Highland Mary: The Romance of a Poet / A Novel

by Clayton Mackenzie Legge

“I dinna understand why ye left Edinburgh,” he began, when she interrupted him.

“Because I thought you were still in Mauchline,” she explained quickly. He look at her questioningly. “I left Edinburgh for the sole purpose of seeing you, Robert,” she announced quietly, making room for him to sit beside her, but he did not accept the invitation.

“Well, noo, that was very kind of ye, Jean,” he replied a little uneasily. “But I’m not so conceited as to believe that. I ken the charms o’ Edinburgh town, with its handsome officers, soon made ye forget the quiet country village, and a’ your old flames, including your bashful humble servant,” and he made her a mocking bow.

His tone of satirical raillery made her wince. “Forget?” she cried passionately, jumping to her feet. “I wish to heaven I might forget everything, but I cannot—I cannot.” The sudden thought of her predicament caused her haughty, rebellious spirit to quail, and covering her face with her hands, she burst into a paroxysm of tears and sank heavily down upon the step.

He regarded the weeping woman silently. Was her attachment for him stronger than he had believed? Could it be possible she still entertained a passion for him? he asked himself anxiously. But no, that couldn’t be; she had left him two months ago with a careless word of farewell on her laughing lips. Yet why these tears, these wild words she had just uttered? A wave of pity for her swept over him as he realized, if such were the case, that he must repulse her advances gently but none the less firmly. He had done with her forever when he said his last farewell. There could be no raking over of the dead ashes.

Jean angrily wiped away her tears. She must not give way to such weakness. She had an errand to perform which would need all her courage. He was evidently waiting for some explanation of her strange behavior, she told herself with a vain effort to steel her heart. Now was the time to tell him all, she thought fearfully, peeking out from behind her small linen ’kerchief, with which she was dabbing her eyes, at his cold, wondering face. The sooner it was done the sooner she would know what to expect at his hands. How should she begin? After a long, nervous pause she faltered out, “Have you forgotten the past, Robert, and all that we were to each other?”

“Nay, Jean, I remember everything,” he answered remorsefully. “But let us not speak of that noo, please. Ye ken that is all ended between us forever.” He turned away pale and trembling, for her presence, her looks and words recalled many things he wanted to forget, that shamed him to remember.

“Ended?” she repeated, an angry flush rising to the roots of her black hair. She looked at him in amazement. He, the poverty-stricken farmer, had repulsed her, the belle of Mauchline? Could she have heard aright? He who had always been at her beck and call, two months ago her willing slave, could it be that he was over his infatuation for her? She had not thought of that possibility. She had expected him to be humble, gratefully flattered by her condescension in seeking him out. If he should refuse the proposal she had come so far to make! she thought in trepidation. “He must not refuse, he shall not refuse,” and her face grew hard and set. But perhaps he was piqued because she had left him so unceremoniously two months ago, because she had not written him. Her tense lips relaxed into a smile. Oh, well, she would be nice to him now; she would make him think she was breaking her heart for him, work on his sympathy, then perhaps it would not be necessary to confess her humiliating plight. No farmer doomed to lifelong poverty would be averse to winning the hand of the daughter of the rich Squire Armour. These thoughts, running through her mind, decided her next move, and with a fluttering sigh she rose from her seat and descended the step. She drew close to him and looking languishingly up into his face, murmured, “Why should it be ended, Robert? I love you just the same as I did in the past,” and she threw her arms about his neck, clinging to him passionately. “You do love me a little, tell me you do.”

“Jean, ye must be daft,” he panted, vainly trying to disengage himself from her embrace.

But she continued softly, alluringly, “Think of the old days, when I lay in your arms like this, Robbie. Think of those happy hours we spent together on the banks of the Doon. You were not cold to me then. Oh, let us live them all over again. How happy we will be. Kiss me, Rob,” and she lifted her flushed, piquant face, her crimson lips pursed temptingly, close to his. The warmth of her seductive body, the white bare arms in their short sleeves, which embraced his neck, the half-closed passionate eyes gazing invitingly, languorously into his own, fired his naturally ardent blood, making his senses to reel from the contact. Slowly his arms, which had been restraining her amorous embrace, tightened their hold on her, drawing her closer and closer, while the drops of sweat poured down his white, yielding face, as with wild bloodshot eyes he battled with the temptations which beset him so wantonly, so dangerously. With a thrill of elation not unmixed with desire she felt him yielding to her embrace, and knew that she had won him again. With a cooing cry of delight she was about to press her warm lips to his, when suddenly a bird-like voice singing in the distance arrested her impulse.