ever since the morning she had received her marriage lines jean had been trying to summon up sufficient courage to tell her father the whole truth about her secret marriage to robert, to throw herself upon his mercy, but each time when she had approached him in fear and trembling, her courage had ignominiously failed her. she knew only too well her father’s irascible temper and uncertain moods. and so days passed into weeks and still she procrastinated, but she knew she could not conceal from his observing eyes her condition much longer. but whether to confess all and run the risk of being thrown from her father’s door like some abandoned outcast, or to contrive some excuse to leave home to pay a visit to some friend, and then, when it was all over, to return, that was the question which disturbed her waking thoughts. if she did the latter, she thought, she could easily have her marriage annulled and no one would be the wiser. but did she really want to have her marriage annulled? she asked herself thoughtfully. she didn’t understand herself at all these days. he had strangely stirred her heart at their last meeting, to its very depths. she knew he did not love her, that he[130] loved the little dairymaid, but almost imperceptibly a great change was taking place in her feelings toward him. at times a great longing came over her to go to him, throw herself at his feet and beg to share his hardships, his poverty, with him. but she had not the courage, and so she battled with the conflicting emotions that constantly beset her day and night. her temper soon became moody and uncertain, she was in constant fear of her mother’s anxious, watchful eyes, and yet she felt she would go daft if she remained alone in her chamber with her disturbing thoughts. so day after day she could be found in her saddle madly galloping over the country, trying to get away, far away, from her trouble. but all in vain; it was always before her; there was no escaping it. but at last the day came when she knew she must make her decision, and almost in desperation she decided on her course of procedure. hastily galloping home, she left her horse at the door, and going to her room, scribbled a short note to her father and left it on the table in his study. then she had slipped guiltily past the room where her mother sat peacefully sewing, and sped swiftly along the hall to the door. as she reached it, it burst inward and she staggered back half fainting, for there on the threshold stood her father, his face white with rage, his jaw set and determined. he seized her roughly by the arm, and thrusting her back into the house, had taken one understanding look at her figure in its[131] tight-fitting habit, then with an outburst of bitter anger and shame he cursed her and the author of her disgrace, cursed her like a madman, cursed her till he was spent with the force of his passion. she tried to explain, to tell him the truth, that she was a wife, but the words froze on her lips. his words and manner struck terror to her very soul; she feared for her very life’s safety. with all her despairing strength she freed herself from his clutch and stood cowering, panting, her hands raised to shield herself from the blow she expected every moment to fall on her defenseless body from the insane man. as he approached her with hand upraised, she gave one quick shriek, one wild look around and darting under his arm reached the door. quickly she opened it and sped like a swallow to the side of her waiting horse. with one bound she was on his back, and away she galloped like the wind, leaving her astonished father standing in the doorway shaking his fist after her in impotent anger.
she had given rein to her horse, not heeding or caring where he took her. her one and only thought was to get away, far away; so she rode on and on, over brook and brush, through bog and mire till gradually her fear had subsided, and, reining in her horse, she looked around, and with a thrill of joy and wonder she saw mossgiel farm in the distance. surely fate had guided her horse’s footsteps in this direction, she thought eagerly. her[132] course was clear now, she would go to him, to her husband, he would protect her. so she had continued her journey to the cottage, where she brought naught but misery and sorrow to its inmates.
as mrs. burns left the room jean gazed after her in bitter silence. she wished she had not come. she knew she was not welcome. far better to have faced her father’s anger. “but the die is cast. i have made my bed,” she told herself wearily. she realized how futile it was to repine over the past, and she felt too exhausted, too miserably unhappy to think of the future. she would stay here perhaps a night, then she didn’t know, couldn’t think what would happen. at all events she could never return to her father’s home now. he had spurned her from him, and she was not wanted here. nobody wanted her now. her lips quivered convulsively and big tears of self-pity rolled quietly down her pale cheeks.
