The next day our hero was in better health and spirits, and insisted upon being up and dressed. Jean, not without secret misgivings, got him into his clothes and helped him to the rocking-chair, which she had drawn up to the open window. For a while he sat there in silent content, bathed in the warm, golden light of the morning sun, whose genial beams seemed to infuse new vigor into his languid frame, while the gentle summer wind blew upon him with its exhilarating, refreshing warmth. After Jean had performed her household duties she returned to find him playing happily with their two boys, telling them tale after tale, while they sat perched on either arm of the big rocker, their eyes popping out of their round, healthy faces with excited interest. He looked up as she entered and smiled into her anxious face. “Do not tire yourself, Robert,” she cautioned him gently. “Come, lads, run out doors and play a wee, your father is tired.” But they clung to him affectionately.
“One mair story,” they pleaded.
“Tell us aboot Tam O’Shanter’s ride!” commanded Robert, Jr., gravely. Jean sat down while[312] he recited the stirring tale, and watched her husband with eyes aglow with love and pity. How changed he was, she thought with a sigh. What havoc had been wrought in that sturdy frame, that fine constitution, in the once ringing tones of his musical voice. Alas, all had flown, but with God’s help she would win him back to health and strength once more, she told herself with resolute determination. As he finished he kissed the earnest faces held up to his with such worshipful affection, and with a serious “Thank ye, father,” they turned and marched quietly out of the room and into the open air, and soon their childish treble floated in through the open window, bringing a smile of amused affection to the faces of their parents.
“Now, Robert, ye must be tired out,” remarked Jean presently. “Will ye not try and get a nappie?”
“In a wee, Jean,” he answered, looking out of the window thoughtfully.
“Then you must have a bittie of gruel now,” she said, rising and going toward the door.
“Nay, nay, Jean, I thank ye, but I canna’ eat nor drink nor sleep just at present.”
“Then try and take a nappie,” she insisted, smoothing the pillows and sheets in anxious preparation.
“A little later, Jean,” he replied a trifle impatiently.
[313]
She sighed patiently. “Then I’ll leave ye for a while,” and she walked toward the door. “Ye’re quite comfortable?” she asked. He nodded. Slowly she closed the door upon him and applied herself to the task of getting the midday meal.
Presently, a knock on the door startled her, interrupting her meager preparations. Hastily wiping her hands on her apron, she opened it, and there on the threshold stood two richly dressed strangers. “From the city,” she mentally said, noticing the elegance of their attire.
Courteously raising his high conical blue silk hat, the younger man addressed her. “Is not this Mistress Burns, whom I have the honor to address?” he asked.
“I am Mistress Burns,” replied Jean with dignity.
“We have come to see your husband. Will you inform him, my dear madam, that his friend Henry Mackenzie would be pleased to converse with him.”
Jean opened wide the door, a look of pleasure on her face. “Please to enter,” she said quietly. They did so. She showed them into the living-room and bade them be seated. “Robert will be out directly,” she said, and hastily went to tell Robert of their arrival.
“So this is where Scotland’s Bard lives,” remarked Mr. Mackenzie, looking about the room critically. “This cheerless hut, which bespeaks naught but poverty. Poor Burns, I pity him.”
[314]
“’Tis all his own fault,” testily replied his companion.
“I am not so sure of that, Sir William,” said Mr. Mackenzie with a swift look at him. “I have always believed and maintained that Burns was innocent of that monstrous charge my Lady Glencairn brought against him, even though you did confess to being an eye witness of the occurrence. However, she has received her just deserts. She is at last totally ostracized.”
“Do ye mean to say——” sputtered Sir William.
Mr. Mackenzie raised his hand in a stately gesture. “I really do not care to discuss it, Sir William. But at last Edinburgh is beginning to realize how cruelly they have misjudged him, and they would welcome him back again, but I fear his pride and independence will prevent his accepting any assistance whatever.”
Sir William gave a snort of impatience. “I cannot waste my sympathy on him,” he said angrily. “I am dispatched here to do my duty, and I must do it,” and his mouth set in a straight, determined line.
“’Tis a duty that for once is uncommon pleasant to you,” replied Mackenzie sarcastically. There was silence for a moment, then he continued, “I take it, the decision of the Board is final?” he asked.
“Aye, ’tis irrevocable, sir,” replied Sir William gruffly.
[315]
“And he must live on here as a poor exciseman,” murmured Mackenzie half to himself. “Live! In sooth ’tis but an existence,” and he strode to the window in sudden perturbation and gazed thoughtfully out upon the untilled land.
