When Lady Glencairn, after her arrival at the Duke of Athol’s, found that Robert had not come—indeed she and Lord Glencairn and Sir William Creech, her uncle, had been the first to arrive—she decided recklessly to visit him at his chambers, so she had easily stolen away unnoticed by all save one, on her indiscreet journey. Sir William had seen her as she slipped guiltily out through the conservatory window and had followed her with growing suspicions to the door of Robert’s chamber, where he waited in impotent wrath for her to reappear, after having questioned the guidwife within the inn. And he was not deceived when she came out, wrapped in the disguising cloak and mask. He followed her like a grim servitor till she reached the castle, and as she was noiselessly re?ntering by the conservatory window, he called to her to wait. With a startled gasp she turned, and as her eyes rested on her uncle’s accusing face, she gave a little laugh, half scornful, half defiant, and leisurely throwing off her cloak and mask, stood waiting for him to speak. “Ye foolish woman!” he told her angrily. “How could ye be so imprudent, reckless mad, as to visit a man’s chamber at night?”
“Don’t preach to me, uncle,” she answered sullenly.[185] “No one knows of my being there, not even Mr. Burns himself.”
“But what were ye thinkin’ of to do such a reprehensible act?” he demanded sternly. She turned on him suddenly.
“Because I love him!” she exclaimed passionately, casting prudence to the winds. “I went there to tell him of my love, to give myself to him, to beg him to take me away from here, to take me anywhere, only to let me be near him, to stay with him. But I was forced to come away without seeing him, thanks to you.”
For a moment he regarded the reckless woman in silence, amazement, shame, and anger struggling for the mastery.
“Alice, of what are you thinking?” he ejaculated finally, catching her roughly by the arm. “You must control yourself. I speak for your own good. Think no more of this idle poet, for only shame, ruin and unhappiness can come to ye and your husband, unless ye give up this unholy passion.”
She laughed scornfully. “My husband!” she cried bitterly. “Don’t remind me of that fossil! You, and the rest of my family, are to blame for my being fettered, tied to a man I do not love. If it were not for that, I could find the happiness I crave.”
“Sh! be calm!” he continued, looking anxiously around. “You may be overheard. Foolish woman![186] do you forget that Robert Burns, as well as yourself, is married.”
“He is not!” she flashed impetuously. “That was no legal tie. Some foolish chit of a country lass flung herself at him, with the usual result. Any man would have done as he did, but unlike most men, he, out of pity and from a high sense of honor, married her; but it was an irregular marriage, which was speedily annulled by the girl’s father. He is free now, free as ever he was. The girl has given him up, poor fool. I only am the shackled one, a prisoner for life, unless——” An eager light flashed in her deepened eyes.
“Unless Robert Burns elopes with ye!” he finished sarcastically. “I warn ye, Alice, not to play with edged tools;’tis o’er dangerous. Be more careful or others will suspect what I already know.” She smiled disdainfully and shrugged her shapely shoulders.
“Do not force me to open your husband’s eyes!” he retorted, angered by her irritating indifference. She looked at him, her heart filled with sudden fury. How she would like to hit him in the face with her fan, how she hated him and his interference, his unwelcome advice. “Already,” he continued irritably, “you have given that scandalmonger, Eppy McKay, cause to suspect your too warm and ardent affection for Mr. Burns, by openly showing jealousy of Lady Nancy Gordon.”
[187]
“I jealous of Nancy Gordon?” she repeated, with airy scorn, walking toward the door of the conservatory. “Huh, not I, uncle; I am not so unconscious of my own charms,” and she drew her magnificent figure up to its full height, then smiled insolently into his perturbed and nervous face. “I thank you for all your advice,” she murmured sweetly as they traversed the long hall, “but remember, hereafter, that I mean to steer my own canoe, whether it leads me into safe waters or through the rapids.” And with a radiant smile upon her sensuous lips she entered the drawing-room, leaning affectionately upon the arm of her outraged but speechless relative. Quietly she took her place by her waiting husband’s side, her dark eyes full of a bewitching and dangerous softness, for her thoughts were on the one guest whose very name had the power to move her so completely.
Never had she appeared so dazzlingly beautiful, as she stood there meeting her friends and acquaintances with a deep ceremonious courtesy for the distinguished ones, a smile and a nod for her intimates, and an air of high-bred insolence and extreme self-satisfaction pervading her whole appearance.
No one was ever bored at the Duchess of Athol’s brilliant “at homes.” One always felt sure of meeting at least three or four justly celebrated personages under her hospitable roof. And to-night society was a-gog, for it was to welcome the farmer-poet,[188] Robert Burns, who had returned from his triumphant tour through the Highlands. Soon the capacious drawing-rooms were crowded. There was the rustle of silk and satin, rare and delicate perfumes shaken out of lace kerchiefs, while the heavy scent of the many bouquets oppressed the warm air to the point of suffocation. There was an interminably monotonous murmur of voices, only broken at rare intervals by a ripple of mild laughter. Over by the large windows that overlooked the terrace stood a group of people gazing earnestly out beyond the gardens at some object, which had arrested their attention, with various degrees of interest.
“Whatever is happening below on Princes Street?” suddenly inquired one of the ladies, nervously clutching the arm of the man nearest her. Eppy McKay was an eccentric maiden lady of questionable age and taste. Of more than ordinary height naturally, she looked a giantess in her powdered wig, which towered fully a foot in the air, and which was decorated profusely with waving plumes, rosettes and jewels. Her lowcut gown of crimson satin, over a petticoat of quilted green silk, was cut extremely low, revealing a vision of skin and bones, powdered to a ghastly whiteness. Her affectations, her simperings, and her poses accorded society much amusement, of which fact she was blissfully unconscious.
“There is a crowd gathered around a carriage,[189] but farther than that I cannot make out,” replied Mr. Mackenzie, the famous author and publisher.
A prolonged shout from below increased the restlessness of the timid Eppy. “Oh, dear!” she gasped. “If it should be an uprising of the Jacobites,” and she looked fearfully into the amused faces of her companions.
With a disgusted grunt, Sir William Creech shook his arm free from her clawlike clutch. “Nonsense, woman, ye’re daft!” he answered impatiently.
“Well, upon my word!” she murmured in injured surprise.
“The mob is increasing—’tis coming nearer!” exclaimed Mr. Mackenzie, stepping out upon the wide balcony.
“So it is,” affirmed Eppy, retreating behind the heavy curtains. “Lady Glencairn!” she called as her ladyship approached the window. “Listen to those murmurs! Oh, dear! it makes me so nervous.”
Lady Glencairn stepped out upon the balcony, followed by the timid Eppy, and stood contemplating the scene in the brightly lighted street below them.
“It sounds not ominous,” she said quietly, after a moment. “Lud, what a throng! They have unhitched the horses from a carriage, and are themselves drawing it hither.”
“Who is in the carriage, can you see?” eagerly asked Eppy, straining her eyes.
[190]
“A gentleman, who is evidently addressing the people,” answered Lady Glencairn slowly. She gazed intently at the figure silhouetted against the light of the street lamps. Surely she knew that form. At that moment he turned, and with a flush of surprise, a thrill of joy, she suddenly recognized him.
“Upon my life,’tis Robert, Robert Burns!” she cried excitedly.
“Aye, I recognize him now,” said Mr. Mackenzie.
“And you say they are drawing him hither?” inquired Sir William incredulously, turning to his niece.
“Aye, and why not?” she replied brightly, turning to the others. “They should carry him on their shoulders, for he deserves all homage.”
“And ’tis said the Scots are not demonstrative,” ejaculated Mr. Mackenzie, as another burst of applause and cheers, followed by laughter, reached their ears.
“You hear how demonstrative they can be when occasion demands enthusiasm,” replied Lady Glencairn stanchly, “when genius knocks at the door of their hearts. See how Edinburgh has utterly lost control of its conservative old self, and all over the poetic genius of Robert Burns.”
“True, he has indeed stirred the hardest-hearted Scot by his fascinating poetry,” mused Mr. Mackenzie admiringly.
[191]
“How I shall love him,” sighed Eppy dreamily. “In sooth I do now,” and she simpered and dropped her eyes like a love-sick school girl.
“And she has never met the man yet!” cried Sir William in amazement. “The woman’s daft,” he muttered, turning away.
“I do wish he would come,” sighed Eppy. “I want to tell him how much I admire him and his poetry. Oh, I have the dearest little speech, that Sibella, my sister, composed, all prepared to say when I am presented to him.” She rolled her eyes up ecstatically.
“I shall also recite one of his odes to him,” she continued, in the tone of one who is about to confer a great favor. “I know ’twill please him greatly,” and she fanned herself languidly.
“What have you selected?” inquired Lady Glencairn, laughing openly. The woman’s vanity amused her.
“Such a sweet conceit,” simpered Eppy.
“Is it ‘Tam O’Shanter’s Tale’?” inquired Mr. Mackenzie, interestedly.
“No, oh, no!” she replied, shaking her head. “’Tis monstrous long to recite.”
“An ode to a calf,” said Sir William grimly, “would be more appropriate.”
