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[50] 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[51] 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[52] 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.”
[53]
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.
[54]
“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.
[55]
“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.
[56]
“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.”[57] 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.