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 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 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.