“Perhaps ’tis the tale of ‘The Twa Dogs,’” hazarded Lady Glencairn. Eppy laughed gleefully and shook her head.
[192]
“Tell us the name, madam; we’re no children!” roared Sir William, glaring at her like an angry bull.
“You’re so gruff,” pouted Eppy reproachfully. “Do you all give it up?” They nodded. “Well, then, don’t be shocked,” and she shook her finger at them coquettishly; then leaning forward she whispered loudly, “’Tis entitled ‘To a Louse.’”
“Heaven, preserve us!” ejaculated Mr. Mackenzie, laughing heartily.
“She’s touched here!” cried Sir William commiseratingly, putting his finger to his head.
“Why did you choose that?” gasped Lady Glencairn, in amazement.
“Because ’tis a beautiful conceit,” answered Eppy soulfully. “I protest, I mean to recite it.”
“I vow ’tis a most singular selection.”
“I don’t see why,” snapped Eppy spitefully. “’Twas written round a fact.”
“Really, I hadn’t heard of that,” answered her ladyship, coolly turning away.
“I wonder at that,” cooed Eppy innocently, although a little malicious twinkle appeared in her eyes. “You of all people should know everything pertaining to Mr. Burns and his verses.” Lady Glencairn stiffened suddenly, and cast a quick look at the stern face of her uncle.
“What do you mean by that?” inquired Sir William aggressively, turning to Eppy.
[193]
“Oh, nothing, nothing!” she hastily replied, frightened by what she had said.
“Everything concerning Mr. Burns, my husband’s protégé, and my friend, my dear friend, I may call him, does interest me mightily, Miss McKay. Pray tell me the story connected with the poem, if you care to!” and Lady Glencairn turned her glittering eyes, which were narrowed dangerously, upon the face of the crestfallen Eppy.
Sir William gave a snort of anger. “Ye couldn’t stop her; she is dying to tell all she knows!” he said crustily.
Eppy cleared her throat vigorously. “Well, it was this way,” she began confidentially. “Mr. Burns was sitting behind a lady in Kirk, one Sabbath, who had on a new bonnet, of which she seemed most proud. As he was admiring its beauty, his keen eyes detected this horrid little animal crawling over the gauze and lace.”
“How fascinating,” murmured Mr. Mackenzie in mocking rapture.
“And it immediately inspired his pen to write the verses which have made such a sensation in town,” concluded Eppy, looking eagerly at her listeners for some look or word of approval.
“What a—a creepy story,” said Lady Glencairn, with a little shiver of repulsion.
She turned to her quickly. “’Tis said, my dear, and I ask you not to repeat it, for I promised not to[194] tell, that the lady in question was Agnes McLehose, the beautiful grass widow, who is such an ardent admirer of Mr. Burns, you know.”
“Really!” murmured Lady Glencairn coldly.
“And the airs she put on!” cried Eppy, with lofty indignation. “Why, do you know——”
But Lady Glencairn interrupted her sharply. “I do not care to speak of Agnes McLehose,” she retorted frigidly, “and I never indulge in scandal, especially before my friends, so let us not disgust them with any woman’s gossip.”
“You are quite right,” affirmed Eppy affably. “I do not believe in it myself; it always comes back to one.”
“Who can understand a woman?” grunted Sir William aloud.
“Well, it’s most easy to understand men,” retorted Eppy quickly.
With a sigh of impatience, Lady Glencairn took Mr. Mackenzie’s arm and silently they re?ntered the drawing-room. They wended their way through the groups of people standing about, for the largest and most brilliant portion of the assemblage were standing, the sofas, ottomans, and chairs being occupied by the puffy old dowagers, who were entertaining each other with choice bits of scandal; and, finally, came to a standstill beside the grand piano. For a moment they remained quiet, listening to the glorious voice of Madame Urbani, who from the great[195] drawing-room above was trilling forth an aria from grand opera. From her position Lady Glencairn commanded a good view of the large arch through which the guests entered the drawing-rooms. Anxiously she watched for the handsome face and curly black hair of the poet above the crowd that surrounded her. “Why does he not come? what can be detaining him?” she asked herself for the hundredth time. Perhaps he was with Lady Nancy Gordon, she thought jealously, looking about the vast room. She was sure she had not yet been announced. It looked very suspicious that neither she, nor Robert, had arrived. And her heart was consumed with bitter jealousy, although her smiling face bore no traces of the raging fire within. How she hated that doll-faced beauty for being single and free! How she would delight in trampling her in the dust, she thought cruelly. Nearly a month had elapsed since Robert left Edinburgh, since she had seen him. A month filled with vain longing and unrest. And since his return, she could scarcely restrain her intense longing to see him. Day after day she would drive slowly past his lodgings, hoping to catch a glimpse of his glowing, dark face, which had such power to thrill her to the very depths of her intense and passionate nature. That longing had taken possession of her to-night, when she had slipped out and stolen away to his rooms, and she would have willingly given her body and soul to him, for the asking;[196] but her good angel had protected her from her own indiscretion, and saved her unsuspecting victim from a great remorse. The gurgling voice of Eppy McKay broke in abruptly on her disturbing revery.
