “My father, the Duke of Gordon, while he admires the poetry of Mr. Burns, does not admire the man himself, consequently he did not send him an invitation to attend the masked ball which is given at Gordon Castle to-night,” she explained glibly. “’Twas a monstrous insult to the Bard of Scotland, and I told my father so, and that I would not countenance it. Then I stole away, as I thought, unobserved, and came here to induce Mr. Burns to return with me. Once inside the castle my father will be forced to receive him graciously. Now, hurry, landlord, tell him to dress and we’ll slip out quietly, and, with your connivance, elude my—father’s vigilance.” She watched him narrowly to note the effect of her story.

“My lady,” replied John proudly, “the lad goes to Athol Castle to-night, so ye had better gang hame wi’ your father.” She gave a quick start of delighted satisfaction. So he was going after all. If she had only known that and felt sure of it, she might have spared herself this nerve-racking experiment, she thought impatiently.

The pounding had kept up incessantly, and now a stern, commanding voice called out for the landlord.

“He’s calling me,” said John nervously; “ye’d better go doon an’ explain a’ to him,” he told her pleadingly.

“Landlord, where the devil are you?” They could hear the heavy tread of feet walking about the rooms below.

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

“O Lud, he seems most angry, doesn’t he?” she said in a subdued voice. She had suddenly grown tired of the deception, and was eager now to get away. “I—I think perhaps ’twould be best if he—er—my father didn’t find me here after all,” she admitted. “I—I really dare not face his anger.” She jumped up quickly, all her bravado vanished. “Get me out of this place, landlord, quick, quick!” she gasped, clinging to him. Oh, why had she come? Sir William would make such a disagreeable scene if he found her here.

“Into that room wi’ ye!” cried John quickly, pointing to a small door in the opposite side of the room; “an’ I’ll get your father out o’ the house.”

“Why couldn’t the old fossil have stayed at home?” she said to herself angrily. “This promised to be such a romantic adventure, landlord,” she said aloud, poutingly. “And now ’tis all spoiled. Plague take it. Hurry, landlord, and get my—father away, for I must return to the ball before my absence is noticed.” She went into the room, her heart filled with apprehension, and closed the door, which John promptly locked.

“Thank the Lord,” he muttered with a sigh of relief. “I breathe easier.” Going to the door leading to the hall, he listened for a moment. From below came the sound of clinking glasses. He closed the door quickly. The coast was clear now. His guidwife was waiting on the customer. He hurried across the room and was about to release his prisoner, when he heard the door of Robert’s chamber open. He turned quickly and found his lodger yawning in the doorway.

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

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

“Nay, John, I’m walkin’ round in my bed,” retorted Robert dryly. “Dinna ye think it’s time for me to be up?” he asked. “What’s the matter, mon? stand still, ye make me dizzy.”

John was uneasily walking up and down, casting surreptitious glances at the door of the room which held the fair captive. “Oh, Johnny, my Jo John,” laughed Robert as he caught sight of the old man’s lugubrious countenance, “ye’ve been drinkin’ too much Usqubaugh.”

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

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

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

“Not for me,” laughed Robert, slapping him on the shoulder. “Ye dinna ken my capacity.” The noise of a chair overturning in the next room arrested his attention.

“What’s that?” he asked quickly.

“It’s n—nothing,” stammered John.

“There’s somebody in that room,” exclaimed Rob, putting his ear to the crack in the door. “I hear her walking around.”

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

“Oh, oh, John Anderson, my Jo John!” cried Rob, pointing an accusing finger at the flushed, embarrassed face of the old man, “I’m on to ye.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Weel, he—he came to arrest ye for debt,” glibly lied the old man. “So I told him to wait in there till ye came hame, an’ noo he’s my prisoner; that’s a’, Robbie.”

Rob grasped his hand gratefully. “Ye’re a true friend, John Anderson. Let me see, how much do I owe him?”

