Having finished luncheon, the old Duke excused himself, and going to his study, he made out the necessary papers of promotion for the struggling exciseman, with many a shake of his head and pitying sigh for the young genius who was reduced to such straits—driven to such a commonplace calling, through his headstrong recklessness, his foolish ideas of independence. Having signed them he sat back in thoughtful meditation. Suddenly the door opened, and his daughter asked permission to enter. Having gained it, she crossed to her father, and sinking down beside him, in an eager, impetuous manner quickly laid before him a project which had been formulating in her active brain while he was busy writing out the papers.
He started back in amazement. “What!” he cried. “Are you out of your senses, Nancy?”
“Now, papa, listen!” she exclaimed earnestly. “’Twill take but a day’s ride to reach Dumfries, and think how delighted he will be to receive the promotion from your hands,” and she slyly noted the effect of the bit of delicate flattery.
He frowned and pursed his lips for a moment, and idly tapped the folded papers against his knee in thought. These signs boded success, as Nancy well knew, and springing to her feet she gave him a big hug that set him gasping.
“Look here, Mistress Nancy!” he exclaimed as soon as he recovered his breath, “why do you want to take this wearisome journey at this season of the year, just to visit the home of this poor exciseman?” and he wonderingly regarded the face that had suddenly grown flushed and pensive, as she looked with worshipful eyes at the large engraving over the fireplace, which contained the figure of Burns in a characteristic attitude, reading one of his poems to the group of people that surrounded him.
“I want to see him once more before the fire of his genius grows cold,” she answered dreamily. “I want to see him in his home with his—his wife and children around him.” She might have told him that she was heart-hungry for a sight of that dark, glowing face, the flashing black eyes that had thrilled her with such blissful pain, for the sound of that rich, majestic voice, that had so often stirred the uttermost depths of her heart. She felt that the yearning of her soul would not be satisfied till she had seen him again, spoken with him. She hoped, yet dreaded, that the sight of his changed face, his miserable surroundings, the commonplaceness of it all, of meeting the exciseman with his wife and children around him, rather than the idealized poet, would silence forever the strange unrest of her soul, banish all thoughts of sentiment from her mind, and destroy the spell of glamour which he had all unconsciously thrown about her. These thoughts flew through her mind with lightning speed while her father was making up his mind how best to dissuade her from her purpose.
“I fear me, Nancy, ’twill give us both more pain than pleasure,” he said finally. “We may even lose our respect for him.”
“Don’t say that, father!” she cried reproachfully. “No matter how low he may have fallen, and I protest that fame has exaggerated his misconduct woefully, we people of Scotland cannot forget nor overlook the priceless treasure he has put into our thankless hands, a treasure that will be handed down to posterity with ever increasing regard, admiration and love for its author,” and her flashing blue eyes, that had so often reminded Robert of Mary Campbell, and which had formed a closer tie of comradeship between them, again sought and lingered upon the engraved likeness of her hero. The singular beauty of Lady Nancy Gordon was illumined by that happy expression of countenance which results from the union of cultivated tastes and superior understanding with the finest affections of mind, and the influence of such attractions had been keenly felt by the ardent poet, who was not altogether unaware of the impression he had made upon her heart, which was as susceptible to the charms of wit and intellect as was his own. As she stood gazing up at the picture, she thought with an odd little smile how she had openly sought for his favors, delighted in his apparent preference for her society even while she told herself she knew he was only attracted by her brilliancy—that she appealed to his intellect—charmed him by her wit, her cleverness. No, she had never touched his heart, she thought with a sigh, and a look of sadness came into her thoughtful eyes.
“I fear, Nancy, that Robert still harbors feelings of resentment against us,” protested the Duke after a pause. “I know he would rather not see us.”
But Lady Nancy overruled his objection. “Then all the more reason for our assuring him of our friendship and asking his forgiveness for any offense we have unintentionally offered him.”