The next day a grand garden party was given at Glencairn Hall. All Edinburgh was invited, and they came eagerly to see the great poet, who was on the eve of leaving the social world to retire to his farm in Ayrshire, and to see Highland Mary, the dainty, flower-like sweetheart of their idol. The grounds looked very bright and gay. Refreshment booths of red and white canvas were dotted here and there on the smooth velvet lawns. Bright flags of all nations waved from different parts of the gardens—signals of putting, archery, and dancing—and the seductive music of the Queen’s theater orchestra rose up and joined the songs of birds and the tinkle of the fountains in full play. Girls in light summer costumes were grouped picturesquely beneath the stately oaks and beeches. Gay laughter echoed from the leafy shrubberies, and stray couples were seen sauntering carelessly through the rose gardens, too much absorbed in each other to notice what was going on around them. Presently out of the same rose garden a man walked hurriedly, followed by a woman, who quickly overtook him, to his perceptible annoyance. They were Sir William Creech and Eppy McKay. Eppy[247] looked exceedingly ugly in the full glare of the bright sun. She was dressed in a brilliant plaid gown, the style of which seemed to accentuate her angularity; and a huge Gainsborough hat was perched jauntily upon her towering court wig. Her small green eyes looked coquettishly at her irate companion. He stopped and glared at her fiercely.
“But I desire to take a smoke,” he said wrathfully.
“I don’t object to smoke, Sir William,” she tittered coyly.
He looked about him wildly as if seeking some means of escape from his admirer. “But I wish to be alone,” he cried almost pleadingly.
She opened her eyes and regarded him reproachfully. “Oh, you are joking, Sir William, but you cannot scare me away.”
With a groan of despair he continued his walk, hoping to escape from his persistent admirer. “Great heavens! I’ll go daft yet,” he muttered as he perceived her close at his elbow. For a few minutes he puffed furiously at his pipe, casting angry glances from time to time at his unwelcome companion, who trotted along so contentedly at his side. Finally Sir William concluded that he could not elude her attentions for the time being, so decided to make the best of the infliction. “Do I go too fast for you?” he asked maliciously, as he heard her puffing away vigorously beside him.
[248]
“No, indeed,” she replied with a little breathless giggle. “You couldn’t go too fast for me, for I am as light and quick on my feet as ever I was. In faith, why shouldn’t I be?” she continued gayly. “I am only 32. You see I am so much younger than you.”
He snorted angrily. “Well, you don’t look it,” he retorted. She stopped short and looked at him in amazed indignation.
“What?” she quavered, a little out of breath, “I don’t look younger than you?”
At the sign of approaching tears, Sir William frowned impatiently. “I mean you don’t look—32,” he said diplomatically.
She simpered and thanked him for the compliment.
He smiled grimly as he said to himself, “She’s over 60 if she’s a day.”
“They all tell me I don’t look my age,” she said gushingly. “It’s my artistic soul that keeps me so young and fresh-looking.” They sat down on a bench, glad of the opportunity to cool themselves after their strenuous walk. “Do you know,” she said dreamily, fanning herself, “I am very different from most artistic people.” He looked at her. “Oh my, yes, indeed!” she affirmed convincingly. “I don’t live in the clouds, I am of the earth earthy,” and she gave him another languishing look.
“Ye don’t tell me,” he retorted mockingly.
“But I love art,” sighed Eppy ecstatically.[249] “When I was young,” she went on reminiscently, “I mean when I was younger,” she corrected herself with a startled look at her silent companion, “I came near having a painting from my own hand hung in the National Gallery.”
“You are a clever woman,” he remarked sarcastically.