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

“Neither have I,” laughed Rob ruefully. “So I’ll leave ye to get him out the best way ye can; he’s your prisoner, not mine. I’d like to pitch him down stairs. Come on, John, between us we ought to manage the old Shylock.”

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

“Weel, I’ll get into the rest of my clothes, for I’m due in society,” yawned Rob, going to his room. “Get rid of him, John; do what ye like with him; he’s no friend of mine,” and he went in and closed the door behind him.

John softly followed him to the door and turned the key in the lock. “I’ll take nae chances,” he said grimly.

“Good-evening,” said a sweet voice timidly. He turned around and with a gasp of astonishment beheld a young girl standing in the doorway. Suddenly he gave a great start. Could his eyes deceive him? Was that beautiful creature in the long white opera cloak, her golden locks piled in a gorgeous mass high upon her little head, really the barefooted lass he had seen only a few days ago, in her short skirt of plaid?

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

“Aye, ’tis really me,” laughed Mary happily. “I’m goin’ to the ball at Athol Castle with Mrs. Dunlop. I wanted Robbie to see me in my gown before I went, so Mrs. Dunlop left me here, while she drove over to pick up Mrs. McLehose; then she’ll return for me. Where is Robbie, John?”

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

“About Robbie?” she asked anxiously.

“Aye, there’s the devil to pay here, Mary.” The old man’s face looked gloomy and perturbed. “There’s a—a lady in that room.”

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

“Aye, Lady Nancy Gordon hersel’.”

“Then it’s true,” cried Mary, sinking into a chair, a great fear tugging at her heart. “It’s true, then, all the stories I hear, that Robert is be—bewitched wi’ her. I wouldna’ believe it before. Mrs. Dunlop says it isna’ true, that Robbie hasna’ changed, but noo what can I think? Oh, laddie, oh, laddie!” and she sank back pale and trembling.

“There, lassie, Robert doesna’ care a penny for that lass,” he said tenderly. “She is only a heartless coquette, o’er fond of adventure,” and he laid his wrinkled hand caressingly on the golden head. “Noo look here, Mary, ye mustna’ expect Robert to be an angel all the time. He thinks only of ye, and he loves ye just as fondly, e’en if he does smile and make love to the ladies who throw themsel’s at his feet. He would lose his popularity, ye ken. ’Tis only an amusin’ pastime, lassie, an’ but gives him inspiration for his poetry, so dinna’ take it to heart. Ye ken Rob is highly sensitive, a most temperamental lad, who is very susceptible to the charms of the fair sex, but whist, Mary, he isn’t marrying any of them. There is only one lassie who will be his wife noo, and she’s nae far away from me this moment.” And he nodded his head sagely.

“Why dinna’ they leave him alone?” sighed Mary disconsolately. “’Tis very unmaidenly in them to seek for his favor so openly.”

“Noo, lassie,” said John seriously, “we maun get Lady Nancy out o’ this scrape, for the house is watched noo by her father, who suspects her presence here.”

He walked up and down the room for a few moments plunged in deep thought. All at once his face brightened.

“I have thought o’ a scheme, lassie,” he said suddenly. “Let Lady Nancy take this long cloak of yours; ’twill cover her o’er entirely; then she can walk boldly out past her father; he will think ’tis ye, Mary, and will na’ stop her. Ye’re both of a height,” and he regarded her with anxious eyes.

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

“For Robbie’s sake,” pleaded John. “Her father will blame the lad for it all; perhaps he will shoot him, and he an innocent man. Why, lassie, he doesna’ even ken the lass is in the house.”

“Doesna’ ken it?” repeated Mary, smiling incredulously. “Why, John, Robert isna’ blind. If she is in his room——”

“But she isna’ in his room, Mary,” interrupted John. “She’s in there, scared to death,” and he pointed to the door opposite.

“Oh!” comprehended Mary with a sigh of relief. “That’s different. I’ll help her noo, John,” and she jumped eagerly to her feet, her face flushed and earnest.

“That’s the girlie,” replied John heartily. Going to the door, he opened it and whispered to Lady Nancy to come out.

“Lud, I thought you were never coming,” she flashed as she hastily entered the room. She stopped short upon seeing Mary.

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

“Mary quickly divested herself of her mantle and threw it about the bare shoulders of the disdainful lady.”

“Where have I seen that face before?” Lady Glencairn asked herself nervously, looking closely into Mary’s flushed, innocent face, that reminded her so guiltily of Lady Nancy Gordon herself.

Mary quickly divested herself of her mantle and threw it about the bare shoulders of the disdainful lady, who hastily drew the large hood over her elaborate court wig, entirely concealing it within its voluminous folds.

With a quick careless word of thanks to Mary, she walked to the door, and calling to John, who was quietly turning the key in Robert’s door, to show her the way out, she swiftly left the room, and with wildly beating heart, passed her uncle at the outer door, and mingled her presence with the stream of gallant courtiers and laughing, gayly-dressed ladies that wended its boisterous way along the crowded thoroughfare.

CHAPTER XIV

When Mary found herself alone she sat down pensively in the big leather chair, feeling very sad and thoughtful. Of course she trusted Robert absolutely, but how could he really love such an ignorant little country girl like herself, when there were so many grand, rich, beautiful ladies surrounding him all the time and suing for his favors, even seeking him out in his own rooms? But her face brightened as she thought of what John had told her. “It isna’ his fault if the women lose their hearts over him,” he had said, and in her heart she felt she could not blame anyone for loving Robbie. She rose and softly approached his door. Then she paused. No, she would wait till he came and found her himself. But she did wish he would hurry and finish dressing before Mrs. Dunlop came back. She strolled aimlessly about the room looking with listless eyes at the collections of souvenirs and bric-a-brac which filled the mantels and covered the tables. She noted with wonder the profusion of ladies’ gloves, ’kerchief, scarfs, a slipper or two and a motley collection of other articles littering the table. She picked up a beautiful pink mask and idly turned it over; on the back she read, “Dropped by Lady Nancy at the Charity Ball given in honor of the Prince of Wales.” She put it down, her lips trembling. He must prize it very highly, she thought with a pang of jealousy; but as she read the various inscriptions on the back of a number of the others, she smiled and told herself what a silly she was. Of course he couldn’t be in love with all the owners of those many favors. She picked up the mask again and held it before her eyes. How funny to cover one’s face in such a manner, she thought. She fastened the elastic behind her ear, and with a woman’s curiosity wondered how she looked in it. She quickly spied the large cheval mirror in the cabinet. “How funny I do look,” she said to herself with a little amused laugh, as she caught sight of her reflection. “Nobody would ever know me.” As she drew closer to the mirror in pleased wonder her dancing eyes slowly wandered from the top of the glittering coil of her golden hair, dwelt for an instant in blushing modesty on the gleaming, bare shoulders, and rested in loving, blissful content on her simple trailing robe of ivory-tinted embroidered silk. She looked angelically lovely as she stood there innocently admiring her winsome reflection.

“Is that really the Highland Mary who used to wander barefooted through the glens and vales, the simple dairymaid who made butter for Colonel Montgomery?” she asked herself dreamily. “Am I awake, I wonder? How Souter Johnny would open his eyes if he could only see me noo in this beautiful gown, carrying a fan an’ wi’ my hair done up high.” She laughed gleefully but softly at the thought. “Wouldna’ they be proud to see me such a grand lady.” She walked stiffly across the room with all the dignity she could command, her chin held high and taking quick little pleased glances over her shoulder at her reflection. It was Mary’s first long gown, and it was not to be wondered at, when in turning quickly around a chair she easily became entangled in her train, and with a little frightened gasp she suddenly found herself on her knees endeavoring to extricate her feet from the clinging mass of silk and linen in which they were enmeshed. Finally she succeeded in regaining her feet, but not until she had with extreme care seated herself did she breathe a sigh of relief. She eyed her train ruefully. “If I should fall doon before all the great people at the ball, I should be so ashamed,” she said, sighing dismally. “They would all laugh at me. But Robert says I am nicer than anyone in all the world.” She reveled in that thought an instant, then her face lengthened. “But I ken there is a difference, a great difference; I am only a simple country lass without any learnin’ whatever, while Lady Nancy is——” she rose suddenly as a thought occurred to her, her hands clasped tightly together. “Suppose he should grow ashamed of his ignorant little country wife,” she whispered with trembling lips; “it would break my heart in twain.”

