“I mean you must make me your wife.” Her pale and agitated face made him wonder if she had gone quite daft. Before he could answer she continued stridently, “You must marry me now, before it is too late, too late to save my name from dishonor and disgrace. Now do you understand?”
A look of incredulous horror slowly blanched his face to ashy whiteness. Had he heard aright? Surely she was jesting; it could not be possible—and yet, why not? His haggard eyes searched her colorless face as though he would read her very soul. Calmly she bore the scrutiny and then, with a groan of anguish, he sank into a chair, weak and trembling. “I canna, I willna, believe,” he muttered hoarsely. “It’s a lie, it’s a lie, Jean Armour!”
“It’s the truth, I tell you,” she cried passionately, wringing her hands. “What else think you would force me, the rich Belle of Mauchline, to humble my pride and stoop to plead to a poverty-stricken farmer to wed me?” She laughed wildly.
“Can it be true, can it be true?” he whispered to himself dully. He felt dazed by the suddenness, the total unexpectedness, of the blow. He closed his eyes wearily. What was it she wanted him to do, he could not think. He sat dumbly waiting for her to speak again.
“You must write out an acknowledgment and sign your name to it,” she continued, her voice low and insistent. “It is an irregular marriage I know, but it will save me from my father’s wrath, when I can keep my plight from him no longer.” He still remained silent, his face hidden in his hands. “Will you do this?” she demanded anxiously, “or,” and her voice grew hard and threatening, “or shall I appeal to the Parish officers to help me save my good name from disgrace?” Quickly he raised his head. At his look of indignant scorn she winced and turned away, flushing angrily.
With a mirthless little laugh he retorted with bitter emphasis, “Your good name, indeed!”
She turned on him defiantly. “I was no worse than other girls,” she flippantly retorted. “Only more unfortunate. Will you do what I ask? Quick, tell me, someone is coming!” She nervously caught his hand. He did not speak. His face grew haggard and old-looking as he stood motionless, forming his resolution. It seemed to her an eternity before he answered her.
“So be it,” he answered hoarsely, drawing his hand away from hers and moving slowly to the door. “I’ll send ye the lines by the posty to-morrow.”
With a cry of delight she gratefully held out her hand to him. But he quietly opened the door, and, without a word or look at her, stood silently holding it back, his head bowed low on his bosom, his face cold and repellent. Slowly Jean walked past him out into the deepening twilight. She felt a dawning pity in her heart for the wretched lad. She could not quite forget those old, happy days, those stolen walks and trysts along the banks of the Ayr. No one could make love so ardently as he, she thought with a sigh. Of all her lovers he had been the favorite, he was so ingenuous, so trustful and confiding, and yet so reckless, so imprudent and weak. She knew well he had never really loved her, and the thought had made her strive all the harder to win him. He was flattered by her open preference for him, and soon became an easy victim, a slave, to her seductive charms and sophisticated fascinations, for he was only human. And now the heart of that little dairymaid would be broken. A quick pang of shame and regret stole over her, but she instantly stifled it. She must think of self first, she told herself uneasily. Anyway she only wanted the marriage lines in case people should point an accusing finger at her. Later—well, the marriage could be annulled privately, and no one be the wiser, for marriages were easily annulled in Scotland. She walked briskly to where the coach was standing, for they were waiting for her, determined to cast all gloomy, depressing thoughts from her for the time at least.
Robert mechanically closed the door behind her and walked slowly to the dresser. Taking from it a bottle of ink and a quill, he carried them to the table, and placing them upon it, sank heavily in a chair. Long he sat there, pen in hand, the victim of the profoundest melancholy, the deepest despair. The thought that it was his own fault, his indifference to consequences, his recklessness, his weak, sinful folly, that had plunged himself and others into the awful abyss of grief and sorrow, was like the bitterness of death to him. As he sat there with drawn and haggard face, while bitter regret gnawed deeply at his conscience, the plaintive tones of Mary’s voice came through the window, singing softly: