“Perhaps all thoughts of poesy has left him since he has been among strangers,” continued the mother thoughtfully. “Ye ken he has been doin’ right weel in Irvine; and it’s only because the flax dresser’s shop has burned to the ground, and he canna work any more, that he decides to come hame to help us noo. Ye ken that, Gilbert.” She laid her hand in tender pleading on his sunburnt arm.
“He always shirked his work before,” replied Gilbert bitterly, “and nae doot he will again. But he maun work, an’ work hard, if he wants to stay at Mossgiel. Nae more lyin’ around, scribblin’ on every piece of paper he finds, a lot of nonsense, which willna’ put food in his mouth, nor clothe his back.” Mrs. Burns sighed deeply and sank into the low stool beside her spinning wheel, he hands folded for once idly in her lap, and gave herself up to her disquieting thoughts.
“Ye can talk all ye like,” exclaimed Souter, who was ever ready with his advice, “but Robert is too smart a lad to stay here for lang. He was never cut out for a farmer nae mair was I.”
“A farmer,” repeated Mrs. Burns, with a mirthless little laugh. “An’ what is there in a farmer’s life to pay for all the hardships he endures?” she asked bitterly. “The constant grindin’ an’ endless toil crushes all the life out o’ one in the struggle for existence. Remember your father, Gilbert,” and her voice broke at the flood of bitter recollection which crowded her thoughts.
“I have na forgotten him, mither,” replied Gilbert quietly. “Nor am I likely to, for my ain lot in life is nae better.” And pulling his cap down over his eyes, he went back to the window and gazed moodily out over the bare, rocky, profitless farm which must be made to yield them a living. There was silence for a time, broken only by the regular monotonous ticking of the old clock. After a time Mrs. Burns quietly left the room.
“Oh, laddie,” whispered Souter as the door closed behind her, coming up beside Gilbert, “did ye hear the news that Tam O’Shanter brought frae Mauchline?”
“Do you mean about Robert an’ some lassie there?” inquired Gilbert indifferently, after a brief pause.
“Aye!” returned Souter impressively, “but she’s nae common lass, Gilbert. She’s Squire Armour’s daughter Jean, called the Belle of Mauchline.”
“I ken it’s no serious,” replied Gilbert sarcastically, “for ye ken Robert’s heart is like a tinder box, that flares up at the first whisper of passion,” and he turned away from the window and started for the door.
“I canna’ understand,” reflected Souter, “how the lad could forget his sweetheart, Highland Mary, long enough to take up wi any ither lassie. They were mighty fond o’ each ither before he went awa’ a year ago. I can swear to that,” and he smiled reminiscently.