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[130] 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[131] 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[132] 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[133] 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[134] 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.”
[135]
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?”
[136]
“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,[137] 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[138] 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[139] 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,[140] 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............