gilbert looked uneasily from his brother’s grief-stricken face to the weary, wan face of the bride. how long were they going to sit there side by side without a word to each other? he thought uneasily. he felt a great wave of pity well up in his heart for the unwelcome, unloved addition to their family. true she was mostly to blame for her present misfortune. her imprudence, her misconduct had been well known to many, before his brother had gone to mauchline to live. he felt sorry for robert, too, even while he bitterly reproached him for being the[133] author of mary’s unhappiness. they must make the best of things now, he thought philosophically. “ye had better take off your bonnet, lassie,” he said kindly, breaking the oppressive silence. “ye’ll be staying here the night.” she raised her head and looked at him with flashing eyes.
“full well i know that all here hate and despise me,” she burst forth bitterly, not heeding his request.
robert slowly raised his head and looked at her. there was sorrow and compassion in his dark melancholy eyes. “jean,” he said quietly, “our lives have been linked togither by a stern, inexorable fate. we have both been guilty of a grievous sin, and noo we must face the results bravely.” he rose and walked to her and stood humbly by her side. “i hope ye’ll forgive me, jean, for wreckin’ your life and plungin’ ye into sae much misery.”
slowly jean bowed her head, her face flushing guiltily. surely she had the more need to ask his forgiveness. she had not expected to find such nobility of character, and it moved her deeply.
“there is naught to forgive,” she cried in a low stifled voice. “i alone am to blame. i am unfit, unworthy to be your wife. oh, i’m so miserable, so unhappy,” and she burst into tears.
souter led old donald silently out of the room. there was nothing either one could say to the wretched couple, so they sat outside and talked it all over in the way old men have. they had not[134] been seated long, however, when they espied coming toward them, at a furious gallop, a horse and rider. as they drew near souter perceived with sudden apprehension that it was none other than squire armour. he rose anxiously to his feet.
“do ye ken wha’ it is, souter?” inquired donald in a quavering voice.
“it’s squire armour himsel’,” whispered souter cautiously.
“ma certie!” ejaculated donald, shaking his white locks in mild alarm.
“i’d better warn the lass,” said souter hastily, as the squire drew up to the gate. going to the door he quickly told them of the newcomer, then turned to intercept the irate visitor, who was coming swiftly up the walk.
“heavens, my father here!” cried jean in a frightened whisper. “oh, i dare not face his wrath. protect me, robert,” and she clung to him fearfully.
“out o’ my way, mon!” they heard the harsh voice of squire armour shouting. “out o’ my way,” and pushing aside the courageous little man he strode wrathfully into the room.
“weel, i’ll stay and see the fun through,” said souter to himself grimly.
“so, my lass,” cried the old squire triumphantly, “i’ve found ye just where i expected ye’d be, in the arms o’ your dissolute lover. come awa’, ye shameless bairn.”
[135]
he started toward her, but robert passed her quickly behind him.
“keep back, squire armour,” he said firmly. “i’m nae a mild-mannered man, an’ ye may learn it to your cost.”
squire armour glanced at him savagely. “dinna ye dare talk to me, ye libertine, ye blasphemous rhymster. ye dare to stand there wi’ my daughter, proclaiming her dishonor to my very eyes?”
“there is no dishonor, squire armour,” replied robert calmly, “for your daughter is—my wife.”
“your wife!” echoed the old man, staggering back in amazement. “i’ll nae believe it. it’s a lie. i’d rather see my daughter disgraced forever than be your wife.”
“father, are you mad?” gasped jean in horrified accents.
“an’ ye an elder in the kirk, a so-called ‘god-fearin’ man’!” cried robert scathingly, his eyes blazing with scorn. “i tell ye, squire armour, she is my wife, an’ all your bitter, unreasoning hatred o’ me canna’ alter that unhappy fact.”
for a moment the old man stood gazing at them in helpless rage. then he turned to jean, his voice trembling with suppressed emotion. “what proofs have ye?” he asked hoarsely.
“i have my marriage lines, father,” she answered quickly.
“where were ye married?”
