“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 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.”