She held out her hands passionately toward her unseen lover. “Ye willna’ ever regret makin’ me your wife, will ye dear?” she whispered imploringly. “Ye willna’ be sorry in years to come.” Quickly her loving, trustful faith reasserted itself. “Nay, nay, my heart tells me ye willna’, so I’ll be foolish nae more. I’ll tell him what a silly lass I’ve been an’ how he’ll laugh at my doubting fears.” She took a step toward his door, when it opened and Robert came quickly into the room, dressed for the ball, looking very handsome in his plain and unpretending dress of blue homespun, for he still retained the same simplicity of manner and appearance that he brought with him from the country. He stopped in amazement as he came face to face with his unexpected visitor.

Mary with a thrill of joy at the sight of her lover waited eagerly for the words of praise which she knew her appearance would elicit, and for which she hungered, but as he stood looking at her so calmly, so coldly, her joy turned to wonder and fear. What was the matter? Didn’t she please him? With a little gasp she put her hand nervously to her face. As it came in contact with the mask, which she had forgotten to remove, her heart gave a quick bound of relief. Of course! He didn’t know her. “He doesna’ ken who I am at all,” she thought gleefully.

As his eyes rested upon the pink mask, Robert gave a sudden start, then glanced quickly at the table. No, it wasn’t there. So then this was Lady Nancy herself. He recognized her hair, her figure, and above all the mask. “So my haughty lady thinks it safer to play wi’ fire incognito, eh?” he thought grimly. “Weel, I’ll teach ye a lesson, my fine lady; ye need one badly.” Then aloud, “I’m indeed honored, madam, by your presence here to-night,” he said, bowing low before her.

Mary courtesied deeply. Oh, it was so exciting to be talking with her Robbie, and how surprised he would be when she unmasked.

“Haven’t ye a word to say to me, fair lady?” continued Robert softly, as she stood silently before him.

“He’ll sure ken my voice,” she thought in trepidation; “if I could only talk like a lady.” She wondered if she could imitate the haughty tones of Lady Nancy Gordon herself. She’d try. She seated herself languidly. “Then you don’t recognize me?” she asked, disguising her lyric voice, as near as possible, in the lazy drawl of Lady Glencairn’s voice.

He started and looked at her intently. It didn’t sound like Lady Nancy at all, but who else could she be? he thought blankly. “Your voice sounds like—but nae, I maun be mistaken,” he said doubtfully. “Nay, madam, I do not recognize you. Will you not remove——”

“What, my face?” laughed Mary. She had marvelously lost all trace of her country intonation. “Oh, nay, sir! I’m too much attached to it.”

“Well ye might be, fair lady!” replied Robert, “but why do ye hide your beauty so jealously?” He reached out his hand to lift the mask from her face, but, with a rippling laugh, she eluded him, and from behind the high-backed settle made reply.

“Be not impatient, Mr. Burns,” she said saucily; “you shall see my face in good time, I warrant ye!” It must be Lady Nancy after all, he told himself.

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

Mary looked at him reproachfully. Did he think she was really Lady Gordon? she wondered. The thought gave her pause. Well, she would find out how much he really cared for her, how much truth there was in the gossip she had heard. “Rumor sayeth, Mr. Burns, that ye are in love with the beautiful Lady Nancy Gordon; is that so?” she asked, fanning herself languorously.