The door of the chamber opened and Robert entered the room, a smile of pleasure lighting up his face. Mr. Mackenzie stepped eagerly forward and clasped his hand and shook it warmly.
“I am uncommon glad to see ye beneath my humble roof,” said Rob earnestly, “and that ye havena’ forgotten poor, hopeless Robert Burns.”
Mackenzie led him to a chair. “Indeed, I have not,” he replied brightly. “Believe me, Mr. Burns, when I say that I prize your friendship above that of all men I know.”
Robert was about to reply, when he caught sight of Sir William Creech watching them impatiently. He gave a great start and rose to his feet.
“Sir William Creech!” he said slowly and bitterly. “To what do I owe this visit?”
“I come on a matter of business,” replied Sir William, a flush rising to his cheek.
“What business can ye have with me noo?” asked Robert with rising anger. “Perjurer, have ye come to gloat over the man ye helped ruin by your iniquitous falsehood? It isna’ good news ye bring, I warrant ye, else ye would not be the bearer of it.” And he gave a scornful little laugh.
[316]
“Insulting as ever, Robert Burns,” snarled Sir William, a red spot of anger on each cheek, his eyes flashing wickedly. “Well, I’ll state my business briefly. Ye wrote to the Board of Commissioners for the position of supervisor in the excise. Your request has been voted on and was refused.” He spat the words out with vindictive satisfaction.
“Refused!” gasped Rob incredulously. He had felt so confident that the position would be given him. He sat down weakly in his chair, dazed for a moment. “But my name has been on the list of promotion for months,” he told them dully.
“’Twas scratched off some weeks ago.”
“Scratched off? and why?”
“Because of your Jacobite tendencies,” replied Sir William coldly. “Many reports concerning your disloyal sentiments to your country have reached the Board, which utterly ruined any chance ye might have had of promotion.”
Robert sat with bowed head, crushed by his disappointment. “Again must I drink deeply of the cup of humiliation and disappointment!” he cried bitterly. Presently he looked up at Mr. Mackenzie with a grim smile on his trembling face. “I am at last persuaded, Mr. Mackenzie, that it was of me the Hebrew sage prophesied when he foretold, ‘and behold, on whatsoever this man doth set his heart, it shall not prosper.’” His head dropped on his chest—his[317] hands clenched the sides of the chair with despairing intensity. Suddenly he jumped to his feet, his face set and drawn, his eyes wild and flashing with bitter anger. “My curse on those damned informers, who have blasted my hopes,” he exclaimed hoarsely. “May the devil be let loose to torture them to madness.” Then he sank down in his chair exhausted by his passion, his face pale and quivering.
Mr. Mackenzie hastened to his side, fearful of the consequences of the excitement on his frail constitution. Presently Robert spoke again, but in a weak, broken voice.
“My last hope is torn from me,” he said despairingly. “What shall I do now? Ah, Mr. Mackenzie, I have felt all the sweetness of applause in my short life, but I am now experiencing the bitterness of the after-taste.” And the pitiful little smile, the pathetic catch in his voice, strangely moved the heart of his listener.
“Pardon my question, Mr. Burns,” said he, “but surely the excise allows you a salary?”
Rob laughed mirthlessly. “Aye,” he replied, “the munificent sum of thirty pounds a year.”
“Thirty pounds a year!” repeated Mackenzie incredulously.
“Aye, only half of which I am getting now,” explained Robert bitterly. “Ye see I am ill and off duty.”
[318]
“And are there no royalties on your songs or published collection coming to you?”
“Ask Sir William,” retorted Robert bitterly.
“There is no demand for your poems since you left Edinburgh,” replied Sir William crustily. “The youth Walter Scott has taken your place in their regard. He shows a remarkable talent for rhyming.” And a malicious smile appeared on his crafty face as he noted the quick flush appear on the expressive countenance of the sick man.
His quivering features betrayed how deeply the barbed dart had entered his heart. He turned to Mr. Mackenzie with a resigned little gesture. “Ye see, sir,” he faltered with a pathetic smile, “how soon I am forgot.” He paused, and the weak tears of sickness welled up into his eyes; then he resumed with a shade of bitterness, “Scott is sure to succeed, for he is of noble birth. He’ll not be patronized, at least.”
Mr. Mackenzie had been thinking deeply, and now he turned to Robert with a resolute air. “Mr. Burn............