“Oh, dear, I wish Mr. Burns would come,” she said plaintively.
“He is usually very punctual,” answered Lady Glencairn, opening her large fan of ostrich plumes and fanning herself indolently.
“Genius is never governed by any rules of punctuality or propriety,” observed Mr. Mackenzie.
“Then he is exempt,” replied her ladyship, smiling brightly. “Ah! you truant. Where have you been?” she demanded of her husband, who joined them at that moment.
“Incidentally getting a breath of fresh air, my dear,” replied Lord Glencairn, smiling lovingly into his wife’s face. “But in reality, I was listening to the ovation which Robert was receiving as he drove through Princes Street.” Her eyes suddenly brightened.
“How I wish I could have heard his speech to the masses,” she cried enthusiastically. “For I must confess, James, that no man’s conversation ever carried me off my feet so completely as that of Robert Burns.”
“Indeed, my lady!” he retorted in mock alarm. “Then it behooves me to keep my eye on you hereafter.”
[197]
She joined in the laugh that followed, then remarked audaciously, “But, I vow, a little flirtation is really most exhilarating now and then.” She flashed her brilliant eyes mockingly upon the horror-struck countenance of Eppy McKay.
“How indiscreet!” exclaimed Eppy in amazement, “and you are a married woman, too.”
“’Tis perfectly shocking, isn’t it?” mimicked her ladyship insolently.
Eppy pursed her thin lips, while a little spot of color dyed her parchment-like cheeks. “Well, I do not approve of married women flirting,” she replied primly, and as she caught the look of amusement which passed between her ladyship and Mr. Mackenzie, she added sourly, “Especially in public.”
“Oh! Then you do approve of it in private,” replied her ladyship sweetly, innocently opening her eyes to their widest.
Eppy gave a gasp of horror. “Mercy, no!” she cried indignantly, “I should say not.” And she tossed her head in virtuous anger.
“Robert Burns!” announced the footman at this juncture.
There was a sudden hush, a movement of excitement, and the group around the door fell back, and everybody made way for the most important guest of the evening, who for the last hour had been the all-absorbing topic of conversation. Lady Glencairn started violently, as she heard the name announced.[198] For a brief instant she closed her eyes, feeling faint, and trembling in an ecstasy of joy. He was here at last! Her heart throbbed so violently it stifled her.
“How noble he looks!” exclaimed Eppy in an awestruck tone, as she watched the tall figure in a polite but determined manner coolly elbowing a passage among the heaving bare shoulders, fat arms, the long trains, and bulging bustles and paniers that seriously obstructed his way. “And to think that man is but a lowly-bred peasant,” observed Mr. Mackenzie, as he watched him bending low over the hand of their hostess.
“A man’s a man, for all that!” murmured her ladyship, worshipful pride in her voice and in her dazzling eyes, as she watched him approach, bowing right and left. She drew herself up with the conscious air of a beauty who knows she is nearly perfect, and with a smile she extended her jeweled hand. “I’m so glad to see you here to-night,” she says sweetly, although a glance like fire seen through smoke leaps from beneath her silky eyelashes, but Robert saw it not; he was bending low over her fair hand. “Welcome back to Edinburgh!” she continued, pressing his hand warmly.
A bright smile lighted up his dark visage. “Thank ye,” he returned simply. Then he turned to Lord Glencairn with outstretched hand. “My lord!” he said warmly, “how glad, how delighted,[199] I am to again press the hand of my patron, my friend.”
“The pleasure is mutual, my lad!” he replied. A kindly smile lighted up his noble face, as he perceived the ruddy glow of health in the full cheeks, the flashing eyes of the young poet. “Ah, you return to us looking bonnier than ever,” he continued. “Your triumphant tour through the north with its Highland chieftains and lords at your feet, has not turned your head after all.”
Robert laughed good-naturedly. “Not a bit of it,” he replied frankly.
“Let me present Mr. Henry Mackenzie,” introduced Lady Glencairn at this juncture.
