The next morning dawned bleak1 and dismal2. A damp, penetrating3 mist hung over the farm like a pall4, and the chill of the rain-laden air penetrated5 into the rooms and made itself felt even by the side of the brightest fires. It affected6 the inmates7 of Ellisland farm to an alarming extent. They sat gloomily around the hearth8 idly watching the smoldering9 peat fire, which failed to send out much warmth—as if it, too, felt the depressing influences which surrounded the little household and which had plunged10 them all into such a slough11 of despond.
Robert had partaken of his bowl of porridge and now lay upon his bed, grateful for the added warmth of the woolen13 blankets which Jean had thrown over him with thoughtful solicitude14. He appeared to the anxious watchers to be more like himself than he had been for some days, in spite of his restless, sleepless15 nights, as he lay there peacefully enjoying the antics of the children who were playing gleefully but quietly around the room their favorite game of “Blind man’s holiday.”
At sundown the night before Gilbert had hastened to the Inn to meet Squire16 Armour17 and to plead for another day’s grace, but the implacable old man[348] refused to listen to him when he found he had failed to bring the money, and stormily took his departure with threats of instant eviction18, leaving Gilbert in a state of utter distraction19. He watched the Squire ride furiously away in the direction of Mossgiel with a heavy, sinking fear at his heart, then slowly made his way, with pale face and clenched20 hands, back to his brother’s cottage, where he wrestled21 with the fears that assailed22 him in despairing silence. Several times during the night he was on the verge23 of saddling his horse and dashing home, but the hope that the morning would bring the long-expected letter to Robert checked the impulse, and so he sat the long night through anxiously waiting for the dawn, praying fervently24 that he might not be too late to save his dear ones from the vindictive25 anger, the unyielding resolution of their irate26 landlord.
And now morning was here at last. Robert had fallen into a profound slumber27 of nervous exhaustion28. Jean tucked him in carefully with the warm blankets, and taking the children with her, quietly closed the door upon the sleeping man with a prayer of thankfulness for his temporary respite29 from the troubles that surged about his head.
When her duties were over and the children playing on the green, Jean took her sewing and joined Gilbert in the living room. He was walking restlessly up and down, with nervous, flashing eyes[349] that eagerly searched the road, as he passed and repassed the small window. His restless pacing, his look of hopeful anxiety smote30 Jean to the heart, for she had been bitterly resentful, and was still in a measure, against Gilbert’s selfishness in thinking only of his own extremity31. It didn’t seem right or just that he should be here with outstretched hands, waiting to take the money that meant so much to their own struggling family at the present time, and without which she could only foresee grim want staring them all in the face—and she had to struggle with the desire that rushed over her to rise up and tell him of their bitter plight33, to bid him go elsewhere for assistance; but the fear of Robert’s anger kept her silent. Then, too, she suddenly remembered that they had both kept their poverty and Robert’s continued ill luck and failures from the home folk, and it was only to be expected that Gilbert would naturally turn to his prosperous brother for assistance. “Prosperous, indeed! If he but knew,” and she sighed deeply, for her mother’s heart felt sore depressed34 as she thought of her own loved ones. They did not talk much. Each was too busy with his own gloomy thoughts.
In fancy, Gilbert could see Squire Armour at Mossgiel Farm, ordering out his mother and sister, watching them with sinister35 eyes as they got together their meager36 belongings37, and then when they, with streaming eyes, had carried out the last piece of[350] furniture and stood gazing at the home that was no longer theirs, the cruel landlord had heartlessly laughed at their sorrow and, locking the door, had ridden away with the keys in his pocket, leaving them standing39 there not knowing whither to go nor where to find food or shelter.
“O God! Not that! Not that!” he cried aloud, pausing in his walk with clenched hands, pale and wild-eyed.
Jean looked up from her work in startled alarm. “Gilbert!” she cried. “What is it?”
With a little mirthless laugh, he told her of the vision he had had, told of his fears for the safety of his home and the welfare of his loved ones.
She listened with a feeling of shame at her heart and a flush of angry humiliation40 mantling41 her pale cheek.
“’Fore Heaven, it makes me feel like cursing even the memory of my father,” she exclaimed bitterly with a flash of her old-time imperiousness. “But be not alarmed, Gilbert,” she continued with an encouraging smile. “Your mother is a match even for my father, and I’ll warrant she’ll not let him set his foot inside the threshold till you return.” His face brightened.
