“We’ll na take no for an answer. Ye may be stubborn wi’ your lofty independence, your pride, but I can be just as stubborn as ye, Rab Burns, and I say it is settled,” said Souter.
“’Tis the hand of God,” whispered Jean softly.
“God bless ye both,” faltered Robert, grasping Souter’s hand affectionately.
“Come, father,” said Lady Nancy, who had witnessed this little scene with moist eyes, “I protest we must start on our journey.”
“But first we must have a toast,” said Robert brightly. “’Tis most fitting. Jean, bring the punch bowl.” Quickly she brought from the closet the bowl of Inverary marble and placed it on the table, and into it she poured some hot water and sugar. “We have no wine to offer,” continued Robert, “nothing better than Highland whisky, but ye needna’ be afraid of becoming intoxicated, my lord,” and he smiled ruefully, “for I ken ’twill hardly be tolerable to your educated taste.” Jean had mixed the punch and now passed it around among the guests. “For auld lang syne!” cried Robert feelingly. “Is not that phrase most expressive? My lord, a toast,” and he raised his glass to the old Duke, who, after a moment’s hesitation, proposed “the health of Robert Burns, Scotland’s greatest Bard.”
“We drink to that with pleasure,” exclaimed Lady Nancy.
“Aye, that we do,” echoed Souter heartily. And while the toast was being drunk he slyly whispered, “Rob, dinna’ say aught to my wife about—er—the old Marquis, my—ahem—cousin. Ye understand,” and he nudged him significantly.
Robert smiled and assured him of his secrecy.
“And noo,” said Souter proudly, looking at Eppy’s simpering face, “here’s to the bride.” She made a deep courtesy and quaffed her glass with conscious dignity at her sudden importance. “May she always believe in her husband,” he added in an aside to Robert, much to the latter’s amusement.
“Mrs. MacDougall, here’s to your enemies, your foes,” proposed Robert.