Her ladyship, with one quick look around at the wavering faces of her friends, knew that she was losing ground, and the color faded from her cheeks. A look of nervous fear came into her steely eyes. She must restore their shaking confidence in her—but how? It gave her a strange feeling of satisfaction to know that whatever the outcome, she had ruined his popularity for the present, but she wanted to ruin him utterly—to turn every door in Edinburgh against him. If she could only get someone to speak in her behalf, she thought prayerfully, as she looked about her. Suddenly her eyes rested on the saturnine features of her uncle, who was regarding her with a malicious smile of triumph. An eager light came into her hard eyes. He hated Robert Burns; he would help her out if anyone would; she would risk it. His word coupled with hers would instantly turn the tide in her favor. And risking all upon the throw, she called out loud enough to be heard above the murmur of voices, “Uncle, it seems my word is not fully believed,” she said, with a little pitying, disdainful smile, which brought the flush of embarrassment to the cheeks of several, who happened to catch her eye; “so if you will oblige me by relating what you know of the unpleasant circumstances, perhaps your word will be accepted by our doubting friends.” Her lazy voice was replete with insulting sarcasm.
All eyes turned to look at Sir William, who, after one quick, angry glance at the cool, smiling face of his strategic niece, cleared his throat with irritating precision, and, without glancing at the startled face of his victim, who had started to his feet upon hearing the amazing request of her ladyship, spoke quickly and harshly, a faint tinge of color dying his yellow skin as the dastardly lie left his lips.
“I overheard Mr. Burns’ insults to my niece,” he said firmly. “I was standing behind the curtain there,” pointing to a large window, “where I had gone only a moment before Lady Glencairn entered the room, to glance out of the window, having heard a noise without, and before I could make my presence known, Mr. Burns had thrown himself upon his knees, and—and I did not disturb them,” he concluded lamely.
“Ye perjurer!” cried Robert furiously. “By heaven, I could choke ye with your own lie!” and he turned white with passion. Sir William cowered back, a look of fear in his shifty eyes.
“Oh, Robbie, take me hame, take me hame,” gasped Mary, with heart-breaking pathos, and she sank half fainting in the chair Robert had vacated.
“Come, James, let us retire,” said Lady Glencairn sweetly, casting a look of grateful triumph at her uncle. “I am sorry you have lost a friend, but I could not shield him,” and she pressed his arm with affected tenderness. Slowly, sorrowfully he allowed himself to be drawn to the door.
“My lord!” cried Robert hoarsely, “have ye no word to say to me? Ye have heard the proofs of my innocence; will ye not believe them?” and his whole soul was in his eyes as he eagerly searched the downcast face of his old benefactor.
Lord Glencairn gave him one sad, reproachful look. “Oh, Robert,” he said brokenly, “and I trusted you so.”
Robert dropped his hand, which he had extended pleadingly, and a flush mounted to the roots of his hair, which quickly faded, leaving him paler than before, while a look of wounded pride and unutterable bitterness flashed into his stern face.
“I will attempt no further denial, my lord,” he said slowly, with quiet dignity. “Calumny has at last reared its vicious head to strike like some venomous serpent, seeking to crush me in its enveloping folds. The genius of the Bard is ignored, forgotten—only my obscure birth, my sins, my indiscretions, my faults are remembered now,” and he smiled with mournful bitterness.