“It was this way,” she explained volubly. “I had painted a lovely marine. I do marines much better than anything else,” with a self-conscious smirk, “and upon showing it to Mr. William Nichol, a dear man, but one who drinks to excess, he promised to mention it to the Lord Mayor. Well, it made me exceedingly nervous, I vow. However, I bought a most lovely frame for it, Nile green in color, with sweet red plush ends.” She cleared her throat affectedly and continued with evident delight. “I do like things to match,” she explained, “and the green was the exact shade of the water. It was simply exquisite.” She clasped her hands together and rolled her eyes heavenward. “And the red ends exactly matched the cow, which was a lovely shade of——”
“Cow?” echoed Sir William in amazement. “Did I hear you say cow?”
Eppy looked at him pettishly. She didn’t like to be so violently interrupted. “Certainly a cow,” she returned frigidly. “Is there anything strange in a cow?” and she drew herself up with an injured air.
[250]
“No, there’s nothing strange in a cow when it is by itself,” replied Sir William dryly, “but in a marine, well, it is a little hard on the cow.”
“You don’t know what you are saying, Sir William,” flashed Eppy indignantly. “Please don’t interrupt me again. The cow I have reference to was in one corner drinking. I heard Lady Nancy Gordon telling Mrs. McLehose that the cow looked as if it were trying to drink the ocean dry; the idea!” and she clucked her tongue against her teeth in contemptuous scorn. “She’s a cat,” she continued spitefully; “I never could bear her. She was uncommon jealous of me, yes, indeed, but that’s another matter.”
Sir William turned crimson, and seemed about to choke, as he tried to smother his laughter. “You were telling me about your marine,” he finally stuttered.
“Don’t hurry me, Sir William,” said Eppy coquettishly. “Well, I took it to Lord Mundobbo. You know whom I mean; at that time he had something to do with the National Gallery; Mr. Nichol didn’t inform me as to his exact connection with it.” She paused and gazed soulfully into space. “Shall I ever forget the day? The sun was high in the heavens—but there,” she broke off with a deprecating smile. “I really must restrain my poetic impulse. But as I was saying,” she rambled on quickly, “the sky was overcast and threatening snow——”
[251]
“I thought the sun was shining, Miss McKay,” interrupted Sir William gruffly.
She was beginning to get on his nerves again. “I am a little mixed in my metaphors,” apologized Eppy condescendingly, “but you flustrate me so, Sir William,” and she tapped him playfully with her fan. “Well, I felt that victory was mine. I took off the paper—it was pink, tied with a yellow string—and laid it before him.” She paused impressively, then she continued in an elocutionary tone of voice. “He gazed at it long and silently. He was simply speechless. I knew he’d be. I said to him, ‘Lord Mundobbo, as much as it grieves me to part with my—ahem—masterpiece, for the sake of art I will permit you to add it to the collection of paintings in the National Gallery.’ Said he, ‘Miss McKay, really I appreciate this honor you do me and the National Gallery. It is a masterpiece of its kind, but I cannot accept it.’”
“The brute!” exclaimed Sir William in mock anger. “Why not?”
“He said if I would change the ocean into a fresh water pond and give the cow a chance, he might consider it,” and Eppy tearfully regarded her now laughing companion with an aggrieved air.
“Did ye do it?” inquired Sir William, rising to his feet.
“Did I do it!” repeated Eppy with horror expressed in every tone of her voice, every feature of[252] her pointed face. “No, sir,” she replied emphatically. “Never would I willingly spoil a work of art. That was my first and only. I couldn’t improve on it. But my artistic soul was smothered, and now another, a poetic spirit has taken its place.” She smiled dreamily, a sigh of content escaping her parted lips.
“A case of the survival of the fittest, eh?” he retorted brusquely.
For a moment they walked on in silence, Sir William wondering how to get rid of the incubus, and Eppy happy over the impression she fondly imagined she had made upon Sir William. Just then a bend in the avenue brought them in full view of the broad terrace in front of the hall, where Robert’s handsome figure was outlined clearly against the dazzling blue of the sky. Several people were grouped near him. He seemed to be in animated conversation with some of them, and his face was radiant with smiles. With a cry of delight, Eppy hurried forward to greet him, forgetting Sir William utterly, much to his amazement. That she, or anyone, would dare leave him so unceremoniously to join Robert Burns angered him beyond measure. He followed her slowly at some little distance, with no very pleasant expression on his stern features.