He smiled quizzically into her face. “Rumor hath many tongues, fair lady, and most of them lying ones. The lady doesna’ suit my taste; even her money couldna’ tempt me, an’ I need the money badly. That will take her conceit down a peg I’ll warrant,” he thought grimly.

“But she is very beautiful, I hear,” said Mary, filled with delight at his answer.

“That I grant ye. Mistress Nancy is most adept in the use of the hare’s foot an’ of the paint box. I’ll wager she can teach even our incomparable actress, Mrs. Siddons, a few tricks in the art of makeup. Oh, but ye should see the lady in the early morning. ’Fore heaven, she resembles damaged goods!” Now would come the explosion of wounded pride and outraged dignity, he thought calmly, but his amazement was unbounded when the seeming Lady Nancy jumped up and down, ecstatically clapping her hands in a very undignified manner. “Ye seem o’er pleased at my remark,” he exclaimed with a puzzled frown.

“I am, I am pleased!” she cried joyfully.

“What?” he stammered taken aback—“why, I—I thought ye were——” He stopped, flushed and embarrassed.

“Were Lady Nancy Gordon!” she finished. “O Lud, if I were, I wouldn’t feel complimented at all the flattering things I’ve heard!” and she went off in a peal of merry laughter.

“Who are ye then, who comes to my chamber at night?” he asked curtly, chagrined at his mistake. She shook her head and laughed softly.

“Ye shall know in good time,” she replied coquettishly. “I—I must make certain that ye dinna’ love—me.” She smiled, but her heart was beating wildly.

“I love only one maiden, an’ I make her my wife within a week,” he answered with dignity.

“An’ ye’ve no regrets for Lady Nancy, nor for Mrs. McLehose, nor—nor any o’ the grand ladies ye’ll be givin’ up to marry the little country maiden?” she asked softly, forgetting in her eagerness her lapse into her natural speech.

“None, my lady,” he replied firmly. “Noo, lets call a truce to this masquerade! I am at a loss to understand your errand here to-night, but do not press ye for an explanation, and as I am due at the Duke of Athol’s, I must bid ye good-night.” He bowed coldly, and started to leave her.

But with a cry of joy, which thrilled him to the heart, she drew near to him with outstretched arms. “Robbie, lad, canna’ ye guess who I am?” she cried. “I’m nae a grand lady at all, I’m only your Highland Mary.” With a quick movement, she tore off the mask from her flushed and radiant face and threw it far from her.

“Mary, is it ye?” he gasped, almost speechless with surprise. He could scarcely believe his senses. This radiantly beautiful lady his Highland Mary? was such a metamorphosis possible?

She made him a little courtesy. “Aye, ’tis Mary!” she answered, her heart beating fast with pleasure. Quickly she told him how she had come, why she had come, and how long she had waited, just to hear his words of approval. “Do I please ye, laddie?” she asked shyly.

For a moment he could not speak. Her wonderful perfection of beauty startled him. He drew her closely into his arms, kissing her with almost pathetic tenderness. “Mary, my love, my sweet lass!” and his voice trembled. “Pleased! Good Heavens, what little words those are to express my feelings. I can tell ye how you look, for nothing can ever make ye vain! Ye’re the most beautiful lassie I’ve ever seen! Ah, but I’m proud of ye this night. Ye’re fit to wear a coronet, Mary lass! I ken there will not be a grand lady at the ball to-night who will look half sae bonnie, nor hae such sweet, dainty manners, as my country sweetheart.” He held her off at arm’s length and glanced with affectionate adoration, from the fair, golden-crowned head down to the point of the small pearl-embroidered slipper that peeped beneath the edge of the rich, sheeny white robe.

“It seems so strange to be here in Edinburgh, decked out in all this finery,” she murmured dreamily, “and on my way to a real ball. Is it really me?”

