mary soon grew weary of looking at the many paintings which lined the walls of the galleries; she wished they would go back to the pretty rooms downstairs, where the music was playing and the young folks were dancing. she had enjoyed that. she tried to force a smile of interest to her lips as the old duke described the subjects on the canvases before them. he soon perceived her weariness, however, and calling to mrs. dunlop, who was being bored beyond measure, as she told her friends wearily, he requested her to show miss campbell the gardens by moonlight, to which she gladly assented. quickly they descended the broad staircase, and slowly wended their way across the large drawing-room. mrs. dunlop took her young charge to the large window and waved her fat hand toward the magnificent view which lay stretched before them. “isn’t it grand, mary?” she observed lightly. it was an old story to her. spying an old friend across the room, she excused herself to mary and told her to enjoy herself, then smilingly left her to her own devices. after admiring the somber beauty of edinburgh castle, mary perceived the flowing fountain which splashed tunefully below her in the garden. she stepped out[230] on the balcony, a smile of pleasure lighting up her sweet face. for a while she stood listening to the rhythmic fall of the water, blissfully unconscious of the presence of the unseen watcher. suddenly before her startled vision there sprang the form of the gypsy. with a cry of alarm mary stepped back and was about to enter the room, when a voice calling her by name arrested her wondering attention.
“wait, mary campbell!” hissed the voice of the gypsy.
mary turned and looked into the white face gazing up at her so defiantly, and she recognized the girl to whom she had tossed the money. suddenly she gave a gasp of astonishment. “jean armour!” she exclaimed incredulously.
“aye, jean armour,” repeated the gypsy. “come down to me; i must have a word with you alone,” she whispered sibilantly.
mary gave a quick look around. mrs. dunlop was still deep in her gossip, and robert was nowhere to be seen. she walked to the end of the balcony and found the steps. quickly she reached the bottom, and going to jean took her two hands in hers and shook them warmly. she was so glad to see anyone from mossgiel, friend or foe.
jean regarded her advance with sullen suspicion. “two years ago i was an invited guest here at athol castle,” she sneered bitterly, “while you were a barefooted dairymaid in mossgiel. now look at us. you[231] are the lady and i am an outcast, singing on the streets for my daily bread.”
mary looked at her in amazement. “but what has happened?” she asked wonderingly.
“my father has turned me into the street,” answered jean dully.
“had ye done wrong?” inquired mary timidly.
jean laughed mirthlessly. “wrong?” she repeated, “aye, if refusing to marry an old man i detested be wrong.”
“an’ your father turned ye out for that?”
“for that,” she replied stonily, “and because i refused to give up robert burns.”
“but—but ye gave him up long ago, jean, of your own free will,” faltered mary, an awful fear clutching at her heart. “an’ your father wrote robert,” she continued breathlessly, “that ye willingly, gladly renounced all claims on him, that ye even hated his name, an’ that ye hoped never to see or hear o’ him again.”
a look of hatred spread over the face of the other. “my father lied when he wrote that,” she cried with bitter intensity, “for i told him i would never renounce my marriage to robert, irregular though it was, and i never will. he is my husband,” and she glared defiantly at the shrinking girl, who was looking at her with searching, frightened eyes. for a moment the poor child stood there like a lifeless figure as the words stamped themselves[232] one by one on her bewildered brain and sent it reeling into darkness and vacancy. she felt sick and dizzy. there was a rushing sound in her ears, the garden swung round dizzily before her eyes, yet she stood still, speaking no word, although a quiver of agony passed over her pallid face.
“oh, robert, my love, have i lost ye again?” she thought dully. “i knew it was only a dream, too sweet to last.” there was a choking sensation in her throat, but she did not weep. as in a horrid dream she heard the sharp metallic voice hissing in her ear, “he is my husband, mary campbell. you must give him up to me.” she roused herself out of the lethargy into which she had fallen, and unclasping her hands, she wearily pushed back her curls from her brow and fixed her large pathetic eyes on jean, who instinctively shrank back before the speechless despair of that helpless gaze. “but ye have no claim on robbie noo, jean,” she faltered slowly, “since your irregular marriage was publicly dissolved.” she paused and her pale lips quivered. “why have ye come here noo to disturb him?” she asked with infinite pathos. “he is happy, so happy noo. dinna destroy that happiness; go awa’; leave him to me. ye took him from me once; dinna separate us again.” her voice broke and a hard sob choked her utterance. a great pity welled up in jean’s heart for the stricken child, but she steeled herself against it and remained sullenly[233] quiet. presently mary spoke again. “i hae nothing in this world, jean, and i love him so,” she said with dreamy wistfulness, “better than life itsel’. we have loved each ither for years, an’ that love has grown stronger an’ stronger as each year passed by, till noo it’s part o’ my very being.” her voice rose to passionate pleading. “oh, what is your weak fancy compared to such a love, jean armour?” she asked piteously. “oh, i tell you i canna give him up to you again.” she sank down convulsively on the high-backed bench under the balcony, her form quivering with low heart-breaking sobs. tears of sympathy slowly filled jean’s eyes as she watched the grief-stricken girl before her, but with an angry frown she hardened her heart and forced herself to think of her own wrongs and pitiable condition.
“you must give him up!” she answered harshly, “and to-night.” she paused a moment to watch the brilliant crowd within the drawing-room, passing and repassing each other with slow, stately bearing as they walked with ease and grace through the dignified measures of the minuet. by and by she turned to the drooping form and spoke again. “my god, girl, don’t you suppose i too love him!” she exclaimed passionately. “why have i tramped mile after mile, half starving, subjected to all kinds of insults, struggling to reach here to see him, if it were not for that love?”
[234]
mary slowly raised her head and looked at her in reproachful sadness. “your love has only brought him, an’ all of us, sorrow and disgrace,” she said with pathetic simplicity. “he never loved ye, jean armour, ye ken that weel.”
jean winced at the blunt truth, and a quiver of anger passed over her defiant face. “i know that only too well,” she replied bitterly. then she gave a little mocking laugh, which nevertheless held a suggestion of tears. “you may have his heart, mary campbell,” she continued, “but i am what you can never be, his wife and the mother of his bairns.”
“the bairns,” repeated mary blankly, “are they alive, jean?”
“yes, they are alive, thank god!” murmured jean softly, “that is why i am here, mary, that is why i must demand my rights, for my bairns’ sake.” then she continued quickly, feverishly, “had it not been for them i would have done my father’s bidding, would have forgotten robert, renounced him utterly, and married the man my father had chosen for me, but i wanted my little ones to have the protection of a father’s name, so i stubbornly refused his commands. after my father had driven me from his door with curses on his lips, i discovered too late that robert had tried again and again to see me, had even begged my father to allow him to legalize our marriage, and that his overtures were met with scorn and abuse. then i decided to come to edinburgh[235] myself to tell robert the truth and to claim my rights.” she paused defiantly.
lady glencairn upon her return to the drawing-room had missed mary, and upon learning from mrs. dunlop that she was upon the balcony, she sauntered slowly in that direction. as she stepped through the window she heard the low murmur of voices, and looking down perceived with amazement the young girl seated below her in company with a fantastically-dressed gypsy. suddenly, with a start, she recognized the voice of jean armour. hastily concealing herself behind a large marble pillar she listened in growing wonder, her face becoming hard and repellent, to the direful confession of her god-daughter.
“i arrived in edinburgh after a month of hardships,” continued jean with suppressed excitement, “and to-night i saw him in all his prosperity entering the castle like a king, looking so handsome, so contented, and so very happy.”
“yes, he is happy noo,” replied mary softly. “happier than he’ll e’er be on earth again, perhaps,” and she closed her eyes wearily.
for a moment there was silence, broken only by the monotonous hum of voices and the faint twanging of the harp from within the drawing-room. presently mary opened her eyes and spoke again.
“ye maunna blame robert for anything at a’, jean,” she said loyally. “he thought the bairns were[236] dead, an’ he believed your father’s words, but noo, when he kens a’, he will do his duty nobly for his bairns’ sake.” she smiled bravely into the eager face of the other. “ye have the right to him, jean, i see that noo,” she continued sadly, “an’—an’ forgive my rude and unkind words to ye just noo,” and gently she held out her little hand.
jean took it tenderly in her own. “what will you do now, where will you go?” she asked with a feeling of remorse.
“i shall go back to colonel montgomery’s,” replied mary, in a sad, spiritless voice, from which all the life seemed to have fled, “where i can see my friends sometimes. mistress burns loves me, an’ i—i may see robbie, if only from the window as he passes. it willna harm anyone.” she looked at jean in a pleading, timid manner, while her mouth quivered pathetically, but she forced a wan smile to her pale lips and then slowly turned and walked toward the stairway. as she mounted the bottom step jean ran quickly to her side and clasped her hand impulsively.
“mary, i’m so sorry for you,” she said pityingly, “but i’m doing it for my bairns’ sake, ye ken that.”
“i understand, jean,” answered mary simply, “i dinna blame ye.” she leaned back against the marble balustrade. “but, oh, it’s hard, bitter hard,” she murmured brokenly; “if i could only die here and[237] noo.” she stretched out her hands with a sort of wild appeal. “oh, robbie, my darlin’,” she exclaimed in a sobbing whisper, “how can i tell ye, how can i break your heart? i thought ye had drunk your cup o’ misery empty, but the dregs are yet to be drained.”
the sympathetic tears rolled down jean’s face. “will you tell him i’m here, mary, and that i must see him at once?” she asked pleadingly. mary slowly bowed her head in assent. “oh, how i dread to meet him,” continued jean in a frightened whisper, “to have him look at me with stern and angry eyes; to know that he longs to be free, and that he wishes me dead, perhaps.” she covered her face with her hands and shivered apprehensively.
“ye needna fear, jean,” replied mary, with reproachful pride. “robert burns is a mon of honor; ye should know that weel. i’ll go noo an’ tell him ye are here.” for a moment she swayed as if about to fall, but she recovered herself in an instant and slowly mounted the few remaining steps to the balcony. as she reached the top she pressed her hand against her heart as if that action would still its rapid beating. “heaven give me the strength to tell him,” she breathed, and, with a little prayer on her lips, she slowly entered the drawing-room, where she found mrs. dunlop anxiously looking for her.
jean watched her for a few moments, then, with a sigh of nervous dread, she turned and paced restlessly[238] up and down within the deep shadows beneath the overhanging trees. she had only taken one turn when she felt herself seized by the arm and drawn into the bright moonlight. smothering the startled cry of alarm which rose to her lips she turned and faced her assailant. “lady glencairn!” she gasped, starting back in astonishment.
“so, jean armour,” hissed her ladyship, “’tis you whose name has been coupled so disgracefully with that of robert burns.”
jean dropped her head quickly, flushing crimson before the scornful light in the other’s eyes, which flashed like stars in the pale moonlight that came streaming down upon them. “then you have heard?” she faltered, after a little frightened pause.
“yes, i have heard everything,” her ladyship returned witheringly, “and my suspicions of you of two years ago have turned out to be right.”
“please say no more now, lady glencairn,” retorted jean sullenly. “let me go.” she tried to pass, but lady glencairn put a restraining hand upon her shoulder. “i will say no more, you foolish girl,” she replied angrily. “why do you insist upon thrusting yourself upon robert burns, to-night? he utterly detests your memory. he has done with you forever.”
jean looked at her defiantly. “i am his wife. he must acknowledge me,” she declared firmly.
lady glencairn laughed scornfully. “you foolish[239] child, do you think he will ever forgive you for stepping in between him and mary campbell again?” she asked with studied indifference. “no, he would hate you; you know his erratic temper, my dear jean; you would but ruin your chance for a reconciliation forever, if he sees you now, when his heart is torn by grief and sorrow at losing for the second time the one lass who is all the world to him.” she paused and watched narrowly the look of dread and doubt creep slowly over the downcast face before her.
by and by jean looked up, her eyes burning with unshed tears and shining feverishly. “what shall i do then, lady glencairn?” she asked helplessly, “where shall i go?”
lady glencairn did not answer for a few moments. she was thinking with a thrill of joy that jean’s coming would separate the two lovers forever. “more than likely robert would now remain in edinburgh,” she mused with wildly beating heart. “but, on the other hand, if he stayed he would quixotically marry jean armour, and publicly right her in the eyes of the world,” she thought jealously, “and then——” she broke off and stared at the girl intently. “if she were out of the way,” she thought maliciously, “might not his fickle fancy be caught in the rebound?” these thoughts flowed quickly through her brain, and her eyes half shut wickedly, her gleaming white bosom heaving from her hurried breathing, as she decided on her course. “you must[240] leave here at once,” she said softly, taking jean’s hand with an affectation of tenderness.
“i cannot return to my father,” she replied dully. “i have nowhere to go now.”
“go to an inn for to-night,” said her ladyship hurriedly, “and i’ll come to you in the morning and advise you as to your future movements, and help you.”
“but i must see robert first.”
lady glencairn frowned impatiently. “foolish girl, take my advice and wait until to-morrow. you will lose nothing by it, for i will myself plead with robert in your behalf.”
jean did not answer. she stood mute and undecided.
“surely, my dear jean,” continued lady glencairn mockingly, “you don’t expect him to proclaim you as his dearly beloved wife before them all, do you?” she waved her hand carelessly toward the drawing-room.
jean flushed and looked away. “no, i didn’t come for that,” she muttered slowly.
“then why not do as i advise? i know that when the keen edge of his grief has worn off he will willingly take you to his heart and by a church marriage make you his lawful wife,” and she threw her warm arm over the shoulders of the yielding girl.
jean gave a nervous little laugh. “i vow, lady glencairn, i have not the courage to meet him now,”[241] she said. “i—i thank you gratefully for your kindness. i—i know ’tis better to wait——” she paused and sighed dejectedly. “you’ll find me at the star and garter inn in king’s court,” she said quickly after a moment’s indecision. then she drew her scarf hurriedly about her shoulders as if anxious to get away.
at that instant a laughing group of people came out on the balcony. lady glencairn hastily drew her back in the shadows. “go, go quickly!” she whispered, “before you are seen.” with a panting word of thanks jean glided through the bushes, and, skirting the patches of light, she soon reached the secret door through which she had so unceremoniously entered and passed out to the street now deserted, save for the motionless coachmen asleep on their boxes. lady glencairn breathed a sigh of relief as she watched jean fade out of sight, swallowed up in the darkness. “both out of the way now,” she murmured, a triumphant smile on her full crimson lips. she walked quickly toward the balcony. “what a contemptible creature i have become,” she thought with careless unconcern. “and all for love of a low-born peasant,” and she laughed derisively, as she mounted the steps. she slowly entered the drawing-room, feeling strangely nervous and guilty, to find a great many people going to supper. robert had grown tired of the heat and glare and noise, and seeing mary sitting[242] so weary and wan looking, surrounded by a crowd of admirers who worshiped at the shrine of youth and beauty, he crossed quickly and whispered his wishes to her. she rose gladly and both advanced to bid their hostess farewell.
“sorry you cannot remain longer,” said the duchess with genuine cordiality. “you must bring miss campbell some afternoon to see me, mr. burns, when i am not receiving the public,” and with a pleasant smile she bade them good-night. slowly they made their way through the crowd and met lady glencairn coming swiftly toward them.
as her eyes rested upon his happy countenance she knew that he was still in ignorance of jean’s arrival in edinburgh. “won’t you have some supper?” she inquired brightly. “don’t go yet.”
but robert quietly insisted, as he perceived mary’s increasing languor and pallor. so lady glencairn, with anger and disappointment gnawing at her heart, for she had hoped to show him the beauties of the garden by moonlight before he went, seeing that remonstrances were of no avail, bade them both an effusive good-night. “don’t forget my garden party to-morrow,” she said with a patronizing smile, touching mary’s cold hand lightly. “i shall expect you,” and she turned to greet her husband, who was approaching with mr. mackenzie.
“thank ye, your ladyship,” answered mary simply, making a little courtesy.
[243]
“let me escort you to the carriage, miss campbell,” said lord glencairn, at once offering her his arm.
“and allow me to follow,” added mr. mackenzie, slipping his arm through robert’s, to whom he whispered, “how dare you, sir, how dare you be such a provokingly happy man in this miserable old world?” robert laughed, and they all walked slowly down to the carriage, conversing gayly on their way.
suddenly mary stopped with a little exclamation of dismay. “we’ve forgotten mrs. dunlop,” she said contritely.
with a laugh lord glencairn dispatched a footman to find her, and the good lady soon appeared, flushed and panting from her hurried departure. with a last handshake all around robert sprang in beside them and within a couple of minutes the carriage was out of sight.
“ye were the queen of the evening, mary, just as i told ye ye’d be,” said robert triumphantly. “have ye enjoyed yoursel’?”
“ay, for a whiley,” answered mary listlessly, leaning back against the heavy padding of the seat, with eyes heavy and sad. she had had no opportunity as yet to tell robert the dread news, and her heart was filled with misgivings as she thought of jean waiting patiently in the garden for him to come to her. she started up suddenly, resolved to[244] tell him, but the sight of his happy face, and the presence of mrs. dunlop, cooled her courage, and she leaned back again silent and miserable. if she didn’t tell him to-night what would jean do? with her usual unselfishness she gave no thought to self. she was miserably unhappy, but she would not allow herself to think of her own sufferings. her whole thought was of him and the darkness into which he would soon be plunged, and of jean and her bairns, robert’s bairns. she sighed quiveringly, and a little pang of jealousy shot through her heart like a breath of fire, but it soon passed away and left only a dull ache that would always be there now, she thought wearily, as they rolled along toward home. she clasped her hands together feverishly. “should she whisper to him now, tell him all and bid him drive back to jean?” she asked herself in an agony of indecision. at that moment the carriage stopped at the door of mrs. dunlop’s mansion. it was too late now. she gave a little sigh of relief, though her heart was filled with grief and anxiety. robert escorted her to the door, with loving pride in her daintiness, in her sweet air of refinement. she looked very frail and spirituelle, as she turned to him quietly and bade him good-night.
“has something gone wrong, mary?” he inquired solicitously, noticing with alarm her wan face, her languid air of weariness.
she shook her head slowly, not daring to trust[245] her voice. mrs. dunlop put her arm about her fondly.
“the lassie is tired, robert,” she said in her motherly way, “and no wonder. she’ll be as bright as a lark in the morning.” bidding them both a tender good-night, he turned and ran down the steps, jumped into the carriage, and drove off toward his chambers, whistling softly to himself the tune of “mary of argyle.”