Later in the afternoon when it was close to sunset, and all other amusements had given way to the delight of dancing Sir Roger de Coverly on the[253] springy green turf to the silvery music of the orchestra, Mary and Mrs. Dunlop put in their appearance. Mary was looking very beautiful in a clinging, old-fashioned white crepe de chene, another old relic of Mrs. Dunlop’s dead and gone slim youth. While they danced, she reclined languidly in a low chair, her sad eyes fixed mournfully upon Robert’s glowing face as he lay stretched in lazy length at her feet. The day had passed and still she had had no opportunity to tell him the dire news, for she had not seen him since the night before.
While the dancing was in progress a liveried page walked noiselessly over the turf and stopping beside the recumbent figure of the poet, quietly handed him a note. He leisurely opened it and read it at a glance. “Say I’ll be right there,” he said to the waiting page after a moment’s meditation. He excused himself to Mary and the others and followed the man indoors, with a frown of impatient wonder clouding his brow.
Under the shadow of a noble maple, Lady Glencairn was seated in earnest conversation with her uncle. Her ladyship was looking exceedingly beautiful in a pink-flowered summer silk, which puffed and billowed around her, with a bunch of white heather at her breast and a wreath of the same dainty flowers in her picturesque Leghorn hat. She held a pink-lined parasol over her head, and from under the protecting shadow her dark lustrous eyes flashed disdainfully[254] as she regarded her scolding companion. Suddenly she gave a start and leaned forward to watch the group opposite. She had noticed the quiet entrance of the servant and the immediate departure of the poet, and idly wondered who it was that desired to see Robert on such urgent business that they must needs follow him here. The minutes passed and still he did not return. She was growing anxious. “Suppose”—and she started violently at the sudden thought—“suppose it was by some unfortunate chance Jean Armour herself?” She rose quickly to her feet, with a word of apology and after a quick look around, in which she noticed Mary’s pale face and restless manner, she walked leisurely toward the house. Once inside she rang for the page and upon questioning him learned that the young woman who had insisted on seeing Mr. Burns, and who was none other than Jean Armour, as she concluded from the man’s description, had just gone, and that Mr. Burns was now seated in the drawing-room alone. Hastily dismissing him, she stole softly into the parlors, and there beside the table, his face in his hands, sat Robert, his shoulders heaving convulsively. She looked at him a moment and the tears of pity came into her luminous eyes. Then softly she walked to his side and laid her cool hand upon his feverish head. “Robert, I am so sorry for you,” she said gently.
He lifted his head with a start and rose quickly[255] to his feet. It didn’t occur to him to ask what she meant or to inquire how she knew what had happened in that room, and she was secretly glad that he demanded no explanation. “Where is she?” he asked dully.
“She has gone,” she answered quickly. “I—I met her at the door and offered to assist her, gave her money and advised her not to make any unnecessary scandal in town, but to return to her home at once. You know she is my godchild. So she promised to go, and I presume she is now on her way.” She looked him straight in the eyes as she glibly told this falsehood. She didn’t know what arrangements he had made with Jean, but she daringly made the lying explanation, confident that he would believe it, for he could have no possible reason for suspecting her motives, or any means of finding out at present that she had not indeed met Jean, who might have altered her plans at the last moment.
A look of anger came over his face for a moment, then as quickly died away, and his eyes filled with a hopeless, despairing look. He walked slowly to the window, his hands clenched together behind him, and stood there, pale and miserable and wretched, gazing out upon the scene of happiness he had just left.
Lady Glencairn watched him with eyes filled with passion, and her heart beat with painful thuds as she fought against the desperate longing to throw herself into his arms and comfort him. She glided[256] quickly to his side and put her hand gently within his arm and stood there in sympathetic silence although she was consumed with jealousy as she watched his melancholy eyes riveted on the fair face of his lost sweetheart. For a while they stood there in gloomy quiet. Presently a deep, heartrending sigh, which was almost a sob, escaped his trembling lips.
“An’ we were so happy a few minutes ago,” he murmured brokenly. “An’ noo ’tis all over.” He paused and bit his lips convulsively. Presently he went on in a dull, low tone as if speaking to himself, “How true it is, there’s many a slip ’twixt cup and lip.” Lady Glencairn pressed his arm tenderly, but remained silent. “What have I to live for noo?” he continued with despairing mournfulness.
“Everything, Robert,” murmured her ladyship tenderly, gazing up into his face with glittering eyes.
He turned and looked at her in wonder. As he saw the feverish flush on her face, felt her hot breath on his cheek, he remembered with a start her peculiar words and meaning looks at Athol Castle the night before. Lady Glencairn noted with apprehension the look of stern coldness spread quickly over his face, and the nervous tears of disappointment and passionate longing welled up in her eyes. Then with reckless abandon she dropped her head against his shoulder and let the tears flow unrestrainedly. For a[257] moment Robert stood there speechless with surprise and horror, for he knew at last that what he had vaguely feared was an indisputable fact; knew that his hostess, the wife of his dearest friend and counsellor, entertained a guilty passion for him. It filled him with righteous anger that she would willingly betray the love and confidence of the noblest gentleman in the kingdom. He placed the weeping woman in a chair and stood looking down upon her with a frown of displeasure. “Lady Glencairn,” he said coldly, “if these tears are for my unhappy fate, I thank ye for your sympathy.”
She caught his hand and held it tightly within her arm. “Oh, no, no, Robert, ’tis not that,” she whispered passionately. “Do you not remember the Lady of the Lake I told you of last evening?” He made no reply. Then she continued slowly, her voice low and shaking, “Read my fate in that of hers.”
Still he would not understand her. “I fear I do not understand your meaning, my lady,” he replied, trying to withdraw his hand from her grasp, but she held it firmly.
“Cannot your heart understand mine?” she cried recklessly. “Does it not pity my wretchedness?”
He was silent for a moment. He knew he could no longer parry with her, for her words and meaning were too plain to admit of any misunderstanding. He turned to her, his face set and firm. “Lady Glencairn,” he said sternly, “you dishonor yourself[258] by such madness, and all for naught. My heart is noo numb with sorrow, it could feel no throb of yours, even were I vile enough to see no evil in usurping your husband’s rights.”
“Do not remind me of my unhappiness!” she exclaimed impatiently. “I married him when I was a girl, before I knew what love was. Then you came into my life, and I knew that the fire of love was not dead within me.” Her rich seductive voice trembled with passion.
“I pray you cease!” he entreated her, but she went on rapidly.
“Let me speak, Robert!” she cried, clinging to him frantically. “I can no longer contain myself, for I love you better than my life, better than my honor, my good name; I care not for them now. Oh, pity me, pity me!” and she flung herself down on her knees before him and burst into a storm of irrepressible weeping.
Robert looked around apprehensively. The thought that someone might suddenly enter the room filled him with alarmed dismay. With a quick movement he raised her to her feet, and his voice trembled with deep feeling when he next spoke. “I do pity you,” he said sorrowfully, “but I pity your husband more, when he learns of your faithlessness.” He paused and regarded her with reproachful sadness. “Oh, why have you severed forever the threads of our friendship by such imprudence, such rashness?”[259] As he finished he bowed his head and walked slowly toward the door.
“Do not leave me like this!” she panted desperately. “Can’t you see you are killing me by your coldness.” She held out her arms in piteous entreaty as she continued tenderly, “Tell me you didn’t mean it, Robert. Say you are but testing my love for you.”
He turned on her quickly and at his look of contemptuous scorn she drooped her head and the hot blood rushed to her face. “Are you lost to all sense of prudence, honor and decency?” he cried in scathing accents. “Heaven knows I’m no moralist, no saint,” and he gave a mirthless little laugh as he thought of the opinion Edinburgh had formed concerning his morality—then he went on firmly, solemnly, “But I would sooner cut this erring heart of mine out of this body than fall so low as to betray the honor of my friend who trusts me.” She started to speak again, but he raised his hand quickly. “Say no more, Lady Glencairn,” he said with calm dignity, “an’ I’ll forget this distressing conversation, and continue thro’ life to respect equally with himself, the wife of my friend.”
Slowly the warm color faded from her cheeks, leaving her ashy pale, while through her suddenly narrowed eyelids a vindictive light gleamed tigerishly.
“You’ve said enough!” she hissed through her[260] clenched teeth. “I have lowered myself to you as I would to no other man living, only to be scorned and humiliated. God!” she laughed wildly, hysterically, and threw herself face downward upon the ottoman. “Fool, fool!” she cried with bitter self-abasement. “How I hate and despise myself for what I have done; would I had died before I had uttered such damning words,” and she beat her jeweled hands frantically against the cushions.
“I beseech you to be careful, Lady Glencairn,” cried Robert in amazed alarm, going to her.
She turned on him fiercely. “You, of all men, posing as a model of virtue and goodness, prating of husband’s honor, wife’s duty.” She measured him with a scornful, sneering glance of fury. “You, who have the name of making love to every female in petticoats who crosses your path, you hypocrite!”
Robert fixed his eyes upon her in silence and the utter scorn of the look stung her heart to its center. Presently he controlled his anger sufficiently to be able to speak, and still eying her with that straight, keen look of immeasurable disdain, he said in cold, deliberate accents, “Your ladyship has been misinformed as to my past conduct. I do not claim to be more than human, but I know my name is as yet clear from the taint of dishonor.”
“You poor fool, you country yokel!” she stormed furiously, walking up and down between him and[261] the door like a caged lioness. “Did you think you could scorn such a woman as I with impunity? Do you think I will stand the humiliation of being repulsed, despised, shamed? I tell you no, no, never; ’tis but a step from love to hate, you should know that.” She paused in her nervous walking and stood facing him, her eyes ablaze with the uttermost anger, her beautiful figure drawn rigidly erect. “You shall be made to feel the depth of my hatred before long, Robert Burns,” she threatened, and there came a dangerous gleam in the flashing, dark eyes.
“I shall leave Edinburgh within the hour,” replied Robert quietly. Was there ever such another unfortunate being as himself? he thought grimly, and a wave of unutterable sadness rushed over him.
“Aye, that you will,” retorted her ladyship with a sneering, bitter laugh. “But not as you anticipate, with the plaudits of the world ringing in your ears. Instead of that, only contemptuous silence will greet your departure as you leave here in shame and disgrace, and when you have sunk once more into poverty and oblivion, you will repent bitterly ever having made an enemy of Alice Glencairn.” As these words left her lips, she swept haughtily past him like an outraged queen and left the room, leaving him standing there like one in a trance.