[136]
“why, father, we——” began jean hesitatingly.
“was it in the kirk?” he interrupted sternly.
“no,” she faltered. “it was——”
“not in the kirk?” he cried, his voice rising menacingly. “who was the minister? who married ye?”
“there was no minister, father.”
“nae minister!” he exclaimed in horror.
“wait, father, you don’t understand,” cried jean quickly; “’twas a scotch marriage; ye ken what that is—and,” she bowed her head guiltily, “why it is. and here are my lines signed by robert acknowledging me as his wife.” she took from the bosom of her gown a folded paper which she handed to her father.
he read it through carefully. “this is na legal or binding,” he exclaimed angrily.
“’tis perfectly legal, squire armour,” replied robert calmly, “even if it is irregular, and is as binding as though we were married in kirk.”
“it shall be set aside,” fumed the old man. “i will not have it so. ye shall both renounce it, i tell ye.”
“oh, father,” cried jean tearfully, going to his side. “’tis too late now; would you shame me in the eyes of the world?”
“do these few written lines make your shame any the less?” he shouted wrathfully. “will not all the neighbors know why he had to give them to ye? ye would throw awa’ your life on this poverty-stricken,[137] shiftless rhymster, but ye shall not do it; ye must give him up, do ye hear?” and he raised his arm menacingly.
“no, no, no, father,” she exclaimed frantically, falling on her knees beside him; “i cannot give him up now, i cannot.” after all the weary weeks of anxious fears and doubts she knew at last that she had found her heart, and now asked no greater happiness than to be allowed to remain with her husband to share his humble life, to be the mother of his family. all the old ambitious thoughts were gone forever. she wondered that they ever existed.
“ye shameless bairn, ye must an’ shall!” he replied fiercely. “this is the end o’ it all,” and he vindictively tore into little bits the paper jean had given into his hands. “we’ll hear nae mair of that, my lass, an’ i swear ye shall never see robert burns again, make up your mind to that.”
with a cry of despair jean sank half fainting into a chair.
as he witnessed squire armour’s fiendish act robert’s heart gave a great bound that sent the blood coursing madly through his veins. the marriage lines were destroyed; then he was free, free! oh, the music in that word! free to do as he wished. a sob of anguish caused him to look around at the kneeling figure of the unfortunate girl. quickly the eager light died out of his face as he noted her suffering. going to the kneeling girl he[138] raised her gently to her feet, and holding her by the hand faced the inhuman father. “squire armour, ye would condemn your ain flesh an’ blood to shame an’ disgrace because o’ your hatred for me,” he said quietly, “but it shall not be. i defy ye. come, jean, we will go to the kirk at once and daddy auld will marry us.” they turned to go, but the old man stepped between them and the door, his arms upraised, his eyes wild and glaring.
“i’d sooner see her in her grave than bear the accursed name of robert burns,” he cried with solemn intensity. “great though her imprudence has been, she can still look to a higher, an’ better connection than a marriage with ye.” turning to jean he continued sternly, “speak, lass, say that ye’ll obey me, or the bitter curse o’ your parents will haunt an’ follow ye all the rest o’ your days.”
“think of the disgrace, father,” wailed the unhappy girl, clinging to his arm beseechingly.
“we’ll forget and forgive it all if ye’ll come back,” he replied, the great love for his child revealing itself in his eager tones. “ye’re nae longer that man’s wife. come an’ none will ever know o’ your dishonor.”
“my god, mon!” exclaimed robert in horrified accents, “where is your father’s pride, your ain honor, your manhood!”
but squire armour heeded him not. “come, my[139] daughter, come,” he said tenderly, leading the weak, wavering girl to the door.
“ye canna expect to keep this a secret from the world, squire armour,” cried robert indignantly. “matters have gone too far for that; soon your daughter’s name will be blasted irretrievably, while mine will be coupled with that of blackguard. it must not be. ye must let jean go to the kirk wi’ me this very night or i shall inform the elders in the kirk.”