“I had indeed forgot my mother’s independent, courageous42 spirit,” he replied with a sigh of relief and hopefulness.
The depressing gloom thus lifted, they soon drifted[351] into a friendly, earnest conversation, and the minutes sped by without, however, the looked-for interruption of the overdue43 postman.
Outside, the mist had long since been dispersed44 by the warm rays of the noonday sun, which was now shining brilliantly. A soft moisture glittered on every tiny leaf of the wild rose bushes which clustered beneath the window of the little cot, and on every blade of grass. The penetrating and delicious odor of sweet violets and blue-bells scented45 each puff46 of wind, and now and then the call of the meadow lark47 pierced the air with a subdued48 far-off shrillness49. Suddenly the peaceful stillness was broken in upon by the sound of footsteps crunching50 slowly along the garden path on their way to the door of the cottage.
The Duke of Gordon and his daughter had arrived in Dumfries the night before, and, after a night’s rest, they took the coach to Ellisland and put up at the little old Inn. There they made inquiries51 for the whereabouts of the home of the poet of the little old man who was boastfully describing the splendors52 of MacDougall House, none other than our old friend Souter, once more in his breeches, having asserted his authority, much to his wife’s secret satisfaction, for “she did so love a masterful man.” Whereupon Souter condescendingly offered to conduct them to the place they sought. And now, as they looked at the poor clay biggin and the evidences of poverty[352] and neglect which surrounded them on all sides, their hearts sank within them.
“I suppose we will find Mr. Burns greatly changed?” said Nancy interrogatively with a little shudder53 of dread54.
“Weel, mum,” replied Souter reflectively, “we all change in time, ye ken12. Some for worse, like mysel’, and some for the better, like yoursel’, askin’ your pardon for my boldness. And ye ken Robbie’s life has been very hard these past few years.” He sighed and shook his head dolefully. “But I want to say right here,” and his heavy eyebrows55 drew together in a black scowl56, “Robbie Burns’ sickness is na’ due to his drinkin’, as ye people of Edinburgh believe, and put in yer penny papers. Robbie is na drunkard. I hae known him from infancy57, and I affirm that he has never been guilty of the gross enormities he has been charged with. He could always attend to his duties,” and he looked with aggressive suspicion into the downcast faces of his listeners for some sign of doubt of his assertion, which, though stanchly loyal, was not altogether true, as he knew only too well. “But there is nae use telling all ye know,” he told himself philosophically58. “And what people don’t know about the food they eat, will no hurt their appetites.”
“I am very glad to hear that,” ejaculated the Duke warmly.
“An’ he is a fond father an’ a maist affectionate[353] husband,” continued Souter stoutly59. “I’ll go in noo and tell him ye’re here,” and he strode into the house, leaving the couple standing in the path much to their astonishment60.
“It doesn’t seem right, father,” said Lady Nancy sadly, “for such genius to dwell in that little hut, amid such surroundings. How I pity him.”
There was a suggestion of tears in the sweet voice which her fond father noticed with sudden apprehension61. He looked at her closely.
“Who is to blame for his being here?” he retorted firmly. She remained discreetly62 silent. Then he continued in a softer voice, “But I mustn’t blame nor censure63 him, now that he is sick, and down at the bottom again. It is, indeed, a lasting64 pity that such genius should be allowed to smother65 here in poverty and among questionable66 companions, who, ’tis said, seek only to bring him to their level, and who, alas67! are but too surely dragging him there, I fear, a weak, unresisting, but also a remorseful68, repentant69 victim.”
“And must he stay on here, father, to die a poor exciseman?” asked Nancy with a strangely beating heart. “Even the added salary of the Supervisorship cannot be sufficient to keep such a family.” At that moment Souter opened the door. They turned to him quietly.
“Well, what says Mr. Burns?” asked the Duke impatiently.
[354]
A little smile of amusement appeared on Souter’s face. “Mr. Burns begs you to enter and to be seated,” he replied.
They complied with the injunction and were shown into the living-room, where they seated themselves.
“I was also to tell ye,” continued Souter dryly, “that he will be with ye as soon as he can get into his damned rags.”
“What!” exclaimed the Duke laughingly.
“Excuse me, your ladyship,” answered Souter with a little nod to Lady Nancy, “but them’s his own words and I’m no the one to change the language o’ a Scottish poet.”