Robert advanced eagerly to meet him, his hand extended, his eyes flashing with delight. “The author of the ‘Man of Feeling,’ the first book I loved and admired years ago!” he exclaimed in direct frankness. “It is an unexpected pleasure, sir.”
“The pleasure is mutual,” replied Mr. Mackenzie, flushing at the compliment. “We witnessed your triumphant progress up Princes Street, and were delighted at the ovation you received.”
Robert laughed happily. “Was it not wonderful?” he answered in his sonorous voice, which had such a thrilling richness in it. “I could scarcely realize it was the once poor, humble Robbie Burns they were cheering. I am indeed happy; my popularity has not begun to wane yet.” He regarded[200] the great publisher with kindling eyes. “That I am so favorably known, is due to your kindly articles in your inestimable paper, The Lounger, and your unbiased criticism of my poems, which brought me before the public, and I thank you most heartily for that generous criticism which was so judicious withal.” A little murmur of approval from his listeners greeted his last words.
“’Twas a pleasure, believe me, Mr. Burns,” he answered quietly, “to lend a helping hand to assist a struggling genius.”
“Thank ye,” said Robert, simply.
“I believe you have never met our esteemed contemporary, Mr. Sterne, author of ‘Tristam Shandy,’” observed Mr. Mackenzie, and he quickly made the introduction.
Robert turned quickly to the grave and dignified scholar. “Little did I ever dream,” he said fervently, “that I would one day meet and converse with my two favorite authors.”
A smile of gratified vanity overspread the rugged features of the scholar. “I am proud indeed,” he observed pompously, “if my book has found favor in your eyes, Mr. Burns.” And soon they had become engaged in an animated conversation, much to the chagrin of one of his admirers, who had been waiting patiently to be introduced. She had been mentally rehearsing her little speech for some time, and was now waiting for the opportunity to deliver it.
[201]
“No one would ever take him for a farmer,” she thought in open-mouthed, worshipful adoration.
“He looks quite like a gentleman,” said a haughty voice near her, in a tone of great surprise.
“Huh! he makes love to every woman he meets!” replied Sir William spitefully.
With a thrill of rapture at the thought, Eppy attracted the attention of Lady Glencairn, and whispered in that lady’s impatient ear, “Introduce me, please; I see Mr. Burns is regarding me very closely.”
Presently a lull occurred in the discussion, and Lady Glencairn smilingly introduced the garrulous old lady to the poet, as a “warm admirer of his poems.” “And of you, too,” eagerly interrupted Eppy, clasping his hand in both of her own. “Oh! I have longed for this moment, that I might clasp the hand of Scotia’s Bard, and tell him how I love him,”—she broke off with a smothered giggle. “I mean his poems; oh, they are too heavenly for utterance,” and she rolled her little gray eyes till only the whites showed. “Sibella—she’s my sister, and a dear creature if I do say so—and I have had many a lovely cry over them,” she rattled on hardly pausing for breath. “Ah, they have made us so happy. You must come and see her, won’t you, she’s a writer also, and you can have a sweet talk over your art. We belong to a literary family, you know. Rob Don, the Gaelic poet, belonged to our clan. We take[202] after him.” She smiled affectedly and batted her little eyes in what she fondly believed a very fetching manner.
Robert had vainly tried to edge in a word, and now stood listening to the silly prattle, a smile of amusement playing round his mobile mouth.
“A long way after,” observed Sir William dryly. Then he threw up his hands in dismay, for Eppy had started off again.
“Here I am rattling off a lot of nonsense,” she gurgled, “but I do enjoy your talking so much, Mr. Burns. I vow I could listen to it all day. I shall always remember this happy occasion of our meeting.” She stopped, out of breath, panting but happy.
Robert regarded her quizzically for a moment while an audible titter was heard throughout the rooms. “You quite overwhelm me, Miss McKay,” he drawled at last. “But I have nevertheless enjoyed conversing with you. Really, madam, I felt quite eloquent and did myself full justice,” and he bowed gravely.
“Oh, you flatterer!” tittered Eppy, slapping his arm coquettishly with her fan. “But I am not madam yet.” She ventured a quick look at Sir William.
“Robert, I have been requested to ask you to recite one of your favorite poems; will you honor us?” asked Lord Glencairn, coming forward.
[203]
At once there was a chorus of inanely polite voices. “Oh, do recite, Mr. Burns!” “Please give us ‘Tam O’Shanter’s Ride,’” etc., etc.
Robert slowly looked around him at the sea of faces, and suddenly a feeling of resentment filled his heart. Must he parade himself before these empty-headed noodles, who regarded him in the light of a curiosity, a plaything, to amuse them by his antics? Why didn’t they ask Mr. Mac............