they had finished their meager supper, and now sat comfortably around the fire, mrs. burns and mary busy with their knitting, the men contentedly smoking, while old donald discordantly tuned up his fiddle.
“noo, donald,” said souter briskly, “play us something lively.”
“aye, i’ll play ye the highland fling, souter johnny, an’ ye can dance. come alang noo,” and he started to play vigorously, keeping time with his foot.
“aye, get out on the floor, souter,” said gilbert, pulling him out of his chair.
“nay, nay, lad,” expostulated souter fretfully, “i be too old to fling the toe noo.”
“go alang wi’ ye, mon,” retorted mrs. burns encouragingly; “a scotsman, and a highlander besides, is ne’er too old to——”
“to learn,” interrupted gilbert brightly, swinging the old man to the middle of the floor. “let her go.”
“i havena danced for years,” said souter apologetically. carefully knocking the ashes out of his pipe he deposited it in the pocket of his capacious[122] waistcoat and proceeded to divest himself of his coat. “ye ken i was the champion dancer of my clan, clan mcdougal, when i was a young lad,” he announced boastingly. “an’ mony a time i have cheered an’ amused the lads, while tentin’ on the fields of culloden, before the big battle. an’ that reminds me o’ a guid——”
“never mind the story,” said gilbert impatiently. “gie us a dance.”
after a few preliminary movements souter caught the swinging measure of the dance, and once started he limbered up surprisingly. on he danced nimbly, and untiringly, soon ably proving to his delighted audience that he had not forgotten his old-time accomplishment. “i’ll show these lowlanders what a highlander can do,” thought the old man proudly. panting with excitement and eagerness he failed to hear the metallic patter of horses’ hoofs drawing near the cottage. nearer and nearer they came unheeded by all save one.
from his seat by the fireplace, where he sat in melancholy silence, robert heard the sound, but gave it no heed. suddenly it ceased. he raised his head to listen. someone had surely stopped at the gate, he thought, straining his ears eagerly, but the noise of the fiddle and the dancing drowned all sound from without. he glanced quickly at the smiling faces of the others as they good-naturally watched the dancer. “i must hae been mistaken,” he muttered[123] uneasily. suddenly he leaned forward, grasping his chair hard; surely he had heard his name faintly called. he listened intently. yes, there it was again; this time the voice was nearer. a woman’s voice, too. what could it mean? he rose to his feet, his heart thumping fiercely, his muscles alert and tense, his eyes fixed on the door, his mind filled with gloomy presentiment.
at that moment an imperative knock sounded loudly through the room, and almost at the same time the door flew open violently, and jean armour impetuously dashed in. closing the door quickly behind her she leaned back against it, pale and exhausted. her riding habit of green and gold was splashed and discolored with mud. the large hat with its gleaming white plume hung limply over her shoulder, while her black disheveled hair streamed over her face and down her back in bewildering confusion. she had evidently ridden fast and furious, for she stood there with her eyes closed, her hand on her heart, gasping for breath.
quickly mrs. burns led the exhausted girl to a seat. in a few moments she raised her drooping head and with wild frightened eyes searched the room till her gaze fell on robert, who was leaning white and speechless against the fireplace, a great fear in his heart.
she rose quickly and going to him said in a tense, rapid whisper, “robert, my father knows all, but[124] through no fault of mine. some idle gossip reached his ear to-day, and when he returned home and learned my condition his rage was terrible. he cursed you like a madman, and would have done me bodily harm had i remained within sight. but i feared for my life, and fled before i had explained the truth to him. i have come to you to protect me.”
he listened to her in stony silence. the blow had fallen so suddenly, so unexpectedly, it found him totally unprepared to ward off its paralyzing effects. he tried to speak, but the words refused to leave his parched tongue. he felt benumbed and cold, all the blood in his body seeming to have suddenly congealed. as he stood there with the eyes of all riveted upon him he felt like the veriest criminal that walked the earth.
for a moment there was a tense silence. jean stood there anxiously gazing into robert’s stricken face, as he vainly strove to utter a sound. mary had watched the little scene before her in growing wonder and alarm and now leaned back against the wall, her heart beating with some unknown, nameless fear. what did this highborn lady want with her laddie? she asked herself jealously.
“‘she is my wife, mither.’”
mrs. burns stood grimly waiting for some explanation of the scene she had just witnessed, but had not heard nor understood. “robert, my son,” she said finally, her voice cold and firm, “what does squire armour’s daughter want of ye?” there[125] was no answer. “what is she to ye, robert?” she sternly insisted. slowly he raised his head. as she saw his wild and haggard face, from which all the life and youth had fled, she started back in horror, a startled exclamation on her lips.
with a despairing, heart-broken look at mary’s wondering face, he bowed his head and falteringly uttered the fatal words, “she is my wife, mither.”
had a thunderbolt from a clear sky unroofed the humble cot, it would not have created the consternation, the terror which those few words struck to those loving hearts.
mrs. burns was the first to rally from the shock. “your wife?” she repeated incredulously, looking from one to the other.
with a cry of grief and pain mary sank weak and trembling into a chair, like a deer wounded unto death. she gazed at them heart-brokenly, while her little hands nervously fluttered about her face. no, no, he could not mean it. they were only joking, surely. “not that, robbie, ye dinna mean that, dearie?” she gasped piteously, holding out a beseeching hand to him. his bowed head bent lower.
“do ye mean ye have legally married this lass?” asked gilbert eagerly. mary would be free then, he thought wildly. free to be wooed and won.
“we were married a few weeks ago,” answered robert dully. “i had not the courage to tell ye before.”
[126]
“besides,” interposed jean, arranging her disordered toilet, “i wished to keep the marriage from my father for a—a time.” she blushed crimson.
“i willna believe my son ever married ye of his own free will,” cried mrs. burns bitterly, “fine rich lady that ye are. he loves only that sweet lass, mary campbell.” quickly she reached mary’s side, and, raising the stricken child in her motherly arms, she kissed her tenderly and pressed the golden head gently against her loving heart.
jean looked at them, a look of resentment in her flashing eyes. “i know that full well,” she answered sullenly. “i know robert hasn’t married me because he wanted to, but because——” she looked down shame-faced. “because there was no alternative. now you know the truth,” she concluded bitterly.
“ye shameless creature!” cried mrs. burns, her eyes blazing with indignation. “ye have trapped him into this marriage, but ye shall na stay beneath this roof, ye limmer,” and she glared at the flushed defiant girl in righteous anger.
“mither, mither!” cried robert distractedly, “dinna, for god’s sake; she is my wife in truth, an’ she must stay wi’ me noo till i can prepare anither hame for her. dinna make it harder for me.” he gazed pleadingly in his mother’s stern and angry face.
mary pressed her lips to the quivering cheek. “mistress burns,” she said softly, “what is to be,[127] will be. i forgive them both wi’ all my heart.” she paused and sighed with gentle resignation. then she continued, “an’—an’ i hope they will both find peace in their new life.” she turned quietly to jean, who was nervously tapping her whip against her skirt. “i ken ye’ll make robert a good wife,” she said earnestly. “so dinna let any thought o’ me sadden your heart, or—or yours, robert.” she turned and looked at him tenderly. “i—i forgive ye,” she whispered. turning to mrs. burns again, she continued pleadingly, “ye must welcome robert’s wife to her new hame, mistress burns. we all maun make this a merry hame-comin’ for—the—bride.” her plaintive voice broke abruptly, and the burning tears welled up to her eyes, but she dashed them quickly away and continued bravely, a pathetic little smile hovering about her trembling lips, “i’ll go out noo an’ make some fresh tea for ye, and ye’ll all stay right here, till i come back, an’ donald shall play for ye again—an’ we’ll—all—be—sae merry—won’t w-we? i’ll bring it w-when—it’s quite—ready.” she smiled at them through her tears. then she took the teapot from the dresser and softly left the room.
“god bless her brave and noble heart,” breathed robert brokenly.
as she left the room mrs. burns drew herself sternly erect, and after a moment’s hesitation turned slowly to jean. “i bid ye welcome to mossgiel farm,” she said coldly. “i am sorry i spoke so[128] bitterly to ye just noo. i—i will try to love ye as robert’s wife, but noo i—i can only think o’ mary an’ her sorrow. i’ll leave ye for a bit; mary may need me.” her voice faltered and broke, and with a sob of grief she hurriedly left the room.
[129]