“ye’ll have no time to turn informer, my laddie,” snarled squire armour, turning on him fiercely; “for i mean to have ye brought before the kirk sessions, an’ ye’ll be punished as ye deserve for the sin ye have committed, an’ ye shall sit on the cutty stool, where all your friends an’ neighbors can jeer an’ scoff at ye. this very night will i send the parish officers after ye, robert burns. ye can take this warning or no, just as ye please, but i hope they find ye here. come, lass, we’ll go hame to your mither, noo.” he drew the terrified, half-fainting girl firmly through the door and down the path to the road.
“ye’re an old hypocrite!” hooted souter, following them to the gate, where he stood shaking his fist angrily after the departing visitors, and shouting his frank opinion of the squire in no mild or flattering terms.
“i alone am to blame,” cried robert despairingly,[140] as he watched them gallop madly away into the threatening night. “an’ only the bitterest sorrow, the most poignant grief will i know until that wrong is righted.”
“what will ye do noo, lad?” asked mrs. burns, breaking in upon the melancholy sadness which enveloped him like a pall. (she had entered the room in time to hear squire armour’s parting injunction.) “ye heard what the squire threatened. oh, dinna disdain the littleness of prudence, my son.”
“i willna, mother,” replied robert dully, after a pause. “i have decided to go awa’ from mossgiel.”
“go awa’?” she repeated fearfully. “nay, nay, laddie, ye mustna! i fear for ye in your present state o’ mind.”
“i must, mother,” he answered wildly. “i willna sit on the cutty stool to be made the laughing stock o’ the whole neighborhood, to bring shame on ye all.” he walked restlessly up and down the room as he continued feverishly, “i willna stay here to skulk from covert to covert under all the terrors of a jail, for i ken that in a little while the merciless pack of the law will be baying at my heels like bloodhounds.” he turned to her suddenly, “mother, i mean to leave scotland, perhaps forever.”
“oh, nay, nay, my bairn; i canna, i willna, let ye go,” answered his mother, clinging to him passionately.
[141]
“there, there, mither, dinna make it harder for me.” he put his arm around her tenderly and pressed her to him for a moment. “noo, mother,” he said quietly, “will ye pack my chest? i have nae time to spare,” and he led her gently to the door.
“where will ye be goin’?” inquired gilbert.
“to the indies, to jamaica,” replied robert quickly. “ye ken dr. douglas has a place for me there as overseer of his plantation. he has offered it to me mony times.” he turned in nervous haste to his mother, who stood in the doorway anxiously watching him. “hurry, mither, please, i am in torture o’ mind.”
“very well, laddie,” she answered sorrowfully. “god will direct your footsteps aright,” and she closed the door behind her and quickly made her way to his chamber.
“will ye see mary before ye go, robert?” asked gilbert.
he felt an infinite pity for his brother, who was leaving behind him everything he held dear.
“if she will come to me,” faltered robert. “tell her i’m goin’ an’ that i will go wi’ a lighter heart if she bids me godspeed. watch o’er an’ protect her, gilbert,” he continued, placing his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “an’ i hope one day she may forget faithless robert burns, an’—an’ ye, gilbert, will be made happy.” he turned away as he finished, grief gnawing at his heart.
[142]
an eager light flashed in gilbert’s eyes as he answered fervently, “i would lay doon my life to serve her,” and with a quick look into the averted face he quietly left the room.
