“You poor fool, you country yokel!” she stormed furiously, walking up and down between him and the door like a caged lioness. “Did you think you could scorn such a woman as I with impunity? Do you think I will stand the humiliation of being repulsed, despised, shamed? I tell you no, no, never; ’tis but a step from love to hate, you should know that.” She paused in her nervous walking and stood facing him, her eyes ablaze with the uttermost anger, her beautiful figure drawn rigidly erect. “You shall be made to feel the depth of my hatred before long, Robert Burns,” she threatened, and there came a dangerous gleam in the flashing, dark eyes.
“I shall leave Edinburgh within the hour,” replied Robert quietly. Was there ever such another unfortunate being as himself? he thought grimly, and a wave of unutterable sadness rushed over him.
“Aye, that you will,” retorted her ladyship with a sneering, bitter laugh. “But not as you anticipate, with the plaudits of the world ringing in your ears. Instead of that, only contemptuous silence will greet your departure as you leave here in shame and disgrace, and when you have sunk once more into poverty and oblivion, you will repent bitterly ever having made an enemy of Alice Glencairn.” As these words left her lips, she swept haughtily past him like an outraged queen and left the room, leaving him standing there like one in a trance.
He brushed his hands across his eyes as if to assure himself that he was awake, that he wasn’t the subject of some hideous hallucination, but no, he was painfully conscious of the reality of it all. He heaved a deep sigh and sank wearily into a chair, his eyes riveted upon the floor in melancholy meditation. A little cry aroused him from the profound gloom into which his thoughts were plunged and looking fearfully up, dreading lest her ladyship had returned, his eyes rested upon the white, startled face of Highland Mary. She had watched him leave the grounds with listless curiosity, which changed to wonder and dismay when Lady Glencairn rose from her seat and sauntered toward the hall. For some minutes she nervously sat there wondering vaguely why he stayed so long and why her ladyship had followed him. Presently she rose and mechanically made her way over the springy sward toward the house. She couldn’t have told why she went or what she intended to do. She wondered in a vague way if Robert’s message could in any way concern Jean, but her thoughts dwelt longer upon the suspicions that had been raised in her innocent heart against her beautiful hostess, for she had recognized her as the bogus Lady Nancy in spite of the disguising mask, suspicions that filled her with uneasiness and alarm; and yet why should she be jealous? She told herself sadly she had renounced him forever, given him back to Jean, and in a few days she would pass out of his life forever. Oh, the agony that pierced her heart at the recollection of her past happiness! How fleeting it had been—scarcely a week. She had drawn near the window by this time quite unconsciously. Suddenly the sound of voices within the room made her pause. She had not thought to listen nor meant to, but when she heard the passionate pleading voice of her ladyship and the stern replies from Robert, a feeling of fascinated horror took possession of her, rooting her to the spot. Motionless she stood there and heard all that passed within the room. And when the voices stopped and all was deathly still, she peered through the window. At the sight of her dear one sitting there all alone, with that look of intense suffering on his face, her heart cried out to him in sympathy. Quickly she opened the high French window and noiselessly stepped into the room. For a moment she stood watching him, her eyes filled with patient sorrow, infinite pity, and a world of loving compassion. Involuntarily a deep sigh escaped her. As he raised his head she went quietly up to him and placed a tender hand upon his arm. After one quick, heart-broken look at her he buried his face in his hands again.
“Dinna distress yoursel’, laddie; I have known since last night at Athol Castle that our happy dream was ended.” She felt him stiffen beneath her touch. “Jean came to me in the gardens,” she explained with patient resignation. “I should have told ye last night, for she was waiting for ye to come to her, but I—I hadna’ the courage.” There was silence for a moment, then he spoke in a low, spiritless tone.
“Jean said that ye knew all,” he said without looking up. They remained quiet after that, plunged in bitter thought. There was nothing they could say to comfort each other, the wound was bleeding too freely as yet. Presently Robert raised his head, and with a despairing gesture pushed the heavy curls back from his fevered brow and rose unsteadily to his feet. They must get away at once, he thought feverishly. He took Mary by the hand and started for the door, when from the open window he heard his name called. Turning apprehensively he beheld Sir William Creech entering, followed by Lord Glencairn and several of his guests. In his hand Sir William held a newspaper, while a hard smile of triumph wrinkled his stem face.
“I told ye, Robert Burns, ye would overreach yourself,” he cried jubilantly, shaking the newspaper at him.
Robert looked at him apathetically. “Ye were ever a bird of ill omen,” he said quietly. “What have I done noo?”
“You have seen fit to sign your name to an article in this paper, which has aroused the indignation of all Edinburgh,” replied Sir William without any preamble. “’Tis a most seditious article and shows that ye have embraced the doctrines of the French Revolution.”
“A man has a perfect right to his opinion,” said Mrs. Dunlop decidedly, giving Sir William a scornful look.