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[59] 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[60] 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.
[61]
“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?[62] 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[63] 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[64] 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.[65] “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[66] 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[67] 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 re?ntering 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[68] 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[69] 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,[70] 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[71] 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[72] 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[73] 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[74] 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[75] 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[76] 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[77] 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[78] 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.”