“It is good news,” answered Lord Glencairn, smiling brightly, “and you are famous; yes, my lad, your poems are at last published and already have become the rage in Edinburgh; the name of Robert Burns is on the tongue of all, high and low, prince and peasant.”
“Thank God,” cried Mary softly, a look of rapture on her face.
Mrs. Burns turned excitedly to her son, her hands clasped nervously. “Oh, laddie, laddie, ye’re a great mon, noo!” she exclaimed proudly.
For a moment Robert stood there speechless, a look of incredulous wonder on his face. “My lord,” he faltered at last, “can it be true, what you’re telling me, that my songs are—accepted, read an’—praised in Edinburgh?” Lord Glencairn bowed. “Oh, sir,” he continued, with a nervous catch in his voice, “it seems too good to be true, too good.”
Gradually the warm color came back to the pale face, the hurried breathing, which seemed almost to smother him, became calmer, the nervous, excited tension relaxed, and, with a smile of rapture and content on his upturned face, he exclaimed fervently, “At last my hopes and ambitions are realized, the bright sunlight of success has crowned my efforts; my verses are known an’ loved in Edinburgh! Oh, do ye hear that, my loved ones?” He stretched out his arms lovingly to them. “Nae mair poverty for us noo, mither, nae—nor disappointments.” He turned to Lord Glencairn, who was being assisted into his cloak. “Oh, sir, I canna tell ye what is in my heart,” he continued earnestly, “but ’tis overflowing wi’ love an’ gratitude to ye.”
“There, there, my lad, time is precious,” replied Lord Glencairn kindly, buttoning up his cloak. “’Tis late and we have far to go and the postchaise is awaiting us. I came here not only to bring you news, Mr. Burns, but to take you back with me to Edinburgh.” He laughed heartily at the look of startled amazement that appeared on the faces before him.
“To Edinburgh!” gasped Robert unbelievingly.
“Aye, lad,” replied his lordship earnestly, his eyes flashing with admiration for the modest young genius. “To Edinburgh, where fame and fortune await you, where society stands with outstretched arms to receive you as a conquering hero come to claim his own. To the capital city, where all unite in paying homage to the wonderful genius of Robert Burns, our Scottish Bard. Will you come?” and he held out his hand invitingly to the wondering lad, who was gazing at him, his soul in his eyes.
“Am I dreaming?” he cried slowly, looking about him for some confirmation of his fears. “Go to Edinburgh wi’ ye, sir, as the Bard of Scotland? O God, can this be true? My wildest hopes ne’er held out such dreams o’ greatness, such happiness.” His voice vibrated with feeling. He paused and took a deep breath, then he continued joyfully, all the sorrows of the past forgotten in his excitement, “A few moments ago, my lord, I was bidding farewell to these, my loved ones, forever. I was about to start for the Indies, a wretched exile, a disappointed failure, and noo fate once mair alters my destiny.” With a glad laugh he seized Lord Glencairn’s outstretched hand, and, turning to his loved ones, he cried, his voice ringing out clear and strong, a conscious thrill of pride running through it, “Nae more tears, mither, except those of happiness, nae more sorrow or care, for I can leave ye all wi’ a light heart noo, wi’ joy instead o’ sadness. ’Tis true I go from here an outcast, but I’ll return to ye a hero.”