The last few weeks Gilbert had thrown off his cloak of habitual7 reserve, and had treated his brother with less harshness, less severity. He had watched the slowly drifting apart of the lovers with wonder and delight. Could it be that they were tiring of each other? he asked himself over and over again. If that were so then perhaps some day—but he would not permit himself to think of the future. He would be happy in the present. For he was comparatively happy now, happier than he had ever expected to be. Since Robert’s avoidance of her, Mary had again[109] turned to him for sympathy, and once more they were on their old friendly footing. True she was a sad, despondent8 companion, but he was blissfully happy just to walk beside her from kirk, to listen to the sound of her sweet voice, even though his brother was the only topic of conversation, to feel the touch of her little hand as he helped her over the stile. He thought of all this now as he regarded his brother in thoughtful silence. Presently he called his name. Receiving no answer, he strode through the overhanging willows9 and touched him quietly on the shoulder.
With a start Robert looked up into his brother’s face, then he turned slowly away. “What is wrong noo, Gilbert?” he asked bitterly. “It seems I will be doing nothing right o’ late.”
“Nothin’ is wrong, lad,” replied Gilbert, his face reddening. “I—I only came to tell ye I am sorry I spoke10 sae harshly to ye just noo.”
“Say no more, brother,” replied Robert quickly, rising with outstretched hand, his face bright and smiling. So ready was he to forgive any unkindness when his pardon was sought. “’Tis all forgot. I ken11 I do try your patience sore wi’ my forgetfulness and carelessness, but I couldna’ help it. The voice of the Goddess Muse12, whom I adore, suddenly whispered in my ear and I forgot my work, my surroundings, and stood enraptured13, entranced behind my patient steed, catchin’ the thoughts and fancies that were tumblin’, burstin’ from my brain, eager to be let[110] loose, and this is the fruit o’ my inspiration almost perfected.” He handed his brother the paper on which he had been writing.
“Is it a song of harvesting?” asked Gilbert sarcastically15 without glancing at it.
“Nay16,” replied Robert softly. “’Tis called the ‘Cotter’s Saturday Night,’ an’ ye will recognize, no doubt, the character and the theme, for ’tis partly of our own and of our father’s life I have written. ’Tis my best work, Gilbert, I ken truly.” He eagerly watched his brother’s face as he slowly read the verses through.
“May the light of success shine on it,” he said kindly17, when he had finished. “But it seems o’er doubtful noo that the world will e’er see this, or any of your verses, for not a word hae ye heard from Edinburgh since ye sent Sir William Creech your collection of poems.”
Robert raised his head and regarded his brother in despairing hopelessness. “I ken it weel, brother,” he replied. “And my heart grows sick and weary, waitin’, waitin’, for tidings, be they good or bad. Two lang months have passed since I sent him my collection, an’ still not a word, not a sign. Nae doubt they were thrown in a corner, overlooked an’ neglected.” For a moment he stood there gazing across the fields, his vision blurred18 by the tears of disappointment which filled his eyes. “Oh, why did Lord Glencairn raise my hopes so high?” he cried passionately,[111] “only to have them dashed to the ground again.” Gilbert remained silent, his eyes cast down. The sight of his brother’s misery20 touched him keenly. But there was nothing he could say. “I believed him and trusted to his honor, his promise,” continued Robert dejectedly, “an’ for what?” He put on his bonnet and clasping his hands behind him in his characteristic attitude, slowly walked toward the cottage, a prey21 to his gloomy thoughts.
“Be patient, Rob, yet a while,” said Gilbert encouragingly, as he walked along beside him. “Who kens22 what the morrow will bring forth23?”
“The morrow?” repeated Robert grimly. “Methinks I’ll ne’er know peace an’ tranquillity24 again on this earth.”
They strode on in silence. As they neared the cottage Gilbert laid his hand on his brother’s shoulder, bringing him to a standstill. “Robert,” he said quietly and firmly, “I want to speak to ye about Mary.”
“What are your intentions toward her?” demanded Gilbert earnestly. “Do ye intend to marry her, or are ye but triflin’ idly wi’ her affections?”
Robert turned on him quickly. “Triflin’?” he repeated indignantly. “Nay, Gilbert, ye wrong me deeply.”
“Forgive me, but ye ken Mary is not like other[112] lassies to think lightly o’,” said Gilbert, his eye searching his brother’s face keenly.
“Heaven forbid,” ejaculated Robert in a low, tense voice.
“I canna’ understand your conduct o’ late,” continued Gilbert earnestly. “I fear your stay in Mauchline is responsible for the great change in ye, for ye are not the same lad ye were when ye left hame. I fear ye have sadly departed from those strict rules of virtue26 and moderation ye were taught by your parents, Robert.”
“What mean ye, Gilbert?” inquired Robert, startled.
“Ah, Rob,” responded Gilbert, shaking his head sadly, “I ken mair than ye think; reports travel e’en in the country.”
The thought that his wild escapades were known to his narrow-minded though upright brother, and perhaps to others, filled Robert with sudden shame. “Weel, Gilbert,” he replied, trying to speak lightly, “Ye ken that I have been fallin’ in love and out again wi’ a’ the lassies ever since I was fifteen, but nae thought of evil ever entered my mind, ye ken that weel.”
“Aye, I ken that,” answered Gilbert quickly, “until ye went to Mauchline. And noo ye have come back a changed lad, your vows27 to Mary forgotten. If I thought ye would try to wrong her——” he stopped abruptly, for Robert had faced[113] him, white and trembling, his eyes flashing indignantly.
“Stop, Gilbert!” he commanded, intensely calm. “Mary Campbell’s purity is as sacred to me as an angel’s in heaven. I would sooner cut my tongue out by the roots than to willingly say aught to cause her a moment’s misery or sorrow. Ye cruelly misjudge me, Gilbert.” He turned away, feeling hurt and angry that he should be so misunderstood by his brother, and yet was he misjudging him, was he not indeed causing her much sorrow? he asked himself bitterly.
Soon the whole guilty truth must be disclosed, his faithlessness, his unworthiness. If she suffered now, what would be her misery when she learned that an insurmountable barrier had arisen between them, cruelly separating them forever. The thought filled him with unspeakable anguish28.
“Forgive me, Rob, for my hasty words,” said Gilbert remorsefully30. “But ye ken Mary is very dear to—to us all; that is why I spoke so plainly.”
At that moment the door of the cottage opened and the object of their discussion stepped into view. The poor little moth31 could not help fluttering around the candle, and so she was to be found at Mossgiel whenever her duties would permit her to steal away.
“Oh, here ye are, lads,” she called out to them, her face brightening. “Will ye be comin’ in to tea noo?” They did not answer. “My, what long[114] faces ye both have,” she continued, smiling. “This isna’ the Sabbath Day, so there’s no need of such sorrowful faces.”
“I didna’ ken ye were here,” answered Gilbert, going toward her.
Robert sat down by the well, the look of pain on his melancholy32 face deepening as he listened to her gentle voice. He closed his eyes wearily and leaned back against the curbing33, the paper held loosely in his hand. It was so hard to realize that never again would he press that form to his aching heart, that he must renounce34 her utterly35. Oh, if he could only die now, how much better it would be for them all, he weakly told himself.
“I’m going to stay here to tea wi’ ye this night,” said Mary wistfully. Why didn’t Robert speak to her just one word of greeting? she thought sadly. “Your mother bade me tell ye supper is waiting whenever ye are ready.” She took a few halting steps toward the well. “Are ye comin’ in, Robert?” she inquired timidly.
“In a wee,” he answered quietly, without looking at her. “After I have finished my poem.” Mary turned back, crushed to the heart by his apparent coldness.
“Weel, lads,” cried Mrs. Burns brightly, stepping out on the low, broad stoop followed by Souter, who held a cup of steaming tea in one hand and some oatcakes in the other, on which he nibbled36 with evident[115] relish37. “I heard your voices and couldna’ stay within,” and she beamed on them lovingly.
“Ye’re at it again, I see, Robert,” observed Souter tactlessly. Robert flushed angrily. He was easily irritated in his present state of mind. “Ye’ll write yoursel’ into the grave, mon; ye’re not lookin’ very peart the noo.”
Mrs. Burns regarded her eldest38 son with anxious eyes. “Aye, I fear, laddie, ye are too intent on your rhymin’,” she said solicitously39. His abstracted moods, his melancholy moroseness40 had filled her loving heart with gloomy forebodings. “Sae much livin’ in the clouds, my son, is unhealthful, an’ does but make ye moody41 an’ uncertain in temper. Is it worth while to wreck42 body, mind an’ soul to gain a little fame an’ fortune, which, alas43, seem so very far off?” she asked, putting her hand lovingly on his bowed head.
“Ye dinna’ understand, mither,” he replied sadly. “I love to write. ’Tis my very life; thought flows unbidden from my brain.” He rose to his feet and pointing to the stream, which could be faintly seen at the foot of the hill, continued with mournful finality, “Why, mother, I might as well try to stop the waters of yonder rushin’ brook as to attempt to smother44 the poetic45 fancies that cry for utterance46. Nay, ’tis too late noo to dissuade47 me from my purpose,” and he turned and watched the setting sun slowly sink behind the distant hills in a flood of golden splendor48.
[116]
Souter noticed with uneasiness the gloom which had settled upon them all as the result of his careless words. Why was he such a thoughtless fool? Ah, well, he would make them forget their troubles.
“Och, Mistress Burns,” he cried, smacking49 his lips with apparent relish, “’tis a mighty50 fine cup of tea, a perfectly51 grand cup. It fair cheers the heart of mon,” and he drained it to the bottom.
“An’ where do ye think the oatcakes were made, Souter?” asked Mary brightly.
“Weel, I’m no’ a good hand at guessin’,” he answered, thoughtfully scratching his head; “but by their taste an’ sweetness, I should say that Mistress Burns made them hersel’.”
The good dame52 regarded him witheringly. “I didna’ ken that oatcakes were sweet, Souter,” she retorted.
Mary laughed softly at his discomfiture53. “Weel, they come frae my sister in Applecross.”
“Applecross!” he repeated, his face lighting54 up with pleasure. “Noo I mind they did have the Highland55 flavor, for true.”
“Aye, an’ ye finished the last one for that reason, no doubt,” replied Mrs. Burns wrathfully. “Ye’re a pig, mon. Come awa’, lads, your supper will be gettin’ cold,” and she led the way inside, followed meekly56 by Souter. Gilbert waited for Mary to enter, but she stood wistfully gazing at Robert.[117] With a sigh he left them together, and Robert entered the cottage.
Mary slowly approached Robert as he stood looking across to the distant hills, and patiently waited for him to speak to her, but he stood there in tense silence, not daring to trust himself to even look at the pure flower-like face held up to his so pleadingly.
“Robbie,” she said timidly after a pause, which seemed interminable to them both, “willna’ ye let the sunlight enter your heart an’ be your old bonnie sel’ once mair? It will make us all sae happy.” She put her hand on his arm lovingly. “Why are ye sae changed, laddie? Dinna’ ye want me to love ye any mair?”
At the gentle touch of her fingers an uncontrollable wave of passionate19 love and longing57 came over him, sweeping58 away all resolutions resistlessly. “Oh, my Mary, my Mary,” he cried hoarsely59. “I do want your love, I do want it noo an’ forever,” and he clasped her lovingly to his aching heart. Blissfully she lay in his strong arms while he showered her flushed and happy face with the hungry, fervent60, loving kisses which he had denied himself so long, and murmured little caressing61 words of endearment62 which filled her soul with rapture14 and happiness. “How I love ye, Mary,” he breathed in her ear again and again as he held her close.
[118]
“An’ how happy ye make me once mair, laddie,” she answered, nestling against him lovingly.
“An’ how happy we will——,” he began, then stopped pale and trembling, for grim recollection had suddenly loomed63 up before him with all its train of bitter, ugly facts; and conscience began to drum insistently64 into his dulled ear. “Tell her the truth now, the whole truth,” it said. But the voice of the tempter whispered persuasively65, saying, “Why tell her now? wait, let her be happy while she may, put it off as long as possible.”
“What is it, Robbie?” cried Mary fearfully. “Tell me what is troublin’ ye; dinna’ be afraid.” His bowed head bent66 lower and lower.
“Oh, Mary, I’m sae unworthy, sae unworthy of all your pure thoughts, your tender love,” he faltered67 despairingly, resolved to tell her all. “Ye dinna’ ken all my weakness, my deception68, and into what depths of sin I have fallen.” She sought to interrupt him, but he continued rapidly, his voice harsh with the nervous tension, his face pallid69 from the stress of his emotions. “I have a confession70 to make ye——”
“Nay, nay, laddie,” cried Mary, putting her hand over his trembling lips. “Dinna’ tell me anything. I want nae confession from ye, except that o’ your love,” and she smoothed his cheek tenderly. “Ye ken that is music to my ears at all times, but if ye are deceivin’ me, if ye have na always been true to me, an’ your vows, why, laddie, keep the knowledge[119] to yourself’. I am content noo, and ye ken happiness is such a fleetin’ thing that I mean to cling to it as long as I can.” She took his hands in both her own and held them close to her heart. “Ye ken, Robbie, ill news travels apace and ’twill reach my ears soon enough,” she continued with a mournful little quaver in her voice. “But no matter what comes, what ye may do, my love for ye will overlook it all; I will see only your virtues71, my love, not your vices72.”
Robert bowed his head in heart-broken silence. Grief, shame, and remorse29 like tongues of fiery73 flames were scorching74 and burning into his very soul. Quietly they sat there engrossed75 in their thoughts, till the voice of Mrs. Burns calling to them from the cottage to come to supper roused them from their lethargy.
“We’re comin’ right awa’,” answered Mary brightly. “Come, laddie, we mustna’ keep the folks waitin’.”
She took his listless hand and drew him gently to the door and into the cottage.
Silently they took their places at the table, around which the others were already seated.
“By the way,” said old blind Donald, the fiddler, who had dropped in on his way to Mauchline for a bite and a cup, “Poosie Nancy told me to tell ye, Mistress Burns, that she wa drop in to see ye this night.”
[120]
“We’ll be glad to see her,” replied Mrs. Burns hospitably76.
“And Daddy Auld77 says he’ll be along, too,” continued Donald, grinning broadly. “That is, if he isna’ too busy convertin’ souls.”
“Aye, ye should see the Jolly Beggars he was haranguin’. They were jumpin’, an’ rantin’, an’ singin’ like daft Methodists.”
“The auld hypocrites!” cried Mrs. Burns, buttering a scone79 which she placed in the old man’s tremulous hand. “They didna’ go to the manse for conversion80; ’tis a square meal they are after. They ken the kind old heart o’ Daddy Auld.”
Souter leaned back in his chair and smiled reminiscently. “That reminds me o’ a guid story,” he began, chuckling81.
“Never mind that story noo,” remonstrated82 Mrs. Burns, who was in constant dread83 of Souter’s risque stories. “That’ll keep.”
“I never can tell that damn story,” ejaculated Souter wrathfully.
[121]
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1
sequestered
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| adj.扣押的；隐退的；幽静的；偏僻的v.使隔绝，使隔离( sequester的过去式和过去分词 )；扣押 | |
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brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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trickle
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| vi.淌，滴，流出，慢慢移动，逐渐消散 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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7
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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8
despondent
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| adj.失望的，沮丧的，泄气的 | |
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9
willows
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| n.柳树( willow的名词复数 )；柳木 | |
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10
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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11
ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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13
enraptured
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| v.使狂喜( enrapture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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15
sarcastically
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| adv.挖苦地，讽刺地 | |
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16
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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18
blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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20
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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22
kens
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| vt.知道（ken的第三人称单数形式） | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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26
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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27
vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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28
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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remorsefully
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| adv.极为懊悔地 | |
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31
moth
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| n.蛾，蛀虫 | |
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32
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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curbing
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| n.边石，边石的材料v.限制，克制，抑制( curb的现在分词 ) | |
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34
renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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35
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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nibbled
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| v.啃，一点一点地咬（吃）( nibble的过去式和过去分词 )；啃出（洞），一点一点咬出（洞）；慢慢减少；小口咬 | |
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37
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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38
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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39
solicitously
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| adv.热心地，热切地 | |
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40
moroseness
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41
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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42
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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43
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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44
smother
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| vt./vi.使窒息；抑制；闷死；n.浓烟；窒息 | |
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45
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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46
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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47
dissuade
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| v.劝阻，阻止 | |
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48
splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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49
smacking
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| 活泼的，发出响声的，精力充沛的 | |
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50
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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51
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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52
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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53
discomfiture
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| n.崩溃；大败；挫败；困惑 | |
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54
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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55
highland
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| n.(pl.)高地，山地 | |
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56
meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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57
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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58
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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59
hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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60
fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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61
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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62
endearment
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| n.表示亲爱的行为 | |
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loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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64
insistently
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| ad.坚持地 | |
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65
persuasively
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| adv.口才好地；令人信服地 | |
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66
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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67
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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68
deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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69
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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70
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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71
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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72
vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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73
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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scorching
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| adj. 灼热的 | |
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engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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hospitably
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| 亲切地，招待周到地，善于款待地 | |
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auld
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| adj.老的，旧的 | |
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sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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scone
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| n.圆饼，甜饼，司康饼 | |
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80
conversion
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| n.转化，转换，转变 | |
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81
chuckling
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的现在分词 ) | |
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82
remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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83
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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