“Has he only rags to wear?” asked Lady Nancy pitifully.
“Hush!” cautioned her father, “he is here.”
The door opened and Robert slowly entered the room. He had thrown his wide plaid around his shoulders, over his loose white shirt, and held it together with one hand that gleamed very white and thin against the bright colors. His black hair, now faintly streaked70 with gray and which had thinned considerably71 above his forehead, hung loosely about his neck, framing his gaunt face, and accentuating72 his pallor.
For a moment they gazed upon the wreck73 of the once stalwart and ruggedly74 healthy youth, too shocked to utter a word. Robert was the first to break the silence.
[355]
“My lord,” he exclaimed with something of his old brightness, “I am rejoiced, indeed, to see you at Ellisland. ’Tis a great surprise, but none the less a welcome one.” He shook the Duke’s outstretched hand with fervor75.
“The pleasure is mutual76, my lad,” responded the Duke warmly. “’Tis a few years now since we parted, and in anger, too.”
“I was in the wrong that night,” broke in Robert penitently77, with a rueful shake of the head. “I sadly misjudged ye there, as I learned afterward78, but my stubborn pride refused to accept the olive branch ye held out to me. Ye see,” he explained frankly79, “’twas my unreasoning wounded pride and anger, and my disappointment which blinded me to all sense of right and justice. I realized after that ye were my friends and that ye resented the damning insult put upon me at Glencairn Hall.” He paused a moment, a frown of bitterness wrinkling his brow. Presently he looked up and holding out his hand again with one of the old magnetic smiles, said, “An’ ye have forgiven my ingratitude80, an’ are come noo to see me! I thank ye.”
“’Tis all forgot. I forgave you at the time,” responded the Duke cordially. “I could not hold resentment81 against you.” He turned to his daughter, who was partly concealed82 in the embrasure of the deep window.
“Nancy, child, speak to Robert.” She came[356] slowly forward with hand outstretched, a faint flush dyeing her creamy skin, or perhaps it was the reflection of the pink satin gown she was wearing beneath the long velvet84 cloak, which, becoming unhooked, had slipped down off her shoulders.
Robert rose to his feet, and his black, gloomy eyes lighted up with pleasure as they rested upon the dainty vision of loveliness before him. Lady Nancy had always reminded him of Mary Campbell, and to-day the resemblance was more striking than ever. For beneath the large leghorn with its waving, black plumes85, her golden hair so like Mary’s, for the once unpowdered, glittered in all its beauty. Perhaps my Lady Nancy had remembered the likeness86 and had purposely heightened it by forgetting to use the powder which had hitherto covered the golden curls at all times. As she stood there with a wistful look upon her face, it was easy to perceive the resemblance to the timid dairymaid who, in borrowed finery, had created such a sensation at the Duchess of Athol’s “at home” three years before.
“Lady Nancy, forgive my rudeness in not greeting you sooner,” he exclaimed fervently.
“I am so glad we are reconciled, friends, once more,” she exclaimed impulsively87. “It did seem as if you would never relent, you stubborn man,” and she smiled archly into his embarrassed face.
“You find me greatly changed, of course,” he remarked after they had discoursed88 a while upon[357] their journey. She remained silent, but he read the sympathy shining in her blue eyes.
“We read of your illness in town,” explained the Duke, “and believe me, Robert, we are deeply sorry for your affliction. But I trust the vigor89 of your constitution will soon set you on your feet again,” and he gave him a cheery smile of encouragement.
Robert shook his head gloomily. “My health is, I think, flown from me forever,” he replied sadly, “altho’ I am beginning to crawl about the house, and once, indeed, have I been seen outside my cottage door.”
“Why didn’t you let us know of your illness before?” exclaimed Lady Nancy reproachfully. “We are your friends.”
Robert flushed painfully. “My miserable90 health was brought on and aggravated91 solely92 by my headstrong, thoughtless carelessness, and I felt so heartily93 ashamed of myself that I sought to conceal83 from all friends my real condition, but ’tis out at last. How long I will be confined to the house, God alone knows,” and he sighed deeply.
“Do not give yourself up to despondency, my lad,” encouraged the Duke brightly, “nor speak the language of despair. You must get well.”
“Indeed I must!” returned Robert grimly, “for I have three strong, healthy boys and if I am nipt off at the command of fate—gracious God! what[358] would become of my little flock?” and a look of distraction swept over his face at the thought.
