later that day two men might have been seen galloping their horses at full speed toward the little house on the hillside. they were determined, resolute looking men, evidently bent on serious purpose. finally they reached the gate, and dismounting made their way to the door, the elder man insisting loudly upon accompanying the other, much to his visible annoyance.
“there is no need for secrecy, gilbert burns,” said he grimly, and he followed him into the house and to the room where robert sat with pencil in hand vainly courting his muse. jean, who was busily engaged in sewing, jumped to her feet with a little cry of amazement upon seeing her father before her. robert held out his hand to his brother in delighted surprise, mixed with anxiety.
“brother!” he cried, “what brings ye to ellisland in such haste? is it bad news? mother, our sisters, are they ill?”
“nay,” replied gilbert constrainedly. “they are all well, rob, and have sent their love to yourself and family.”
“thank god for that,” responded robert thankfully.[327] there was a little embarrassed silence, then gilbert spoke again.
“robert, we—we are in sore trouble,” he confessed, his face anxious and troubled.
“trouble!” echoed rob blankly. “what is wrong, brother?”
“i cannot hold mossgiel any longer,” he replied, dejectedly. “the farm is but a wretched lease, as ye know, an’ i canna’ weather out the remaining year. without assistance, robert, i canna’ hope to hold our little family together any longer.”
robert’s heart sank within him as he heard the direful news. he glanced at squire armour apprehensively. “and squire armour?” he interrogated with an angry glance at that gentleman, who stood with a sneering smile on his harsh face, taking in the evidences of poverty that surrounded them. and with never a word of love or pity, nor of greeting to his daughter who sat there with white face and longing eyes, waiting to hear some news from her stern, implacable father, of her loving mother at home.
“i have bought the lease of mossgiel,” he growled, “an’ if your brother canna’ pay up the back rent, which is long past due, i shall seize everything and turn the whole lot of them out, every one.”
robert looked at him a moment in scornful silence. presently he spoke, and the cutting sarcasm of his voice caused the old squire to wince and drop his eyes.
[328]
“ye are a most just, square, god-fearin’ man, squire armour,” he said. “the kirk should be proud of ye.” turning to gilbert, he asked him the amount of his debt.
“only a matter of ￡4, brother,” he replied, “but ’tis a fortune to me at present.”
“an’ i must have the money to-day or the farm, i care not which.”
“oh, father!” cried jean, going to him, “do not be hard on him; he will pay you; only give him time.”
“jean!” flashed robert angrily, “dinna’ stoop to ask mercy of that mon, even though he be your own father.” jean turned away with a sigh.
squire armour laughed derisively. “ye’ll both be on your knees before long, i’ll warrant,” he cried harshly, “asking favors of me, especially when ye have naught to feed a starving family. ye have made yoursel’ a fine, comfortable bed, my lassie, havena’ ye?” he sneered sarcastically, turning to his shrinking daughter. “but ’tis made, and ye can lie on it, ye ungrateful minx.”
robert rose quickly to his feet, his eyes flashing dangerously.
“stop! squire armour!” he commanded. “dinna’ dare to use such language to my wife in my own house, or weak, sick, and crippled as i am, i will throw ye into the road like the cur that ye are.” he stopped, breathless with indignation. presently[329] he resumed with immeasurable scorn in his vibrating voice, “an’ they call such men as ye christians! a sneaking, crawling, psalm-singing, canting hypocrite! faugh! were i the lord, i would sicken at sight of ye.” he turned away and sat down beside his now weeping wife, and there was pity and compassion in the look he bestowed upon her.
“i’ve had enough of your blasphemy, robert burns. if ye canna’ pay the rent for your brother, my business is elsewhere.”
“i had no one else to turn to in this, my hour of trouble,” murmured gilbert brokenly. “if ye can help me without impoverishing yoursel’, for god’s sake do it, or i shudder to think what will become of the dear ones at home.”
robert was silent. he thought with anxious loving concern of his own little flock, of the slender resources at his command, of the gravity of his own situation, sick as he was and with such gloomy prospects staring him in the face—and yet was he not better off after all than they at mossgiel? had he not his salary, small as it was, and the promise of the supervisorship, besides the money that thompson would pay him for his poem? he had much to thank god for, he thought gratefully.
“i see ’tis no use delaying longer,” said armour, looking at the serious, downcast faces before him. “i have given ye fair warning, gilbert burns, an’ noo i’ll go.”
[330]
he had reached the door, when robert spoke quietly but firmly. “wait!” he called. “ye shall have the money, ye shylock.”
“thank god!” cried gilbert with a loving glance at his brother’s calm face.
jean looked at him in speechless amazement. what did he mean? how could he help others when they were in such dire need themselves? she asked herself apprehensively.
“robert,” she whispered anxiously, “ye dinna’ ken what ye say.”
“my brother will meet ye at sundown, at the inn,” continued robert without heeding her warning, although his face took on a whiter hue. “he will bring ye every farthing of what is due ye. noo go; there is the door; your business here is ended. ye have brought naught but misery and trouble into my life by your unreasonable hatred o’ me, but the time will come, squire armour, when all the unhappiness and suffering ye have caused me and mine will rise up before ye like a hideous phantom, robbin’ ye of all peace o’ mind on earth, and your hopes of salvation hereafter.” he drew nearer the gaping man, who was regarding him with angry, sullen eyes, and continued with a bitter, unforgiving intensity that filled his listeners with awe and horror, “an’ when ye feel the chill icy hand of grim death clutching at your heart, ye’ll cry out for the sympathy and love of those whom ye cast out of your life, but[331] ye’ll cry in vain, an’ ye’ll die as ye have lived, a miserable wretched ending to a miserable selfish life.”
as he finished his grim prophecy, squire armour gave a cry of nervous fear, and with blanched face and wild eyes he strove to speak, but the words would not pass his white, trembling lips. finally he gasped in a frightened whisper which gradually rose to angry defiance:
“how dare ye! how dare ye say such things to me, robert burns? i willna’ die like that and ye canna’ frighten me with your grim forebodings.” he paused and glanced at them all in turn, then hastily opened the door. just as he was stepping out, he turned slowly and looked at the white, patient face of his daughter. for a moment he regarded her in silence, then with a visible effort he addressed her.
“jean,” he said, and his voice was noticeably softer, “ye are welcome to come back to your home.” he cast a quick look at the lowering face of his son-in-law and added vindictively—“alone.”
“nay, never alone, father,” replied jean sadly, looking at her husband’s frowning face.
the old man turned with sudden fury upon them. “i’ll wait till sundown for my money,” he shouted, “but not a minute longer!” and he closed the door behind him with a vicious slam.
gilbert was first to break the depressing silence[332] that ensued. he felt vaguely that all was not so well with his brother as he had been led to believe.
“forgive me, brother,” he murmured contritely, “for bringing this trouble on ye.”
“never mind, gilbert; it was to be, i ken,” answered rob absently.
gilbert was silent a moment. “but the money, robert, is it—are ye——” he stammered, then stopped in embarrassed confusion.
“’tis the sum i expect from the sale of a poem. jean, see if there is aught of the posty.” she rose and went to the window and peered anxiously down the dusty road.
“i didna’ have the ready money with me,” went on robert lightly, as if it were a matter of small importance, “or i would have fixed it up at once. but ye shall hae the money, laddie, when my letter comes,” and he smiled reassuringly into gilbert’s anxious face.
“god bless ye, robert; ye have taken a great load off my heart.”
jean returned to her seat by the hearth, and listlessly took up her needlework. “i fear posty has forgotten us to-day,” she said in answer to robert’s questioning look.
“‘i’ll wait till sundown for my money,’ he shouted.”
a great fear seized his heart. for nearly a week he had hopefully awaited some word from thompson. what could be the matter? “o god!” he prayed[333] silently, “let him not fail me noo.” with a bright smile that sadly belied his anxious heart, he rose and, taking gilbert’s arm, said gayly, “come, brother, and see the new bairn that has been added to the flock this last year.”
as they left the room jean dropped her work in her lap and gazed after them with eyes filled with helpless tears of anxiety, at the thought of the hardships and suffering that lay in wait for them all.
after admiring the baby in the trundle bed the two brothers talked of the dear ones in mossgiel, and the many changes time had wrought in the lives of them all; spoke with tenderness of the sister who had recently been married—and dwelt with anxious concern on the struggles of their younger brother, who had left home to branch out for himself. for a time they forgot their own troubles, and robert plied his brother with many questions concerning the welfare of all his old friends and neighbors, while gilbert told him all the gossip of the village, of the prosperity of some of the lads, and the unfortunate situations of many of the others, thus leading up to the recital of their own troubles since robert had left his home. he listened sorrowfully to the tale of hardship and unceasing toil which brought such little recompense, but not by word or look did he betray his own blighted hopes and gloomy prospects. finally they had exhausted every subject save one, and that one had been uppermost in the minds of[334] both, but each had avoided the subject with a shrinking dread.
no news of the little dairymaid had come to robert for almost a year, and the thought that possibly she was ill or dead—or—and a hundred conjectures racked his brain and froze the eager questions that trembled on his lips. gilbert must have read the longing in his brother’s heart, for, after a troubled glance at the dark yearning face gazing at him so beseechingly, he looked down at his toil-worn hands and awkwardly shifted one knee over the other. presently he spoke.
“mary is still at colonel montgomery’s,” he observed, making an effort to speak lightly.
“i heard she had left mrs. dunlop’s,” replied robert feverishly, moistening his lips with the tip of his tongue.
“aye,” sighed gilbert. “she grew tired o’ the city and longed for the stillness, the restfulness of country life once more, so she came back to us and took her old place in the dairy. poor lass,” and he looked thoughtfully out of the window and sadly watched the glorious sunset tinting the distant hills in a blaze of golden light.
“an’—an’ is she well—is she happy?” murmured robert in a soft, hushed voice. gilbert did not answer for a moment. presently he roused himself and slowly let his gaze wander back till it rested on his brother’s wistful face.
[335]
“can ye bear a shock, brother?” he asked quietly.
robert suddenly stiffened and his eyes grew wide and staring. he gripped the sides of the chair as a wave of sudden dizziness dulled his understanding. presently it passed away, and like one in a dream he whispered hoarsely, “tell me the worst, gilbert; is—is she dead?”
he closed his eyes and waited with breathless stillness for the answer.
“thank god, not that!” replied gilbert feelingly. robert breathed a sigh of relief. “but she is very ill, an’ i ken she hasna’ long on earth noo. the doctors say there is no hope for her,” and he bit his lips to keep back the rising tears.
slowly, sorrowfully, robert’s head drooped till it rested on his bosom. for a moment he sat like one on the verge of dissolution.
“oh, god!” he moaned bitterly, “that sweet young life crushed out in all its innocent purity, like a delicate flower, and through my sin, my reckless folly. oh, how can i live and bear my punishment!” a convulsive sob racked his weakened frame. gilbert bent over him with tears in his eyes, forgetting his own crushing sorrow in witnessing that of his brother.
“dinna’ greet so, robert,” he cried. “’twas not your fault, ye ken. it was to be.” his philosophical belief in fate helped him over many a hard[336] and stony path, and enabled him to meet with calmness and fortitude the many heartaches and disappointments which befell him.
soon the convulsive shudders ceased, and leaning wearily back in his chair, robert fixed his great mournful eyes upon his brother in sorrowful resignation.
“how did she look when ye last saw her, gilbert?” he asked faintly, pressing his hand tightly to his heart, for the old pain had come back with exhausting results.
“like an angel, lad,” replied gilbert tenderly. “so sweet and pure, so patient and forgiving.”
“does she suffer much?”
“nay,” he answered reassuringly. then he continued, his voice soft and low, his strong features quivering from the restraint he put upon his feelings, “her life is just slowly slipping away from her; day by day she grows weaker and weaker, but ne’er a complaint is on her lips. she is always so cheerful an’ smilin’ that it fair makes ye weep to see her fadin’ awa’ so fast,” and his voice broke into a hard sob.
“oh, mary, my highland mary!” murmured robert brokenly.
“her last wish is to see the highlands, to—to die there,” continued gilbert, his lips contracting with a sudden, sharp pain at the thought. “so before she grows any weaker, mrs. dunlop, who has come[337] from town to see her, and who is wi’ her noo, is goin’ to take her back to her old home in argyleshire.”
“going home to die!” repeated robert dreamily. “oh, if i might be taken awa’ too, if my end would only hasten,” he muttered despairingly, with the weak selfishness of the sick and sorrowing. “then might our departing souls be united as one, to be together for all eternity.”
“hush, robert!” cautioned gilbert, looking fearfully at the closed door. “remember jean and the bairns.”
“gilbert, i must see her before she goes!” he cried utterly distracted. “’tis for the last time on earth, ye ken, lad,” and he jumped up, trembling with eager excitement.
“brother, would ye kill yoursel’?” cried gilbert, seeking to restrain him. “’tis madness for ye to go out in your weak condition.”
“dinna’ stop me, gilbert!” he panted, and he flung open the door and rushed excitedly into the room where jean sat in patient meditation. “jean, get my bonnet and coat, quick, quick!” he commanded with his old-time vehemence. she jumped up pale and frightened and looked questioningly at gilbert. quickly he told her of mary’s illness and robert’s determination to go to her at once. when he had finished she went to her husband, the tears of ready sympathy in her eyes, for she was not jealous of his love for mary. she had gotten over that long[338] ago, and laying her hand gently on his arm, she tried to coax him to sit down and listen to them.
“they’ll have to pass by here on their way to greenock,” she told him tenderly. “and ye may be sure, robert, that mary will not leave ayrshire without saying good-by to you.” and so she reasoned with him, while gilbert joined her in assurances of mrs. dunlop’s intention of stopping to see him as she passed the farm. gradually the wild light in his eyes died down, the tense figure relaxed, and with a sigh of exhaustion he allowed himself to be taken back to his room.
“ye’re sure she’ll not forget to stop here?” he asked with pathetic eagerness. then he continued with wistful retrospection, “two years have come and gone and not a word have we spoken to each other since that day we parted in edinburgh! oh, cruel, cruel fate!” he spoke so low that none heard him.
“noo, robert,” said jean brightly, “you must take your gruel, ’twill give ye strength.” but he made a gesture of repulsion.
“nay, jean, i canna’ eat noo; ’twould choke me. i think i’ll lay me down to rest.” they soon prepared him for bed. without a word, he turned his face to the wall and for the rest of the night he lay there with wide, staring, sleepless eyes, thinking, thinking, thinking.
