The next morning dawned bleak and dismal. A damp, penetrating mist hung over the farm like a pall, and the chill of the rain-laden air penetrated into the rooms and made itself felt even by the side of the brightest fires. It affected the inmates of Ellisland farm to an alarming extent. They sat gloomily around the hearth idly watching the smoldering peat fire, which failed to send out much warmth—as if it, too, felt the depressing influences which surrounded the little household and which had plunged them all into such a slough of despond.
Robert had partaken of his bowl of porridge and now lay upon his bed, grateful for the added warmth of the woolen blankets which Jean had thrown over him with thoughtful solicitude. He appeared to the anxious watchers to be more like himself than he had been for some days, in spite of his restless, sleepless nights, as he lay there peacefully enjoying the antics of the children who were playing gleefully but quietly around the room their favorite game of “Blind man’s holiday.”
At sundown the night before Gilbert had hastened to the Inn to meet Squire Armour and to plead for another day’s grace, but the implacable old man[348] refused to listen to him when he found he had failed to bring the money, and stormily took his departure with threats of instant eviction, leaving Gilbert in a state of utter distraction. He watched the Squire ride furiously away in the direction of Mossgiel with a heavy, sinking fear at his heart, then slowly made his way, with pale face and clenched hands, back to his brother’s cottage, where he wrestled with the fears that assailed him in despairing silence. Several times during the night he was on the verge of saddling his horse and dashing home, but the hope that the morning would bring the long-expected letter to Robert checked the impulse, and so he sat the long night through anxiously waiting for the dawn, praying fervently that he might not be too late to save his dear ones from the vindictive anger, the unyielding resolution of their irate landlord.
And now morning was here at last. Robert had fallen into a profound slumber of nervous exhaustion. Jean tucked him in carefully with the warm blankets, and taking the children with her, quietly closed the door upon the sleeping man with a prayer of thankfulness for his temporary respite from the troubles that surged about his head.
When her duties were over and the children playing on the green, Jean took her sewing and joined Gilbert in the living room. He was walking restlessly up and down, with nervous, flashing eyes[349] that eagerly searched the road, as he passed and repassed the small window. His restless pacing, his look of hopeful anxiety smote Jean to the heart, for she had been bitterly resentful, and was still in a measure, against Gilbert’s selfishness in thinking only of his own extremity. It didn’t seem right or just that he should be here with outstretched hands, waiting to take the money that meant so much to their own struggling family at the present time, and without which she could only foresee grim want staring them all in the face—and she had to struggle with the desire that rushed over her to rise up and tell him of their bitter plight, to bid him go elsewhere for assistance; but the fear of Robert’s anger kept her silent. Then, too, she suddenly remembered that they had both kept their poverty and Robert’s continued ill luck and failures from the home folk, and it was only to be expected that Gilbert would naturally turn to his prosperous brother for assistance. “Prosperous, indeed! If he but knew,” and she sighed deeply, for her mother’s heart felt sore depressed as she thought of her own loved ones. They did not talk much. Each was too busy with his own gloomy thoughts.
In fancy, Gilbert could see Squire Armour at Mossgiel Farm, ordering out his mother and sister, watching them with sinister eyes as they got together their meager belongings, and then when they, with streaming eyes, had carried out the last piece of[350] furniture and stood gazing at the home that was no longer theirs, the cruel landlord had heartlessly laughed at their sorrow and, locking the door, had ridden away with the keys in his pocket, leaving them standing there not knowing whither to go nor where to find food or shelter.
“O God! Not that! Not that!” he cried aloud, pausing in his walk with clenched hands, pale and wild-eyed.
Jean looked up from her work in startled alarm. “Gilbert!” she cried. “What is it?”
With a little mirthless laugh, he told her of the vision he had had, told of his fears for the safety of his home and the welfare of his loved ones.
She listened with a feeling of shame at her heart and a flush of angry humiliation mantling her pale cheek.
“’Fore Heaven, it makes me feel like cursing even the memory of my father,” she exclaimed bitterly with a flash of her old-time imperiousness. “But be not alarmed, Gilbert,” she continued with an encouraging smile. “Your mother is a match even for my father, and I’ll warrant she’ll not let him set his foot inside the threshold till you return.” His face brightened.
“I had indeed forgot my mother’s independent, courageous spirit,” he replied with a sigh of relief and hopefulness.
The depressing gloom thus lifted, they soon drifted[351] into a friendly, earnest conversation, and the minutes sped by without, however, the looked-for interruption of the overdue postman.
Outside, the mist had long since been dispersed by the warm rays of the noonday sun, which was now shining brilliantly. A soft moisture glittered on every tiny leaf of the wild rose bushes which clustered beneath the window of the little cot, and on every blade of grass. The penetrating and delicious odor of sweet violets and blue-bells scented each puff of wind, and now and then the call of the meadow lark pierced the air with a subdued far-off shrillness. Suddenly the peaceful stillness was broken in upon by the sound of footsteps crunching slowly along the garden path on their way to the door of the cottage.
The Duke of Gordon and his daughter had arrived in Dumfries the night before, and, after a night’s rest, they took the coach to Ellisland and put up at the little old Inn. There they made inquiries for the whereabouts of the home of the poet of the little old man who was boastfully describing the splendors of MacDougall House, none other than our old friend Souter, once more in his breeches, having asserted his authority, much to his wife’s secret satisfaction, for “she did so love a masterful man.” Whereupon Souter condescendingly offered to conduct them to the place they sought. And now, as they looked at the poor clay biggin and the evidences of poverty[352] and neglect which surrounded them on all sides, their hearts sank within them.
“I suppose we will find Mr. Burns greatly changed?” said Nancy interrogatively with a little shudder of dread.
“Weel, mum,” replied Souter reflectively, “we all change in time, ye ken. Some for worse, like mysel’, and some for the better, like yoursel’, askin’ your pardon for my boldness. And ye ken Robbie’s life has been very hard these past few years.” He sighed and shook his head dolefully. “But I want to say right here,” and his heavy eyebrows drew together in a black scowl, “Robbie Burns’ sickness is na’ due to his drinkin’, as ye people of Edinburgh believe, and put in yer penny papers. Robbie is na drunkard. I hae known him from infancy, and I affirm that he has never been guilty of the gross enormities he has been charged with. He could always attend to his duties,” and he looked with aggressive suspicion into the downcast faces of his listeners for some sign of doubt of his assertion, which, though stanchly loyal, was not altogether true, as he knew only too well. “But there is nae use telling all ye know,” he told himself philosophically. “And what people don’t know about the food they eat, will no hurt their appetites.”
“I am very glad to hear that,” ejaculated the Duke warmly.
“An’ he is a fond father an’ a maist affectionate[353] husband,” continued Souter stoutly. “I’ll go in noo and tell him ye’re here,” and he strode into the house, leaving the couple standing in the path much to their astonishment.
“It doesn’t seem right, father,” said Lady Nancy sadly, “for such genius to dwell in that little hut, amid such surroundings. How I pity him.”
There was a suggestion of tears in the sweet voice which her fond father noticed with sudden apprehension. He looked at her closely.
“Who is to blame for his being here?” he retorted firmly. She remained discreetly silent. Then he continued in a softer voice, “But I mustn’t blame nor censure him, now that he is sick, and down at the bottom again. It is, indeed, a lasting pity that such genius should be allowed to smother here in poverty and among questionable companions, who, ’tis said, seek only to bring him to their level, and who, alas! are but too surely dragging him there, I fear, a weak, unresisting, but also a remorseful, repentant victim.”
“And must he stay on here, father, to die a poor exciseman?” asked Nancy with a strangely beating heart. “Even the added salary of the Supervisorship cannot be sufficient to keep such a family.” At that moment Souter opened the door. They turned to him quietly.
“Well, what says Mr. Burns?” asked the Duke impatiently.
[354]
A little smile of amusement appeared on Souter’s face. “Mr. Burns begs you to enter and to be seated,” he replied.
They complied with the injunction and were shown into the living-room, where they seated themselves.
“I was also to tell ye,” continued Souter dryly, “that he will be with ye as soon as he can get into his damned rags.”
“What!” exclaimed the Duke laughingly.
“Excuse me, your ladyship,” answered Souter with a little nod to Lady Nancy, “but them’s his own words and I’m no the one to change the language o’ a Scottish poet.”
“Has he only rags to wear?” asked Lady Nancy pitifully.
“Hush!” cautioned her father, “he is here.”
The door opened and Robert slowly entered the room. He had thrown his wide plaid around his shoulders, over his loose white shirt, and held it together with one hand that gleamed very white and thin against the bright colors. His black hair, now faintly streaked with gray and which had thinned considerably above his forehead, hung loosely about his neck, framing his gaunt face, and accentuating his pallor.
For a moment they gazed upon the wreck of the once stalwart and ruggedly healthy youth, too shocked to utter a word. Robert was the first to break the silence.
[355]
“My lord,” he exclaimed with something of his old brightness, “I am rejoiced, indeed, to see you at Ellisland. ’Tis a great surprise, but none the less a welcome one.” He shook the Duke’s outstretched hand with fervor.
“The pleasure is mutual, my lad,” responded the Duke warmly. “’Tis a few years now since we parted, and in anger, too.”
“I was in the wrong that night,” broke in Robert penitently, with a rueful shake of the head. “I sadly misjudged ye there, as I learned afterward, but my stubborn pride refused to accept the olive branch ye held out to me. Ye see,” he explained frankly, “’twas my unreasoning wounded pride and anger, and my disappointment which blinded me to all sense of right and justice. I realized after that ye were my friends and that ye resented the damning insult put upon me at Glencairn Hall.” He paused a moment, a frown of bitterness wrinkling his brow. Presently he looked up and holding out his hand again with one of the old magnetic smiles, said, “An’ ye have forgiven my ingratitude, an’ are come noo to see me! I thank ye.”
“’Tis all forgot. I forgave you at the time,” responded the Duke cordially. “I could not hold resentment against you.” He turned to his daughter, who was partly concealed in the embrasure of the deep window.
“Nancy, child, speak to Robert.” She came[356] slowly forward with hand outstretched, a faint flush dyeing her creamy skin, or perhaps it was the reflection of the pink satin gown she was wearing beneath the long velvet cloak, which, becoming unhooked, had slipped down off her shoulders.
Robert rose to his feet, and his black, gloomy eyes lighted up with pleasure as they rested upon the dainty vision of loveliness before him. Lady Nancy had always reminded him of Mary Campbell, and to-day the resemblance was more striking than ever. For beneath the large leghorn with its waving, black plumes, her golden hair so like Mary’s, for the once unpowdered, glittered in all its beauty. Perhaps my Lady Nancy had remembered the likeness and had purposely heightened it by forgetting to use the powder which had hitherto covered the golden curls at all times. As she stood there with a wistful look upon her face, it was easy to perceive the resemblance to the timid dairymaid who, in borrowed finery, had created such a sensation at the Duchess of Athol’s “at home” three years before.
“Lady Nancy, forgive my rudeness in not greeting you sooner,” he exclaimed fervently.
“I am so glad we are reconciled, friends, once more,” she exclaimed impulsively. “It did seem as if you would never relent, you stubborn man,” and she smiled archly into his embarrassed face.
“You find me greatly changed, of course,” he remarked after they had discoursed a while upon[357] their journey. She remained silent, but he read the sympathy shining in her blue eyes.
“We read of your illness in town,” explained the Duke, “and believe me, Robert, we are deeply sorry for your affliction. But I trust the vigor of your constitution will soon set you on your feet again,” and he gave him a cheery smile of encouragement.
Robert shook his head gloomily. “My health is, I think, flown from me forever,” he replied sadly, “altho’ I am beginning to crawl about the house, and once, indeed, have I been seen outside my cottage door.”
“Why didn’t you let us know of your illness before?” exclaimed Lady Nancy reproachfully. “We are your friends.”
Robert flushed painfully. “My miserable health was brought on and aggravated solely by my headstrong, thoughtless carelessness, and I felt so heartily ashamed of myself that I sought to conceal from all friends my real condition, but ’tis out at last. How long I will be confined to the house, God alone knows,” and he sighed deeply.
“Do not give yourself up to despondency, my lad,” encouraged the Duke brightly, “nor speak the language of despair. You must get well.”
“Indeed I must!” returned Robert grimly, “for I have three strong, healthy boys and if I am nipt off at the command of fate—gracious God! what[358] would become of my little flock?” and a look of distraction swept over his face at the thought.
“Don’t distress yourself needlessly, Robert!” exclaimed the Duke kindly. Then he continued earnestly, “If anything should happen to you, if you should be taken off before I am called, I promise that the children of Robert Burns shall never come to want.”
“’Twould be a lasting disgrace to Scotland,” flashed Lady Nancy with kindling eyes.
Robert grasped the Duke’s hand impulsively. “God bless ye for your noble assurance!” he cried. “Ye have lifted a heavy weight of care and anxiety off my mind.”
“Why, father!” suddenly exclaimed Lady Nancy, “I vow if you are not forgetting your principal errand here.” He looked at her with a puzzled frown. “Mr. Burns’ promotion,” she reminded him laughingly.
“Gad zooks!” he exclaimed in amazement, jumping to his feet. “What an old dolt I am, to be sure.” Hastily diving his hand in the inside pocket of his elaborate, black-flowered satin square-cut, he pulled out a long paper with a red seal attached and handed it to the now bewildered Robert, who, after a quick glance at their smiling faces, opened the paper and quickly read its contents. Then he gave a gasp, followed by an ejaculation of delighted surprise and gratification.
[359]
“My lord,” he exclaimed, “this is ............