mechanically rob took his bonnet from the peg and throwing his long plaid around him went out into the air, and silently, sorrowfully he stood there watching the gloomy clouds that hung low in the heavens through eyes misty with tears. his soul was filled with unutterable sorrow at the coming parting, with dread of the unknown future to be passed alone in a strange, inhospitable foreign land. oh, the agony of that thought, alone! suddenly there came floating softly, peacefully, borne on the back of the south wind, which was blowing gently against his face, the alluring, seductive voice of the goddess muse. insistently she urged her way into the dulled and listless ear of the grief-stricken man. not for long was she denied admission, however. with a cry of joy, that even in that dreaded hour of parting his goddess had not deserted him, he eagerly opened the book he held in his hand, his favorite book, “tristam shandy” by sterne, and wrote quickly, lovingly on the flyleaf the impassioned words which were being whispered in his ear. hungrily the pencil sped over the paper, till, with a sigh of regret, he dropped his hand, the voice was hushed, the message was finished. as he stood there eagerly reading his verses by the light which streamed through[143] the window, the door softly opened and mary came swiftly to his side, her pure face pitiful in its childlike sorrow.
“is it true ye are gang awa’ frae scotland, robbie?” she asked breathlessly. he bowed his head. “oh, my heart beats heavy for ye, laddie.” there was infinite compassion in her voice. “but ye maun be brave noo if ever ye were.” she nestled her little hand in his. he clasped it fervently.
“o, mary, my highland lassie!” he cried passionately, “i want to hear ye say before i go that ye forgive me for the sorrow i have brought into your pure young life.”
“hush, laddie,” she answered softly, “there is naught to forgive; ye had to do your duty like an honorable mon. i hae been very happy wi’ ye, laddie, an’ the memory o’ that happiness will be wi’ me always.” she leaned against him for a brief moment, then slowly drew herself away and looked tenderly up into his face. “in this sad parting hour,” she faltered, “i can tell ye without shame that i love ye wi’ a’ my being, an’ will until i dee.”
“heaven bless ye, mary,” he whispered brokenly. “the thought of your love will gie me courage to bear my exile bravely.”
“exile!” she repeated shuddering. “oh, what a drear word, to think ye must be exiled in your noble youth, that ye maun leave your hame, your country,[144] to live alone in some foreign clime.” the tears streamed down her pallid cheeks. “we will a’ miss ye sair, lad,” she continued bravely, “and we will pray for ye, an’—an’—oh, ’twill be sae hard to say good-by, perhaps forever.” she threw her arms about his neck and clung to him passionately.
he held the weeping child in his strong, loving embrace, his face close to hers. “oh, why was i born, only to bring sorrow, pain an’ disgrace to those i hold dear?” he cried in an agony of grief and remorse. “bitterly am i atonin’ for my act o’ imprudence; an exile, a failure,” he gave a mirthless little laugh; “aye, a failure, for e’en the hopes of success held out to me have a’ vanished in disappointment. oblivion has enveloped me in its darkening pall, for whichever way i turn naught but darkest gloom, with not e’en a ray of light, meets my wretched gaze.” a flash of lightning pierced the darkness, followed shortly by a heavy, prolonged roll of thunder. she nestled closer to his side.
“be not discouraged, laddie,” she said; “’tis always darkest before dawn, an’ who kens what may yet happen?”
“ah, nae, nae,” he interrupted with a despairing shake of his head, “e’en the elements conspire against me, for i maun face this coming storm on foot to reach greenock. ’tis all a part of my just punishment.” the wind had risen and with it a driving mist[145] which soon enveloped them in its damp embrace. but they heeded it not.
“bide a wee, dinna go to-night,” she pleaded, while the wind tossed her tangled curls seductively around his neck and in his sorrowing face. “listen to the wind. oh,’tis a bad night to start on a journey,” and she clung to him tighter, her skirts flapping about his limbs like some live thing, thrilling him by their touch.
