As she left the room Mrs. Burns drew herself sternly erect, and after a moment’s hesitation turned slowly to Jean. “I bid ye welcome to Mossgiel Farm,” she said coldly. “I am sorry I spoke so bitterly to ye just noo. I—I will try to love ye as Robert’s wife, but noo I—I can only think o’ Mary an’ her sorrow. I’ll leave ye for a bit; Mary may need me.” Her voice faltered and broke, and with a sob of grief she hurriedly left the room.
CHAPTER XI
Ever since the morning she had received her marriage lines Jean had been trying to summon up sufficient courage to tell her father the whole truth about her secret marriage to Robert, to throw herself upon his mercy, but each time when she had approached him in fear and trembling, her courage had ignominiously failed her. She knew only too well her father’s irascible temper and uncertain moods. And so days passed into weeks and still she procrastinated, but she knew she could not conceal from his observing eyes her condition much longer. But whether to confess all and run the risk of being thrown from her father’s door like some abandoned outcast, or to contrive some excuse to leave home to pay a visit to some friend, and then, when it was all over, to return, that was the question which disturbed her waking thoughts. If she did the latter, she thought, she could easily have her marriage annulled and no one would be the wiser. But did she really want to have her marriage annulled? she asked herself thoughtfully. She didn’t understand herself at all these days. He had strangely stirred her heart at their last meeting, to its very depths. She knew he did not love her, that he loved the little dairymaid, but almost imperceptibly a great change was taking place in her feelings toward him. At times a great longing came over her to go to him, throw herself at his feet and beg to share his hardships, his poverty, with him. But she had not the courage, and so she battled with the conflicting emotions that constantly beset her day and night. Her temper soon became moody and uncertain, she was in constant fear of her mother’s anxious, watchful eyes, and yet she felt she would go daft if she remained alone in her chamber with her disturbing thoughts. So day after day she could be found in her saddle madly galloping over the country, trying to get away, far away, from her trouble. But all in vain; it was always before her; there was no escaping it. But at last the day came when she knew she must make her decision, and almost in desperation she decided on her course of procedure. Hastily galloping home, she left her horse at the door, and going to her room, scribbled a short note to her father and left it on the table in his study. Then she had slipped guiltily past the room where her mother sat peacefully sewing, and sped swiftly along the hall to the door. As she reached it, it burst inward and she staggered back half fainting, for there on the threshold stood her father, his face white with rage, his jaw set and determined. He seized her roughly by the arm, and thrusting her back into the house, had taken one understanding look at her figure in its tight-fitting habit, then with an outburst of bitter anger and shame he cursed her and the author of her disgrace, cursed her like a madman, cursed her till he was spent with the force of his passion. She tried to explain, to tell him the truth, that she was a wife, but the words froze on her lips. His words and manner struck terror to her very soul; she feared for her very life’s safety. With all her despairing strength she freed herself from his clutch and stood cowering, panting, her hands raised to shield herself from the blow she expected every moment to fall on her defenseless body from the insane man. As he approached her with hand upraised, she gave one quick shriek, one wild look around and darting under his arm reached the door. Quickly she opened it and sped like a swallow to the side of her waiting horse. With one bound she was on his back, and away she galloped like the wind, leaving her astonished father standing in the doorway shaking his fist after her in impotent anger.
She had given rein to her horse, not heeding or caring where he took her. Her one and only thought was to get away, far away; so she rode on and on, over brook and brush, through bog and mire till gradually her fear had subsided, and, reining in her horse, she looked around, and with a thrill of joy and wonder she saw Mossgiel Farm in the distance. Surely fate had guided her horse’s footsteps in this direction, she thought eagerly. Her course was clear now, she would go to him, to her husband, he would protect her. So she had continued her journey to the cottage, where she brought naught but misery and sorrow to its inmates.
As Mrs. Burns left the room Jean gazed after her in bitter silence. She wished she had not come. She knew she was not welcome. Far better to have faced her father’s anger. “But the die is cast. I have made my bed,” she told herself wearily. She realized how futile it was to repine over the past, and she felt too exhausted, too miserably unhappy to think of the future. She would stay here perhaps a night, then she didn’t know, couldn’t think what would happen. At all events she could never return to her father’s home now. He had spurned her from him, and she was not wanted here. Nobody wanted her now. Her lips quivered convulsively and big tears of self-pity rolled quietly down her pale cheeks.
Gilbert looked uneasily from his brother’s grief-stricken face to the weary, wan face of the bride. How long were they going to sit there side by side without a word to each other? he thought uneasily. He felt a great wave of pity well up in his heart for the unwelcome, unloved addition to their family. True she was mostly to blame for her present misfortune. Her imprudence, her misconduct had been well known to many, before his brother had gone to Mauchline to live. He felt sorry for Robert, too, even while he bitterly reproached him for being the author of Mary’s unhappiness. They must make the best of things now, he thought philosophically. “Ye had better take off your bonnet, lassie,” he said kindly, breaking the oppressive silence. “Ye’ll be staying here the night.” She raised her head and looked at him with flashing eyes.
“Full well I know that all here hate and despise me,” she burst forth bitterly, not heeding his request.
Robert slowly raised his head and looked at her. There was sorrow and compassion in his dark melancholy eyes. “Jean,” he said quietly, “our lives have been linked togither by a stern, inexorable fate. We have both been guilty of a grievous sin, and noo we must face the results bravely.” He rose and walked to her and stood humbly by her side. “I hope ye’ll forgive me, Jean, for wreckin’ your life and plungin’ ye into sae much misery.”