He brushed his hands across his eyes as if to assure himself that he was awake, that he wasn’t the subject[262] of some hideous hallucination, but no, he was painfully conscious of the reality of it all. He heaved a deep sigh and sank wearily into a chair, his eyes riveted upon the floor in melancholy meditation. A little cry aroused him from the profound gloom into which his thoughts were plunged and looking fearfully up, dreading lest her ladyship had returned, his eyes rested upon the white, startled face of Highland Mary. She had watched him leave the grounds with listless curiosity, which changed to wonder and dismay when Lady Glencairn rose from her seat and sauntered toward the hall. For some minutes she nervously sat there wondering vaguely why he stayed so long and why her ladyship had followed him. Presently she rose and mechanically made her way over the springy sward toward the house. She couldn’t have told why she went or what she intended to do. She wondered in a vague way if Robert’s message could in any way concern Jean, but her thoughts dwelt longer upon the suspicions that had been raised in her innocent heart against her beautiful hostess, for she had recognized her as the bogus Lady Nancy in spite of the disguising mask, suspicions that filled her with uneasiness and alarm; and yet why should she be jealous? She told herself sadly she had renounced him forever, given him back to Jean, and in a few days she would pass out of his life forever. Oh, the agony that pierced her heart at the recollection of her past happiness! How[263] fleeting it had been—scarcely a week. She had drawn near the window by this time quite unconsciously. Suddenly the sound of voices within the room made her pause. She had not thought to listen nor meant to, but when she heard the passionate pleading voice of her ladyship and the stern replies from Robert, a feeling of fascinated horror took possession of her, rooting her to the spot. Motionless she stood there and heard all that passed within the room. And when the voices stopped and all was deathly still, she peered through the window. At the sight of her dear one sitting there all alone, with that look of intense suffering on his face, her heart cried out to him in sympathy. Quickly she opened the high French window and noiselessly stepped into the room. For a moment she stood watching him, her eyes filled with patient sorrow, infinite pity, and a world of loving compassion. Involuntarily a deep sigh escaped her. As he raised his head she went quietly up to him and placed a tender hand upon his arm. After one quick, heart-broken look at her he buried his face in his hands again.
“Dinna distress yoursel’, laddie; I have known since last night at Athol Castle that our happy dream was ended.” She felt him stiffen beneath her touch. “Jean came to me in the gardens,” she explained with patient resignation. “I should have told ye last night, for she was waiting for ye to come to her, but I—I hadna’ the courage.”[264] There was silence for a moment, then he spoke in a low, spiritless tone.
“Jean said that ye knew all,” he said without looking up. They remained quiet after that, plunged in bitter thought. There was nothing they could say to comfort each other, the wound was bleeding too freely as yet. Presently Robert raised his head, and with a despairing gesture pushed the heavy curls back from his fevered brow and rose unsteadily to his feet. They must get away at once, he thought feverishly. He took Mary by the hand and started for the door, when from the open window he heard his name called. Turning apprehensively he beheld Sir William Creech entering, followed by Lord Glencairn and several of his guests. In his hand Sir William held a newspaper, while a hard smile of triumph wrinkled his stem face.
“I told ye, Robert Burns, ye would overreach yourself,” he cried jubilantly, shaking the newspaper at him.
Robert looked at him apathetically. “Ye were ever a bird of ill omen,” he said quietly. “What have I done noo?”
“You have seen fit to sign your name to an article in this paper, which has aroused the indignation of all Edinburgh,” replied Sir William without any preamble. “’Tis a most seditious article and shows that ye have embraced the doctrines of the French Revolution.”
“A man has a perfect right to his opinion,” said[265] Mrs. Dunlop decidedly, giving Sir William a scornful look.
“Indeed he has,” echoed Eppy, nodding her head briskly. “I mean to stick to mine.”
Lord Glencairn turned and looked searchingly at Robert’s pale, gloomy face. “Is that true, Robert?” he asked gently.
Robert did not reply. He seemed not to hear, in fact.
“’Tis a most serious charge, Mr. Burns,” remarked Mr. Sterne gravely.
“If it be true,” retorted Mr. Mackenzie loyally.
“Which is not at all likely,” flashed Eppy indignantly.
She would believe nothing wrong of her hero, even if it were proven in black and white.
“But listen!” continued Sir William eagerly. He scanned the article through quickly until he found what he sought. “Ah, here it is. It is stated here that Mr. Burns refused to stand up in the theater recently when ‘God save the King’ was being played,” and he glared about him indignantly.
A quiet sneer curled Robert’s............