“before ye came out, lassie,” he replied quietly, stilling the tumult in his heart, “i wrote some verses in this book as a parting song; how appropriate they are for this occasion ye will see. listen,” and holding the book up to the light he began to read:
“the gloomy night is gathering fast,
loud roars the wild inconstant blast;
yon murky cloud is foul with rain,
i see it driving o’er the plain;
chill runs my blood to hear it rave,
i think upon the stormy wave,
where many a danger i must dare,
far from the bonnie banks of ayr;
’tis not the surging billows’ roar,
’tis not that fatal deadly shore,
tho’ death in every shape appear,
the wretched have no more to fear;
but round my heart the ties are bound,
that heart transpierced with many a wound;
these bleed afresh, these ties i tear,
to leave the bonnie banks of ayr.”
the wind had risen rapidly and the old beech tree[146] was shrieking and groaning overhead as its branches strove like maniac arms with the tempest. the ayr could be plainly heard roaring its diapason on its rocky banks in the darkness below, while the thunder crashed overhead and the lurid glare of lightning ever and again lit up the yard.
unheeding its warning he continued, his melancholy sonorous voice, with its mournful cadences, floating out with passionate longing, filling his listener with unutterable sadness:
“farewell, old coila’s hills and dales,
her heathy moors and winding vales;
the scenes where wretched fancy roves,
pursuing past unhappy loves.
farewell my friends, farewell my foes,
my peace with thee, my love with those;
the bursting tears my heart declare,
farewell the bonnie banks of ayr.”
as his voice died away he heard the sound of sobbing, and looked up, to see his mother standing in the doorway.
“come awa’, lad, come in out of the night air!” she called tenderly, controlling her sobs.
silently they entered the cottage. robert crossed the room to his brother’s side.
“gilbert,” he said quietly, “ye take the songs an’ verses ye will find on my table an’ send them to mr. aiken. mayhap they will bring you in a bit o’ money to help ye in your struggle wi’ poverty, an’ forgive[147] me that i maun leave ye to battle wi’ misfortune alone.” turning to mary he continued, lovingly, “mary, lass, will ye accept my bible as a parting gift?” she looked at him with shining eyes. “ye’ll find it in the oak box with the glass lid in the attic.”
“i’ll prize it for aye, robert,” she sobbed gratefully, pressing his hand, “an’ our prayers will follow ye to that far distant land, where i hope success awaits ye.”
he drew her to him gently and pressed a kiss on her pure brow. “farewell, lassie, may ye be happy,” he breathed fervently. turning again to gilbert he spoke rapidly, “farewell, brother, give my love to the dear brothers an’ sisters when they come hame.” he shook his hand warmly.
“god keep ye, robert,” answered gilbert quietly.
gently robert drew his weeping mother into his arms. tenderly he pulled down the apron which she had flung over her head to hide her sorrow, and wiped away her tears. “noo, mother,” he whispered brokenly, “i—i maun say good-by; the day has drawn to its close an’ i maun start on my journey to greenock. dinna greet, dear mither.” he let her weep on unconstrainedly a few moments.
finally her bitter sobbing ceased and looking up into his face she cried passionately, “i canna give ye up, my son, never to see ye again.” she took his cheeks lovingly between her hands.
“ye’re making it hard for me to go, mither,”[148] he cried, utterly distracted. “but the die is cast, my hands are on the plow, an’ i canna turn back noo. ye ken there is naught but disappointment an’ disgrace to look forward to here, an’——” suddenly a loud cheer from outside the cottage interrupted him. they listened in silent wonder. above the noise of the wind, which had risen to a gale, and the swish of the rain, which now beat in swirling gusts about the cottage, came the voices of souter and donald shouting and cheering like boys on a frolic. quickly they opened the door. a gust of wind dashed the rain fiercely in their faces. through the mist and gloom they could vaguely make out the outlines of a coach standing at the gate, which had approached unheard in the storm.
“robert, robert!” cried souter, looming up out of the darkness and looking decidedly weatherbeaten. “’tis news i have, great and glorious news.”
“news?” they all repeated in wonder.
“what is it, mon?” asked rob, trembling with excitement.
“it can speak for itsel’,” replied souter gleefully, “for here it is.” he pointed behind him. they looked down the path and saw rapidly approaching the door a tall man, enveloped in a long cloak, escorted by a servant in livery. at that moment the light fell on his wet face and they started forward in amazement.
[149]
“lord glencairn?” cried robert incredulously, his heart throbbing with a strange new-born hope.