“Don’t distress94 yourself needlessly, Robert!” exclaimed the Duke kindly95. Then he continued earnestly, “If anything should happen to you, if you should be taken off before I am called, I promise that the children of Robert Burns shall never come to want.”
Robert grasped the Duke’s hand impulsively. “God bless ye for your noble assurance!” he cried. “Ye have lifted a heavy weight of care and anxiety off my mind.”
“Why, father!” suddenly exclaimed Lady Nancy, “I vow97 if you are not forgetting your principal errand here.” He looked at her with a puzzled frown. “Mr. Burns’ promotion98,” she reminded him laughingly.
“Gad zooks!” he exclaimed in amazement99, jumping to his feet. “What an old dolt100 I am, to be sure.” Hastily diving his hand in the inside pocket of his elaborate, black-flowered satin square-cut, he pulled out a long paper with a red seal attached and handed it to the now bewildered Robert, who, after a quick glance at their smiling faces, opened the paper and quickly read its contents. Then he gave a gasp101, followed by an ejaculation of delighted surprise and gratification.
[359]
“My lord,” he exclaimed, “this is indeed a gift to bring gladness to a man’s heart. I thank ye most gratefully for my promotion, and will endeavor to perform my duties to the best of my poor abilities as soon as my strength returns.” And the look of anxiety gave way to one of comparative contentment.
“And your immediate102 recovery is of the first importance,” returned the Duke brightly. “You need a change.”
“Why not come to town, where you can have the best of medical attendance?” asked Lady Nancy quietly, though her heart beat furiously as she offered the suggestion.
“That is impossible,” replied Robert. “The medical folk tell me that my last and only chance is bathing and sea air and riding. With my promotion and the increase of salary it brings, I can now obey their mandates,” and he held the paper to his breast with a sigh of relief.
“Then the sooner you start, the better,” remarked the Duke kindly.
Lady Nancy rose to her feet with a wan32 smile on her lips. “And the sooner we start for Dumfries, father, the better,” she returned.
“You’re right, child, we must hasten,” and he hastily arose and got his hat and cane103 together, then he turned once more to Robert. “Mr. Burns, pardon the suggestion, but is it not time to get[360] out another volume of your poems?” he asked kindly.
“I have not in my present state of mind much appetite for exertion104 in writing,” answered Robert slowly.
“But they could be arranged for you by some literary friend,” quickly returned the Duke, “and advertised to be published by subscription105.”
Robert raised his head proudly. “Subscription!” he repeated. “No, no, that savors106 too much of charity,” and a look of obstinacy107 came into his darkened eyes.
“Remember,” said Lady Nancy gently, “that Pope published his Iliad by subscription, Mr. Burns.”
He remained silent a moment, then after a little struggle with his obstinate108 pride, he answered with a touch of bitterness in his voice, “I realize that I am in no position to despise any means to add to my income or to leave my family better provided for after I am gone. I will take your advice and will at once speak to my dear friend Aiken about it. He will aid me.”
The door opened and Jean entered the room. She had heard all the good news, and having met both the Duke and Lady Nancy while sojourning at Glencairn Castle a few years before, she felt she ought to thank them for their good offices in Robert’s behalf.
Lady Nancy and the Duke greeted her warmly,[361] asked after the health of the children, expressed pleasure in seeing her again, and soon put her at her ease, for the sudden thought of her hasty marriage to Robert and the attendant slanderous109 gossip at first made her feel and appear self-conscious and restrained.
“I was just telling Robert,” said the old Duke, “that he must go at once to the seashore.” She looked at her husband, and her wistful expression did not escape the keen eyes of Lady Nancy.
Nancy gave her father a significant look, which clearly said, “They have no money, father.” At least, so he interpreted it, aided by his own shrewd guess at the state of affairs.
“By the way, Robert,” he said jocularly, “can you swallow your pride sufficiently111 to accept a month’s salary in advance?” He pulled out a large, well-filled wallet and opened it.
“We do not need it, my lord,” answered Robert firmly and a trifle coldly. “I am expecting——” Here Jean hurriedly interrupted him, knowing what he was about to say.
“Oh, Robert!” she cried contritely112, “I forget to tell you that the Posty left no letter.”
“No letter!” he repeated dully, looking at her with wide-open, searching eyes. She sadly shook her head.
[362]
“Here are ￡5, lad. Take the note and to-morrow set out for Brow,” and the Duke held out the note for his acceptance, but he sat with averted113 gaze in the proud silence of keen disappointment.
“Do not refuse, Robert,” pleaded Jean softly. “’Tis only a loan.”
Slowly he took the money and folded it between his fingers. “Thank ye, my lord,” he said quietly. “I will accept it, for I am in sore need of it at this moment.”
“That’s right, my lad,” he said heartily. “What is a friend for if he cannot extend or receive a favor?” and he turned to help his daughter into her cloak.
Quickly Robert pressed the money into Jean’s hand and whispered to her, “Take it at once to Gilbert and bid him hasten to Mossgiel before it is too late to save the roof over mother’s head.”
“But, Robert——” she protested, but he would not listen to her.
“Do ye not see ’tis near sundown of the second day?” he told her impatiently, “and Gilbert will have to ride fast if he would get to Mossgiel before night overtakes him; noo hasten, Jean.” Still she lingered, reluctant to go.
“Oh, lad, this money is for you; it means your health, our happiness. It isn’t right to——”
“We have got a roof over our head, Jean,” he interrupted sternly. “We maist keep one over my[363] mother and sister as weel. We will nae starve. There are only ￡4 due your father. Keep out one for our present needs. Noo go, lass, go.”
Thus commanded, she hurried to the chamber114 where Gilbert sat in despairing solitude115, his head held wearily between his hands, and conveyed to him the glad intelligence. And soon he was speeding furiously over the dusty road toward home, his face aglow116 with joy and eagerness.
When Jean returned to the room she found Souter and Eppy there gayly chatting with the Duke and Lady Nancy, who were evidently much surprised to find their old friend Eppy at last married.
“I am so glad to see you here, Lady Nancy,” gushed117 Eppy effusively118. “You must come and see us before you return to Edinburgh. I live on the estate adjoining this farm.” He drew the smiling girl to the window and pointed119 out the beauties of MacDougall House. “He is poor,” she whispered, “but he is of noble birth, a MacDougall of Lorne. Souter!” she called aloud to her husband, who was looking exceedingly important as he stood balancing himself on his toes, his hands behind his back, a look of supreme120 self-satisfaction on his face, and listening, with an air of blasé indifference121, to the conversation between the old Duke and Robert. As he heard his name called he leisurely122 turned his head in his wife’s direction.
“Souter,” she continued in a tone meant to be[364] careless, but which expressed plainly her feeling of pride, “isn’t it the Marquis of Lorne who is your first cousin?”
“What’s that, Souter?” asked Robert incredulously.
Souter looked around him with a sickly smile. He had not thought to be cornered in this manner, when he had filled his wife’s mind with stories of past grandeur123 and noble connections, and it made him feel decidedly uncomfortable and embarrassed.
“Er—didna’ ye ken that, Robbie?” he exclaimed with a look of feigned125 surprise on his reddened face. “Och, yes! By the by, Robbie,” he continued quickly, anxious to change the subject, “we came o’er to tell ye that we are gang to Brow on our honeymoon126.” Here Eppy giggled127 and looked bashfully out of the window. “An’ my wife, Mrs. MacDougall,” with a flourish of the hand in her direction, which elicited129 another giggle128 from the lady in question, “has decided124 that we want ye to gang alang wi’ us.”
Robert looked at him, then at Eppy in speechless surprise. Jean gave a little gasp, and her hand sought her husband’s arm and pressed it with delight.
“Souter,” faltered Robert, “ye’re both doing this out of the kindness of your hearts, but I canna——”
“We’ll na take no for an answer. Ye may be[365] stubborn wi’ your lofty independence, your pride, but I can be just as stubborn as ye, Rab Burns, and I say it is settled,” said Souter.
“’Tis the hand of God,” whispered Jean softly.
“God bless ye both,” faltered Robert, grasping Souter’s hand affectionately.
“Come, father,” said Lady Nancy, who had witnessed this little scene with moist eyes, “I protest we must start on our journey.”
“But first we must have a toast,” said Robert brightly. “’Tis most fitting. Jean, bring the punch bowl.” Quickly she brought from the closet the bowl of Inverary marble and placed it on the table, and into it she poured some hot water and sugar. “We have no wine to offer,” continued Robert, “nothing better than Highland130 whisky, but ye needna’ be afraid of becoming intoxicated131, my lord,” and he smiled ruefully, “for I ken ’twill hardly be tolerable to your educated taste.” Jean had mixed the punch and now passed it around among the guests. “For auld132 lang syne133!” cried Robert feelingly. “Is not that phrase most expressive134? My lord, a toast,” and he raised his glass to the old Duke, who, after a moment’s hesitation135, proposed “the health of Robert Burns, Scotland’s greatest Bard136.”
“We drink to that with pleasure,” exclaimed Lady Nancy.
“Aye, that we do,” echoed Souter heartily. And[366] while the toast was being drunk he slyly whispered, “Rob, dinna’ say aught to my wife about—er—the old Marquis, my—ahem—cousin. Ye understand,” and he nudged him significantly.
“And noo,” said Souter proudly, looking at Eppy’s simpering face, “here’s to the bride.” She made a deep courtesy and quaffed138 her glass with conscious dignity at her sudden importance. “May she always believe in her husband,” he added in an aside to Robert, much to the latter’s amusement.
“Mrs. MacDougall, here’s to your enemies, your foes,” proposed Robert.
“What?” she cried, opening her eyes in amazement.
“May they have short shoes an’ corny toes,” he added with a merry twinkle in his eyes.
“Duke, a toast!” said Souter importantly.
The Duke thought a moment. “Well, I drink to Mrs. MacDougall. May she soon have a house full of bairns,” he thoughtlessly proposed.
Eppy gasped139 and turned crimson140, and Lady Nancy bit her lips to keep back the smile her father’s well-meant but tactless speech occasioned.
“Do you mean to insult me, my lord?” flashed Eppy indignantly.
“Bless my soul, no,” returned the Duke in astonishment, who could see no reason for offense141 in his kindly-meant remark.
[367]
“The Duke meant well,” said Souter pacifically to his wife, whose eyes were flashing angrily. “An’—an’—stranger things might happen, ye ken,” and he rubbed his chin reflectively with a sly look out of the corner of his roguish eye at Robert. She tossed her head haughtily142.
“’Twould not be so monstrous143 strange, Mr. MacDougall, as you seem to think,” she retorted frigidly144. Souter opened his eyes in speechless surprise. He was about to speak, but after one bewildered glance at the disdainful face of his bride, concluded that discretion145 was the better part of valor146, and for the rest of that day he remained in thoughtful silence reflecting on the inconsistencies of woman kind in particular, and speculating upon the strange and mysterious workings of human nature in general.
The Duke bade them all adieu and passed out into the garden, where its wild beauties attracted his eye. He wandered about, forgetting, in his admiration147 for the flowers, his daughter, who had lingered behind for one last farewell word—alone.
“And so, Mr. Burns,” she said thoughtfully, looking after Jean’s retreating figure, “you have never regretted taking the step that bound your life to that of Jean Armour’s? Regretted doing your duty?” There was a note of regret in the vibrating voice.
“Never, my lady,” he replied firmly. “It was[368] the only really good thing I have ever done in my wretched life.”
She looked at him a moment with hungry eyes. “Do you never think of the old days in town?” she asked suddenly, and she was greatly surprised to see his face turn pale, his eyes flash and deepen.
“For God’s sake, madam, do not mention the past!” he said, turning away. “All that has passed out of my life forever,” he murmured after a pause, “never to return.”
“And you wish it so?” she asked faintly. He bowed his head slowly. She moistened her lips feverishly148 and drew near to him, her eyes filled with a light that would have startled him had he seen it. “Say not so! Must I give up the friendship of the only man I esteem149 and hold dear?” she panted breathlessly. “Oh, will you not renew the broken thread of our correspondence [he had written her several times since coming to Ellisland, but before Jean’s advent] and enjoy the sweet intercourse150 of thought, which will bring such gladness into my own life, and will brighten the gloom of your own, and will take naught151 from your wife’s peace of mind?”
He raised his head and regarded her thoughtfully. “How can ye ask me that, my lady,” he answered, “when ye declared to me in your last letter that you meant to preserve my epistles with a view, sooner or later, to expose them to the pillory152 of derision and[369] the rocks of criticism?” And a look of resentment gleamed in his eyes.
“I protest, Mr. Burns,” she cried reproachfully. “I have, indeed, preserved your letters, but they will never leave my possession; they are cherished as the dearest treasures of my life.”
He sighed and remained silent for a space. From the kitchen came the sound of children’s voices. He listened to it a moment, then turned to Lady Nancy, a look of resolution in his face.
“Lady Nancy,” he said firmly, “I canna’ write to ye in sincerity153. I have a wife and family, an’ I have given my word to Jean, and while I dare to sin, I dare not to lie, else madam I could perhaps too truly join grief with grief, and echo sighs to thine. But with one foot in the grave, I have no desire to stir up the old ashes of—friendship to find a living ember. ’Twould be but a weak, fitful burning at best. Nay154, ’tis too late noo. Believe me, ’tis best, dear lady.” He rose to his feet and held out his hand again. “An’ noo farewell, Lady Nancy, farewell.”
She took his hand and looked into his set, unmoved face, and a sigh of utter disappointment, of patient longing38, involuntarily escaped her trembling lips. “If it must be, then farewell,” she answered slowly, a slight tremor155 in her soft voice. She walked to the door, then turned and fixing her eyes on him, she continued mournfully, “Do not quite forget me, will you, Robert? Let the scenes of nature remind you[370] of Nancy. In winter remember the dark shades of her life, for there are plenty; in summer, the warmth of her friendship; in autumn, her glowing wishes to bestow156 plenty on all, and let spring animate157 you with hopes that your absent friend may yet surmount158 the wintry blasts of life, and revive to taste a springtime of happiness.”
He bowed his head gravely. “I shall remember ye, Lady Nancy—friend,” he returned feelingly.
She gave him one long, lingering look. “Farewell, farewell!” she gasped, and when he raised his head she was gone.
He sighed and walked thoughtfully to the window. “The past and all its pleasures will soon be but a dim memory,” he muttered grimly, “as one by one the connecting links which bound me to it are severed159 forever.” He paused and watched her as she joined her father in the garden, and a quizzical look flashed across his face. “Faith!” he muttered with a little smile, “who would believe the time would come when lovely women would plead in vain for the favors o’ Rob Burns. Och! Robbie, ye are indeed fit only for the grave,” and he turned away from the window in earthly meditation160.
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bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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pall
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| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
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penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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7
inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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8
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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9
smoldering
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| v.用文火焖烧，熏烧，慢燃( smolder的现在分词 ) | |
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10
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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11
slough
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| v.蜕皮，脱落，抛弃 | |
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12
ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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13
woolen
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| adj.羊毛(制)的；毛纺的 | |
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14
solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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15
sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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16
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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17
armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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18
eviction
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| n.租地等的收回 | |
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19
distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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20
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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21
wrestled
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| v.（与某人）搏斗( wrestle的过去式和过去分词 )；扭成一团；扭打；（与…）摔跤 | |
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22
assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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23
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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24
fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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25
vindictive
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| adj.有报仇心的，怀恨的，惩罚的 | |
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26
irate
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| adj.发怒的，生气 | |
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27
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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28
exhaustion
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|
| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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29
respite
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| n.休息，中止，暂缓 | |
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30
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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31
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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32
wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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33
plight
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| n.困境，境况，誓约，艰难；vt.宣誓，保证，约定 | |
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34
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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35
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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36
meager
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| adj.缺乏的，不足的，瘦的 | |
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37
belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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38
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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39
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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40
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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41
mantling
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| 覆巾 | |
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42
courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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43
overdue
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| adj.过期的，到期未付的；早该有的，迟到的 | |
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44
dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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45
scented
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|
| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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46
puff
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| n.一口(气)；一阵(风)；v.喷气，喘气 | |
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47
lark
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| n.云雀，百灵鸟；n.嬉戏，玩笑；vi.嬉戏 | |
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48
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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49
shrillness
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| 尖锐刺耳 | |
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50
crunching
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|
| v.嘎吱嘎吱地咬嚼( crunch的现在分词 )；嘎吱作响；（快速大量地）处理信息；数字捣弄 | |
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51
inquiries
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|
| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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52
splendors
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| n.华丽( splendor的名词复数 )；壮丽；光辉；显赫 | |
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53
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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54
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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55
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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56
scowl
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| vi.(at)生气地皱眉，沉下脸，怒视；n.怒容 | |
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57
infancy
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|
| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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58
philosophically
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|
| adv.哲学上；富有哲理性地；贤明地；冷静地 | |
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59
stoutly
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| adv.牢固地，粗壮的 | |
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60
astonishment
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|
| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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61
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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62
discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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63
censure
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|
| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
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64
lasting
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|
| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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65
smother
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| vt./vi.使窒息；抑制；闷死；n.浓烟；窒息 | |
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66
questionable
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|
| adj.可疑的，有问题的 | |
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67
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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68
remorseful
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| adj.悔恨的 | |
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69
repentant
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|
| adj.对…感到悔恨的 | |
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70
streaked
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|
| adj.有条斑纹的，不安的v.快速移动( streak的过去式和过去分词 )；使布满条纹 | |
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71
considerably
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|
| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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72
accentuating
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| v.重读( accentuate的现在分词 )；使突出；使恶化；加重音符号于 | |
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73
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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74
ruggedly
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| 险峻地； 粗暴地； （面容）多皱纹地； 粗线条地 | |
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75
fervor
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|
| n.热诚；热心；炽热 | |
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76
mutual
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|
| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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77
penitently
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78
afterward
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|
| adv.后来；以后 | |
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79
frankly
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|
| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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80
ingratitude
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|
| n.忘恩负义 | |
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81
resentment
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|
| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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82
concealed
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|
| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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83
conceal
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|
| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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84
velvet
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|
| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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85
plumes
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|
| 羽毛( plume的名词复数 )； 羽毛饰； 羽毛状物； 升上空中的羽状物 | |
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86
likeness
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|
| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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87
impulsively
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| adv.冲动地 | |
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88
discoursed
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|
| 演说（discourse的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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89
vigor
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| n.活力，精力，元气 | |
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90
miserable
|
|
| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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91
aggravated
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| 使恶化( aggravate的过去式和过去分词 )； 使更严重； 激怒； 使恼火 | |
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92
solely
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|
| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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93
heartily
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|
| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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94
distress
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|
| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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95
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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96
kindling
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| n. 点火, 可燃物 动词kindle的现在分词形式 | |
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97
vow
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|
| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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98
promotion
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| n.提升，晋级；促销，宣传 | |
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99
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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100
dolt
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| n.傻瓜 | |
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101
gasp
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|
| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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102
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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103
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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104
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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105
subscription
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| n.预订，预订费，亲笔签名，调配法，下标（处方） | |
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106
savors
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| v.意味，带有…的性质( savor的第三人称单数 )；给…加调味品；使有风味；品尝 | |
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107
obstinacy
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|
| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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108
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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109
slanderous
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| adj.诽谤的，中伤的 | |
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110
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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111
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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112
contritely
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113
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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114
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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115
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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116
aglow
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| adj.发亮的；发红的；adv.发亮地 | |
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117
gushed
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| v.喷，涌( gush的过去式和过去分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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118
effusively
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| adv.变溢地，热情洋溢地 | |
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119
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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120
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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121
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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122
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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123
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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124
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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125
feigned
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| a.假装的，不真诚的 | |
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126
honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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127
giggled
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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128
giggle
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| n.痴笑，咯咯地笑；v.咯咯地笑着说 | |
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129
elicited
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| 引出，探出( elicit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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130
highland
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| n.(pl.)高地，山地 | |
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131
intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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132
auld
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| adj.老的，旧的 | |
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133
syne
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| adv.自彼时至此时，曾经 | |
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134
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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135
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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136
bard
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| n.吟游诗人 | |
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137
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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138
quaffed
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|
| v.痛饮( quaff的过去式和过去分词 )；畅饮；大口大口将…喝干；一饮而尽 | |
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139
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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140
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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141
offense
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| n.犯规，违法行为；冒犯，得罪 | |
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142
haughtily
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| adv. 傲慢地, 高傲地 | |
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143
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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144
frigidly
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| adv.寒冷地；冷漠地；冷淡地；呆板地 | |
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145
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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146
valor
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| n.勇气，英勇 | |
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147
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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148
feverishly
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| adv. 兴奋地 | |
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149
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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150
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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151
naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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152
pillory
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| n.嘲弄；v.使受公众嘲笑；将…示众 | |
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153
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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154
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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155
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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156
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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157
animate
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| v.赋于生命，鼓励；adj.有生命的，有生气的 | |
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158
surmount
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| vt.克服；置于…顶上 | |
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159
severed
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| v.切断，断绝( sever的过去式和过去分词 )；断，裂 | |
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160
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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