A few months before Robert returned to Mossgiel farm Jean had received an invitation from her god-parents, Lord and Lady Glencairn, to visit Edinburgh, which she had accepted with eagerness, for she was becoming tired of her latest conquest and longed for the gay life of the capital.
Robert saw her leave Mauchline with no pangs of regret at her inconstancy and caprice. He was in a state of profound melancholy at the time, the thoughts of how he had fallen from the paths of truth and virtue, the thoughts of the pure love of his sweetheart at home, filling his heart with grief and remorse. He was thinking of all this as he approached the stile. How wretchedly weak and sinful he had been to forget his sworn vows to Mary, he thought remorsefully. “May no harping voice from that past ever come to disturb her peace of mind,” he prayed fervently.
Jean watched him, drawing ever nearer, with eyes filled with sudden shame and dread at what she had to tell him. Why had her brief infatuation for the poverty-stricken farmer led her into such depths of imprudence and recklessness? she thought angrily. As he reached the bottom of the stile she softly spoke his name, and noted with chagrin his startled look of surprise and annoyance as he raised his eyes to hers.
“Jean Armour?” he cried in amazement.
“Aren’t you glad to see me?” she asked coquettishly, his presence exercising its old fascination for her.
“What has brought ye to Mossgiel?” he asked abruptly, ignoring her outstretched hand.
“An accident,” she replied flippantly. “I was on my way home and would have been there ere this had it not been for a fortunate mishap.”
“Fortunate mishap?” he repeated questioningly.
“Yes,” she retorted amiably, “otherwise I should have missed seeing you,” and she smiled down into his pale startled face.