“aye, my lad, and near drowned,” laughed the visitor genially. robert grasped his outstretched hand and drew him to the door.
with words of welcome and delight they made room for him to enter. quickly he removed his wet cloak from his shoulders and threw it to his servant, who hung it beside the fire, while descanting on the inclemency of the weather. nervously and anxiously they waited for the great man to speak his errand.
presently he turned from the fireplace, and, addressing robert, he said brightly, “well, mr. burns, you see i have not forgotten you.”
“oh, my lord,” faltered robert, his face white with suppressed feeling, “i—i had despaired of seein’ you mair; do ye—bring me—hope? is it—am i——” his faltering voice stopped abruptly, but his eager eyes continued to search the noble face which was looking so kindly into his, as if he would draw the news from him.
“it is good news,” answered lord glencairn, smiling brightly, “and you are famous; yes, my lad, your poems are at last published and already have become the rage in edinburgh; the name of robert burns is on the tongue of all, high and low, prince and peasant.”
“thank god,” cried mary softly, a look of rapture on her face.
[150]
mrs. burns turned excitedly to her son, her hands clasped nervously. “oh, laddie, laddie, ye’re a great mon, noo!” she exclaimed proudly.
for a moment robert stood there speechless, a look of incredulous wonder on his face. “my lord,” he faltered at last, “can it be true, what you’re telling me, that my songs are—accepted, read an’—praised in edinburgh?” lord glencairn bowed. “oh, sir,” he continued, with a nervous catch in his voice, “it seems too good to be true, too good.”
gradually the warm color came back to the pale face, the hurried breathing, which seemed almost to smother him, became calmer, the nervous, excited tension relaxed, and, with a smile of rapture and content on his upturned face, he exclaimed fervently, “at last my hopes and ambitions are realized, the bright sunlight of success has crowned my efforts; my verses are known an’ loved in edinburgh! oh, do ye hear that, my loved ones?” he stretched out his arms lovingly to them. “nae mair poverty for us noo, mither, nae—nor disappointments.” he turned to lord glencairn, who was being assisted into his cloak. “oh, sir, i canna tell ye what is in my heart,” he continued earnestly, “but ’tis overflowing wi’ love an’ gratitude to ye.”
“there, there, my lad, time is precious,” replied lord glencairn kindly, buttoning up his cloak. “’tis late and we have far to go and the postchaise[151] is awaiting us. i came here not only to bring you news, mr. burns, but to take you back with me to edinburgh.” he laughed heartily at the look of startled amazement that appeared on the faces before him.
“to edinburgh!” gasped robert unbelievingly.
“aye, lad,” replied his lordship earnestly, his eyes flashing with admiration for the modest young genius. “to edinburgh, where fame and fortune await you, where society stands with outstretched arms to receive you as a conquering hero come to claim his own. to the capital city, where all unite in paying homage to the wonderful genius of robert burns, our scottish bard. will you come?” and he held out his hand invitingly to the wondering lad, who was gazing at him, his soul in his eyes.
“am i dreaming?” he cried slowly, looking about him for some confirmation of his fears. “go to edinburgh wi’ ye, sir, as the bard of scotland? o god, can this be true? my wildest hopes ne’er held out such dreams o’ greatness, such happiness.” his voice vibrated with feeling. he paused and took a deep breath, then he continued joyfully, all the sorrows of the past forgotten in his excitement, “a few moments ago, my lord, i was bidding farewell to these, my loved ones, forever. i was about to start for the indies, a wretched exile, a disappointed failure, and noo fate once mair alters my destiny.” with a glad laugh he seized lord glencairn’s outstretched[152] hand, and, turning to his loved ones, he cried, his voice ringing out clear and strong, a conscious thrill of pride running through it, “nae more tears, mither, except those of happiness, nae more sorrow or care, for i can leave ye all wi’ a light heart noo, wi’ joy instead o’ sadness. ’tis true i go from here an outcast, but i’ll return to ye a hero.”
