A year passed by, during which time he had vainly tried to get word to Jean Armour. He had heard that she had given birth to twins, and the thought that they were without the protection of a father’s name filled him with grief and remorse. Time and again he had written her, only to have his letters returned unopened. Finally he had received a letter from her father, stating that “the children were dead and that Jean had quite forgotten him, and was about to be joined in wedlock with a neighboring rich farmer; that now he hoped Robert would leave him and his daughter in peace,” etc., etc. He laid down the letter with a thrill of joy stirring his blood. Free at last! He had done his duty as a man of honor, and now, after all the bitter heartache and the long separation, he was free to marry his little sweetheart. “Oh, thank God!” he cried aloud, in an ecstasy of joy. “Thank God, the miserable tangle in our lives will soon be straightened.” He had long entertained a desire to visit those parts of his native country which were so celebrated in the rural songs of Scotland, and he would now gratify that desire with Mary’s home as the objective point. As soon as arrangements could be made he started for the Highlands on horseback, accompanied by a friend, one Will Nichol, and, his fame having preceded him, they were royally entertained on their journey through the country. Finally they arrived in Dornoch, where Mary was living quietly with her sister, and soon the long parted lovers were clasped in each other’s arms. Later that day he told her the glorious news of his release, his freedom from all ties, told her of his undying love, and swore that never again should they be parted in this life. And Mary with a prayer of thankfulness in her faithful heart, blushingly gave her willing consent to a speedy marriage. The next day they all returned by easy stages to Edinburgh. Mrs. Dunlop, an old friend of Robert’s, took the country maiden under her protecting wing and gave her a home until the marriage could be solemnized, the date having been set one month from the time of their arrival.
CHAPTER XIII
John Anderson, the proprietor of the “Bull’s Head,” stood gazing wrathfully upon the scene of disorder which met his eyes as he opened the door of the sitting-room of his distinguished lodger’s apartments. It was early evening, and still that lodger remained in bed, although he had been called at different intervals throughout the day by the irate, though kind-hearted, landlord himself. “Dear—dear—dear,” he muttered to himself, as he arranged the furniture, “I’ll just give Robbie a bit o’ my mind.” He went to the door of the sleeping apartment and looked in. “Sleepin’ like a bairn,” he said softly, “an’—an’ wi’ his boots on. Ma certie!” He raised his hands in horror. “Weel, I’m glad ye’re nae under the bed. Ah, weel, young blood must hae its course. I mind I was young mysel’, an’ if I do say it I could drink mair whusky than any mon in the toon. Oh, those were happy days,” and he sang softly to himself, as he continued his work about the room:
“We are na fou’
We’re nat that fou’,
But just a droppie in our ee.
The cock may craw,
The day may daw’,