“I’m in a sorry mood for business, Sir William Creech,” he warned him, a steely glitter in his eye.
“Well, ye will hear what I’ve to say,” insisted Sir William doggedly. “Ye are under contract to me, sir; but instead of living up to the terms of that agreement, ye are scattering broadcast to every person that pleases your fancy, a song or an ode or a poem, which diminishes the worth and consequent sale of your collection.”
“Lud, uncle,” interposed Lady Glencairn quickly, “I’ll warrant it makes not the slightest difference.”
“’Tis not fair to me,” sputtered Sir William, “and I warn ye, Mr. Burns, ye must not do it again. I strictly forbid it.”
“Uncle!” gasped Lady Glencairn in amazement.
“Ye forbid?” repeated Robert in immeasurable scorn. “Ye nor any man living can dictate to Robert Burns. I shall write when an’ for whom I please. I will not barter an’ sell my soul like so much merchandise. You published my collection of songs an’ have made money out o’ the transaction, which is mair than I have done. I am sick of it all; I am done with your roguery, your deceit, now an’ forever.” And he waved his hand in angry dismissal.
“But our contract,” gasped Sir William, taken aback.
“’Tis ended now, canceled by your ain insult, an’ I shall take means to collect my just dues.”
“Are you not hasty?” asked Lady Glencairn concernedly.