“Aye, ’tis ye, Mary, I’ll swear to that!” he cried heartily, kissing the sweet, ingenuous face raised to his so wistfully. She blushed with pleasure, and bashfully turned her head away. “Ye dinna’ think I look awkward, do ye laddie?” she inquired in a low, timid voice.

“Nay, ye’re grace itself, sweetheart!” he replied reassuringly, raising her chin till her drooping eyes met his.

“An’ ye wouldna ken I was only a dairymaid if it werena for my speech, would ye?” she interrogated, with pathetic hopefulness. Her concerned, anxious little face and wistful manner touched him deeply.

“I wouldna have ye changed for all the world, Mary!” he told her tenderly, pressing his lips to the one little curl which hung unconfined over her snowy shoulder. “Be your own pure, sweet self always, for ye’re the fairest of all God’s creatures to me noo.”

She gave a deep sigh of absolute content, and leaned against him silently for a moment. Then she looked up at him brightly. “This fine dress makes me quite a grand lady, doesna’ it?” she prattled innocently.

“Aye! every inch a queen!” and he made her a deep bow.

“But it isna mine, Robbie,” she whispered confidentially. “I borrowed it for the night only, like Cinderella in the fairy book, to make my début into fashionable society,” and she laughed gleefully, like a little child telling a wonderful secret. “It’s Mrs. Dunlop’s wedding gown, Robbie; isna it just sweet?” She passed her hand gently over the folds of the silk and there was awe and reverence in the touch. “Oh, how I love to smooth it, ’tis so soft an’ rich an’ glossy; it isna’ wrong to love the beautiful things, is it, laddie?” she asked earnestly.

“Nay,” replied Robert, smiling tenderly at her naïveté. “Love the pretty things all ye like, dearie, for hereafter ye shall have the finest gowns in town. Ye shall select whatsoever your fancy pleases—dresses, bonnets, mits, boots,” and he enumerated on his fingers all the articles he could remember so dear to a woman’s heart.

“Shall I really, really?” she gasped as he finished, looking at him with wondering eyes. “I hae never bought a pretty thing in a’ my life, ye ken, an’ oh, won’t it be just sweet? We’ll go to the shops to-morrow, an’ Mrs. Dunlop will help me select my—my wedding gown.” She held her head away bashfully, blushing pink before the sudden fire that gleamed in the dark eyes bent on her so devotedly.

“Your wedding gown?” he repeated, with dreamy softness. “Let it be silk, Mary, white, soft and shimmering, to float around ye like a cloud of sunshine. An’ ye must have a bridal veil too, lassie, one sae fine an’ transparent that it will cover ye o’er like the morning mist.”

“I would be afraid to buy so much,” she replied gravely. “’Twould be too costly, an’ ye canna’ afford to waste sae much money to deck me out like a lady,” and she shook her head in firm disapproval.

He laughed heartily at her sober face and air of housewifely prudence. “My dear,” he whimsically told her, “dinna’ ye mind the cost. A weddin’ doesna’ often happen in one’s lifetime, sae we’ll make it a grand one this time.”

“Ye’ll spoil me, Robbie,” she answered, smiling happily.

“Nay, ye’re too sweet and lovely to be spoiled.”

“Well, ye ken,” she replied demurely, “sweet things spoil the quickest.”

Before he could reply, the rattle of a carriage over the pavement sounded loudly through the room. As it stopped at the door, Mary gave a little sigh of regret. “It’s Mrs. Dunlop, returning for me at last,” she said. She secretly hoped the sharp old eyes would not miss the cloak.

“Aye, like the good fairy godmother,” smiled Robert, as he led her out of the room and down the stairs.

“I feel as if I were in a dream,” she murmured softly, picking up her train, and lovingly holding it over her arm, as she walked daintily across the sidewalk to the waiting carriage. “If I am, laddie,” she continued earnestly, “I hope I may never awake from it; I want to dream on forever.”

Highland Mary: The Romance of a Poet / A Novel

FOREWORD

HIGHLAND MARY

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

BOOK II

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV