in a sequestered spot beside the brook which runs through the lower end of the big field at mossgiel farm, robert sat dreamily watching the shallow brook at his feet slowly trickle along over the stones. he had left the field, his heart filled with anger against his brother, who had been reproving him for his thoughtlessness, his absent-mindedness; but gradually his temper had melted, and removing his bonnet from his fevered brow, he had given himself up to his reveries. a little later gilbert found him there, his loose unbleached linen shirt open at the neck, eagerly writing on a scrap of paper he held in his hand.
the last few weeks gilbert had thrown off his cloak of habitual reserve, and had treated his brother with less harshness, less severity. he had watched the slowly drifting apart of the lovers with wonder and delight. could it be that they were tiring of each other? he asked himself over and over again. if that were so then perhaps some day—but he would not permit himself to think of the future. he would be happy in the present. for he was comparatively happy now, happier than he had ever expected to be. since robert’s avoidance of her, mary had again[109] turned to him for sympathy, and once more they were on their old friendly footing. true she was a sad, despondent companion, but he was blissfully happy just to walk beside her from kirk, to listen to the sound of her sweet voice, even though his brother was the only topic of conversation, to feel the touch of her little hand as he helped her over the stile. he thought of all this now as he regarded his brother in thoughtful silence. presently he called his name. receiving no answer, he strode through the overhanging willows and touched him quietly on the shoulder.
with a start robert looked up into his brother’s face, then he turned slowly away. “what is wrong noo, gilbert?” he asked bitterly. “it seems i will be doing nothing right o’ late.”
“nothin’ is wrong, lad,” replied gilbert, his face reddening. “i—i only came to tell ye i am sorry i spoke sae harshly to ye just noo.”
“say no more, brother,” replied robert quickly, rising with outstretched hand, his face bright and smiling. so ready was he to forgive any unkindness when his pardon was sought. “’tis all forgot. i ken i do try your patience sore wi’ my forgetfulness and carelessness, but i couldna’ help it. the voice of the goddess muse, whom i adore, suddenly whispered in my ear and i forgot my work, my surroundings, and stood enraptured, entranced behind my patient steed, catchin’ the thoughts and fancies that were tumblin’, burstin’ from my brain, eager to be let[110] loose, and this is the fruit o’ my inspiration almost perfected.” he handed his brother the paper on which he had been writing.
“is it a song of harvesting?” asked gilbert sarcastically without glancing at it.
“nay,” replied robert softly. “’tis called the ‘cotter’s saturday night,’ an’ ye will recognize, no doubt, the character and the theme, for ’tis partly of our own and of our father’s life i have written. ’tis my best work, gilbert, i ken truly.” he eagerly watched his brother’s face as he slowly read the verses through.
“may the light of success shine on it,” he said kindly, when he had finished. “but it seems o’er doubtful noo that the world will e’er see this, or any of your verses, for not a word hae ye heard from edinburgh since ye sent sir william creech your collection of poems.”
robert raised his head and regarded his brother in despairing hopelessness. “i ken it weel, brother,” he replied. “and my heart grows sick and weary, waitin’, waitin’, for tidings, be they good or bad. two lang months have passed since i sent him my collection, an’ still not a word, not a sign. nae doubt they were thrown in a corner, overlooked an’ neglected.” for a moment he stood there gazing across the fields, his vision blurred by the tears of disappointment which filled his eyes. “oh, why did lord glencairn raise my hopes so high?” he cried passionately,[111] “only to have them dashed to the ground again.” gilbert remained silent, his eyes cast down. the sight of his brother’s misery touched him keenly. but there was nothing he could say. “i believed him and trusted to his honor, his promise,” continued robert dejectedly, “an’ for what?” he put on his bonnet and clasping his hands behind him in his characteristic attitude, slowly walked toward the cottage, a prey to his gloomy thoughts.
“be patient, rob, yet a while,” said gilbert encouragingly, as he walked along beside him. “who kens what the morrow will bring forth?”
“the morrow?” repeated robert grimly. “methinks i’ll ne’er know peace an’ tranquillity again on this earth.”
they strode on in silence. as they neared the cottage gilbert laid his hand on his brother’s shoulder, bringing him to a standstill. “robert,” he said quietly and firmly, “i want to speak to ye about mary.”
robert turned his head away abruptly. “what of her?” he asked in a low voice.
“what are your intentions toward her?” demanded gilbert earnestly. “do ye intend to marry her, or are ye but triflin’ idly wi’ her affections?”
robert turned on him quickly. “triflin’?” he repeated indignantly. “nay, gilbert, ye wrong me deeply.”
“forgive me, but ye ken mary is not like other[112] lassies to think lightly o’,” said gilbert, his eye searching his brother’s face keenly.
“heaven forbid,” ejaculated robert in a low, tense voice.
“i canna’ understand your conduct o’ late,” continued gilbert earnestly. “i fear your stay in mauchline is responsible for the great change in ye, for ye are not the same lad ye were when ye left hame. i fear ye have sadly departed from those strict rules of virtue and moderation ye were taught by your parents, robert.”
“what mean ye, gilbert?” inquired robert, startled.
“ah, rob,” responded gilbert, shaking his head sadly, “i ken mair than ye think; reports travel e’en in the country.”
the thought that his wild escapades were known to his narrow-minded though upright brother, and perhaps to others, filled robert with sudden shame. “weel, gilbert,” he replied, trying to speak lightly, “ye ken that i have been fallin’ in love and out again wi’ a’ the lassies ever since i was fifteen, but nae thought of evil ever entered my mind, ye ken that weel.”
“aye, i ken that,” answered gilbert quickly, “until ye went to mauchline. and noo ye have come back a changed lad, your vows to mary forgotten. if i thought ye would try to wrong her——” he stopped abruptly, for robert had faced[113] him, white and trembling, his eyes flashing indignantly.
“stop, gilbert!” he commanded, intensely calm. “mary campbell’s purity is as sacred to me as an angel’s in heaven. i would sooner cut my tongue out by the roots than to willingly say aught to cause her a moment’s misery or sorrow. ye cruelly misjudge me, gilbert.” he turned away, feeling hurt and angry that he should be so misunderstood by his brother, and yet was he misjudging him, was he not indeed causing her much sorrow? he asked himself bitterly.
soon the whole guilty truth must be disclosed, his faithlessness, his unworthiness. if she suffered now, what would be her misery when she learned that an insurmountable barrier had arisen between them, cruelly separating them forever. the thought filled him with unspeakable anguish.
“forgive me, rob, for my hasty words,” said gilbert remorsefully. “but ye ken mary is very dear to—to us all; that is why i spoke so plainly.”
at that moment the door of the cottage opened and the object of their discussion stepped into view. the poor little moth could not help fluttering around the candle, and so she was to be found at mossgiel whenever her duties would permit her to steal away.
“oh, here ye are, lads,” she called out to them, her face brightening. “will ye be comin’ in to tea noo?” they did not answer. “my, what long[114] faces ye both have,” she continued, smiling. “this isna’ the sabbath day, so there’s no need of such sorrowful faces.”
“i didna’ ken ye were here,” answered gilbert, going toward her.
robert sat down by the well, the look of pain on his melancholy face deepening as he listened to her gentle voice. he closed his eyes wearily and leaned back against the curbing, the paper held loosely in his hand. it was so hard to realize that never again would he press that form to his aching heart, that he must renounce her utterly. oh, if he could only die now, how much better it would be for them all, he weakly told himself.
“i’m going to stay here to tea wi’ ye this night,” said mary wistfully. why didn’t robert speak to her just one word of greeting? she thought sadly. “your mother bade me tell ye supper is waiting whenever ye are ready.” she took a few halting steps toward the well. “are ye comin’ in, robert?” she inquired timidly.
“in a wee,” he answered quietly, without looking at her. “after i have finished my poem.” mary turned back, crushed to the heart by his apparent coldness.
“weel, lads,” cried mrs. burns brightly, stepping out on the low, broad stoop followed by souter, who held a cup of steaming tea in one hand and some oatcakes in the other, on which he nibbled with evident[115] relish. “i heard your voices and couldna’ stay within,” and she beamed on them lovingly.
“ye’re at it again, i see, robert,” observed souter tactlessly. robert flushed angrily. he was easily irritated in his present state of mind. “ye’ll write yoursel’ into the grave, mon; ye’re not lookin’ very peart the noo.”
mrs. burns regarded her eldest son with anxious eyes. “aye, i fear, laddie, ye are too intent on your rhymin’,” she said solicitously. his abstracted moods, his melancholy moroseness had filled her loving heart with gloomy forebodings. “sae much livin’ in the clouds, my son, is unhealthful, an’ does but make ye moody an’ uncertain in temper. is it worth while to wreck body, mind an’ soul to gain a little fame an’ fortune, which, alas, seem so very far off?” she asked, putting her hand lovingly on his bowed head.
“ye dinna’ understand, mither,” he replied sadly. “i love to write. ’tis my very life; thought flows unbidden from my brain.” he rose to his feet and pointing to the stream, which could be faintly seen at the foot of the hill, continued with mournful finality, “why, mother, i might as well try to stop the waters of yonder rushin’ brook as to attempt to smother the poetic fancies that cry for utterance. nay, ’tis too late noo to dissuade me from my purpose,” and he turned and watched the setting sun slowly sink behind the distant hills in a flood of golden splendor.
[116]
souter noticed with uneasiness the gloom which had settled upon them all as the result of his careless words. why was he such a thoughtless fool? ah, well, he would make them forget their troubles.
“och, mistress burns,” he cried, smacking his lips with apparent relish, “’tis a mighty fine cup of tea, a perfectly grand cup. it fair cheers the heart of mon,” and he drained it to the bottom.
“an’ where do ye think the oatcakes were made, souter?” asked mary brightly.
“weel, i’m no’ a good hand at guessin’,” he answered, thoughtfully scratching his head; “but by their taste an’ sweetness, i should say that mistress burns made them hersel’.”
the good dame regarded him witheringly. “i didna’ ken that oatcakes were sweet, souter,” she retorted.
mary laughed softly at his discomfiture. “weel, they come frae my sister in applecross.”
“applecross!” he repeated, his face lighting up with pleasure. “noo i mind they did have the highland flavor, for true.”
“aye, an’ ye finished the last one for that reason, no doubt,” replied mrs. burns wrathfully. “ye’re a pig, mon. come awa’, lads, your supper will be gettin’ cold,” and she led the way inside, followed meekly by souter. gilbert waited for mary to enter, but she stood wistfully gazing at robert.[117] with a sigh he left them together, and robert entered the cottage.
mary slowly approached robert as he stood looking across to the distant hills, and patiently waited for him to speak to her, but he stood there in tense silence, not daring to trust himself to even look at the pure flower-like face held up to his so pleadingly.
“robbie,” she said timidly after a pause, which seemed interminable to them both, “willna’ ye let the sunlight enter your heart an’ be your old bonnie sel’ once mair? it will make us all sae happy.” she put her hand on his arm lovingly. “why are ye sae changed, laddie? dinna’ ye want me to love ye any mair?”
at the gentle touch of her fingers an uncontrollable wave of passionate love and longing came over him, sweeping away all resolutions resistlessly. “oh, my mary, my mary,” he cried hoarsely. “i do want your love, i do want it noo an’ forever,” and he clasped her lovingly to his aching heart. blissfully she lay in his strong arms while he showered her flushed and happy face with the hungry, fervent, loving kisses which he had denied himself so long, and murmured little caressing words of endearment which filled her soul with rapture and happiness. “how i love ye, mary,” he breathed in her ear again and again as he held her close.
[118]
“an’ how happy ye make me once mair, laddie,” she answered, nestling against him lovingly.
“an’ how happy we will——,” he began, then stopped pale and trembling, for grim recollection had suddenly loomed up before him with all its train of bitter, ugly facts; and conscience began to drum insistently into his dulled ear. “tell her the truth now, the whole truth,” it said. but the voice of the tempter whispered persuasively, saying, “why tell her now? wait, let her be happy while she may, put it off as long as possible.”
“what is it, robbie?” cried mary fearfully. “tell me what is troublin’ ye; dinna’ be afraid.” his bowed head bent lower and lower.
“oh, mary, i’m sae unworthy, sae unworthy of all your pure thoughts, your tender love,” he faltered despairingly, resolved to tell her all. “ye dinna’ ken all my weakness, my deception, and into what depths of sin i have fallen.” she sought to interrupt him, but he continued rapidly, his voice harsh with the nervous tension, his face pallid from the stress of his emotions. “i have a confession to make ye——”
“nay, nay, laddie,” cried mary, putting her hand over his trembling lips. “dinna’ tell me anything. i want nae confession from ye, except that o’ your love,” and she smoothed his cheek tenderly. “ye ken that is music to my ears at all times, but if ye are deceivin’ me, if ye have na always been true to me, an’ your vows, why, laddie, keep the knowledge[119] to yourself’. i am content noo, and ye ken happiness is such a fleetin’ thing that i mean to cling to it as long as i can.” she took his hands in both her own and held them close to her heart. “ye ken, robbie, ill news travels apace and ’twill reach my ears soon enough,” she continued with a mournful little quaver in her voice. “but no matter what comes, what ye may do, my love for ye will overlook it all; i will see only your virtues, my love, not your vices.”
robert bowed his head in heart-broken silence. grief, shame, and remorse like tongues of fiery flames were scorching and burning into his very soul. quietly they sat there engrossed in their thoughts, till the voice of mrs. burns calling to them from the cottage to come to supper roused them from their lethargy.
“we’re comin’ right awa’,” answered mary brightly. “come, laddie, we mustna’ keep the folks waitin’.”
she took his listless hand and drew him gently to the door and into the cottage.
silently they took their places at the table, around which the others were already seated.
“by the way,” said old blind donald, the fiddler, who had dropped in on his way to mauchline for a bite and a cup, “poosie nancy told me to tell ye, mistress burns, that she wa drop in to see ye this night.”
[120]
“we’ll be glad to see her,” replied mrs. burns hospitably.
“and daddy auld says he’ll be along, too,” continued donald, grinning broadly. “that is, if he isna’ too busy convertin’ souls.”
“convertin’ souls,” sneered souter incredulously.
“aye, ye should see the jolly beggars he was haranguin’. they were jumpin’, an’ rantin’, an’ singin’ like daft methodists.”
“the auld hypocrites!” cried mrs. burns, buttering a scone which she placed in the old man’s tremulous hand. “they didna’ go to the manse for conversion; ’tis a square meal they are after. they ken the kind old heart o’ daddy auld.”
souter leaned back in his chair and smiled reminiscently. “that reminds me o’ a guid story,” he began, chuckling.
“never mind that story noo,” remonstrated mrs. burns, who was in constant dread of souter’s risque stories. “that’ll keep.”
“i never can tell that damn story,” ejaculated souter wrathfully.
[121]
