“She is a—a friend,” he replied, flushing to the roots of his hair. Then he continued, softly, his eyes lighting up with love and devotion, “An’ she is as sweet and fragrant as a sprig of pure white heather plucked from her native Highlands.”
“Aye, and she’ll make a fine wife for Robert,” added Mrs. Burns complacently.
“Aye, finer than I deserve, mither,” he replied, looking uneasily at Jean, who had started violently, then quickly leaned back against the door post, pale and trembling.
“Marry her? Never! He cannot, he must not,” she muttered to herself, frantically.
“Why, Jean!” cried Lady Glencairn, going to her in sudden alarm. “What ails you, why do you look so wild?”
“I—I’m—a pain gripped my heart most suddenly,” she faltered. “I find it over warm here,” she gasped. “I’ll await you without,” and she left the room, a strange, frightened look on her pale face.
With a puzzled frown Lady Glencairn turned and sank thoughtfully into a chair. Looking up suddenly, she caught Robert’s eye fastened upon her face in eager scrutiny. “Let me see, what were we speaking about?” she inquired indifferently.
“Ye were kind enough to ask me about my poetry,” answered Rob quietly. Jean’s queer behavior troubled him. What did it all mean? He feared she had aroused suspicion in her ladyship’s mind.
“Oh, to be sure, and I vow I’m curious,” she replied brightly. “I should like to read one of your poems, Mr. Burns, if you have one at hand.”
“He has bushels of them in the attic, your ladyship,” eagerly spoke Mrs. Burns.