Later that day two men might have been seen galloping their horses at full speed toward the little house on the hillside. They were determined, resolute looking men, evidently bent on serious purpose. Finally they reached the gate, and dismounting made their way to the door, the elder man insisting loudly upon accompanying the other, much to his visible annoyance. “There is no need for secrecy, Gilbert Burns,” said he grimly, and he followed him into the house and to the room where Robert sat with pencil in hand vainly courting his Muse. Jean, who was busily engaged in sewing, jumped to her feet with a little cry of amazement upon seeing her father before her. Robert held out his hand to his brother in delighted surprise, mixed with anxiety.
“Brother!” he cried, “what brings ye to Ellisland in such haste? Is it bad news? Mother, our sisters, are they ill?”
“Nay,” replied Gilbert constrainedly. “They are all well, Rob, and have sent their love to yourself and family.”
“Thank God for that,” responded Robert thankfully.[327] There was a little embarrassed silence, then Gilbert spoke again.
“Robert, we—we are in sore trouble,” he confessed, his face anxious and troubled.
“Trouble!” echoed Rob blankly. “What is wrong, brother?”
“I cannot hold Mossgiel any longer,” he replied, dejectedly. “The farm is but a wretched lease, as ye know, an’ I canna’ weather out the remaining year. Without assistance, Robert, I canna’ hope to hold our little family together any longer.”
Robert’s heart sank within him as he heard the direful news. He glanced at Squire Armour apprehensively. “And Squire Armour?” he interrogated with an angry glance at that gentleman, who stood with a sneering smile on his harsh face, taking in the evidences of poverty that surrounded them. And with never a word of love or pity, nor of greeting to his daughter who sat there with white face and longing eyes, waiting to hear some news from her stern, implacable father, of her loving mother at home.
“I have bought the lease of Mossgiel,” he growled, “an’ if your brother canna’ pay up the back rent, which is long past due, I shall seize everything and turn the whole lot of them out, every one.”
Robert looked at him a moment in scornful silence. Presently he spoke, and the cutting sarcasm of his voice caused the old Squire to wince and drop his eyes.
[328]
“Ye are a most just, square, God-fearin’ man, Squire Armour,” he said. “The Kirk should be proud of ye.” Turning to Gilbert, he asked him the amount of his debt.
“Only a matter of ￡4, brother,” he replied, “but ’tis a fortune to me at present.”
“An’ I must have the money to-day or the farm, I care not which.”
“Oh, father!” cried Jean, going to him, “do not be hard on him; he will pay you; only give him time.”
“Jean!” flashed Robert angrily, “dinna’ stoop to ask mercy of that mon, even though he be your own father.” Jean turned away with a sigh.
Squire Armour laughed derisively. “Ye’ll both be on your knees before long, I’ll warrant,” he cried harshly, “asking favors of me, especially when ye have naught to feed a starving family. Ye have made yoursel’ a fine, comfortable bed, my lassie, havena’ ye?” He sneered sarcastically, turning to his shrinking daughter. “But ’tis made, and ye can lie on it, ye ungrateful minx.”
Robert rose quickly to his feet, his eyes flashing dangerously.
“Stop! Squire Armour!” he commanded. “Dinna’ dare to use such language to my wife in my own house, or weak, sick, and crippled as I am, I will throw ye into the road like the cur that ye are.” He stopped, breathless with indignation. Presently[329] he resumed with immeasurable scorn in his vibrating voice, “An’ they call such men as ye Christians! A sneaking, crawling, psalm-singing, canting hypocrite! Faugh! Were I the Lord, I would sicken at sight of ye.” He turned away and sat down beside his now weeping wife, and there was pity and compassion in the look he bestowed upon her.
“I’ve had enough of your blasphemy, Robert Burns. If ye canna’ pay the rent for your brother, my business is elsewhere.”
“I had no one else to turn to in this, my hour of trouble,” murmured Gilbert brokenly. “If ye can help me without impoverishing yoursel’, for God’s sake do it, or I shudder to think what will become of the dear ones at home.”
Robert was silent. He thought with anxious loving concern of his own little flock, of the slender resources at his command, of the gravity of his own situation, sick as he was and with such gloomy prospects staring him in the face—and yet was he not better off after all than they at Mossgiel? Had he not his salary, small as it was, and the promise of the supervisorship, besides the money that Thompson would pay him for his poem? He had much to thank God for, he thought gratefully.
“I see ’tis no use delaying longer,” said Armour, looking at the serious, downcast faces before him. “I have given ye fair warning, Gilbert Burns, an’ noo I’ll go.”
[330]
He had reached the door, when Robert spoke quietly but firmly. “Wait!” he called. “Ye shall have the money, ye Shylock.”
“Thank God!” cried Gilbert with a loving glance at his brother’s calm face.
Jean looked at him in speechless amazement. What did he mean? How could he help others when they were in such dire need themselves? she asked herself apprehensively.
“Robert,” she whispered anxiously, “ye dinna’ ken what ye say.”
“My brother will meet ye at sundown, at the Inn,” continued Robert without heeding her warning, although his face took on a whiter hue. “He will bring ye every farthing of what is due ye. Noo go; there is the door; your business here is ended. Ye have brought naught but misery and trouble into my life by your unreasonable hatred o’ me, but the time will come, Squire Armour, when all the unhappiness and suffering ye have caused me and mine will rise up before ye like a hideous phantom, robbin’ ye of all peace o’ mind on earth, and your hopes of salvation hereafter.” He drew nearer the gaping man, who was regarding him with angry, sullen eyes, and continued with a bitter, unforgiving intensity that filled his listeners with awe and horror, “An’ when ye feel the chill icy hand of grim death clutching at your heart, ye’ll cry out for the sympathy and love of those whom ye cast out of your life, but[331] ye’ll cry in vain, an’ ye’ll die as ye have lived, a miserable wretched ending to a miserable selfish life.”
As he finished his grim prophecy, Squire Armour gave a cry of nervous fear, and with blanched face and wild eyes he strove to speak, but the words would not pass his white, trembling lips. Finally he gasped in a frightened whisper which gradually rose to angry defiance:
“How dare ye! How dare ye say such things to me, Robert Burns? I willna’ die like that and ye canna’ frighten me with your grim forebodings.” He paused and glanced at them all in turn, then hastily opened the door. Just as he was stepping out, he turned slowly and looked at the white, patient face of his daughter. For a moment he regarded her in silence, then with a visible effort he addressed her.
“Jean,” he said, and his voice was noticeably softer, “ye are welcome to come back to your home.” He cast a quick look at the lowering face of his son-in-law and added vindictively—“alone.”
“Nay, never alone, father,” replied Jean sadly, looking at her husband’s frowning face.
The old man turned with sudden fury upon them. “I’ll wait till sundown for my money,” he shouted, “but not a minute longer!” and he closed the door behind him with a vicious slam.
Gilbert was first to break the depressing silence[332] that ensued. He felt vaguely that all was not so well with his brother as he had been led to believe.
“Forgive me, brother,” he murmured contritely, “for bringing this trouble on ye.”
“Never mind, Gilbert; it was to be, I ken,” answered Rob absently.
Gilbert was silent a moment. “But the money, Robert, is it—are ye——” he stammered, then stopped in embarrassed confusion.
“’Tis the sum I expect from the sale of a poem. Jean, see if there is aught of the Posty.” She rose and went to the window and peered anxiously down the dusty road.
“I didna’ have the ready money with me,” went on Robert lightly, as if it were a matter of small importance, “or I would have fixed it up at once. But ye shall hae the money, ladd............