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COMPEL
CANDICE WRIGHT
CONTENTS

Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Epilogue

Also by Candice Wright


Acknowledgments
About the Author
Compel Copyright © 2022

by Candice Wright

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the
products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events,
or locales is entirely coincidental.
All Rights Reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without the
express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations
in a book review.
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be
re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with
another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient.

Cover design by Temptation Creations


Editing by Tanya Oemig
Proofreading by Briann Graziano

Created with Vellum


For my dark romance readers, who live for toxic, fucked up
relationships.
I understood the assignment.
“We stopped looking for monsters under our bed when we realized
that they were inside us.”

― Charles Darwin
PROLOGUE

“O nly one more to go,” Atlas grunts as we toss the body on the
floor between us, the smell of urine permeating the air.
I step away from the crying pussy, so I don’t get any on my
shoes.
“Hoffman must be really pissed if he’s cleaning house like this.”
Atlas shrugs. “Not my business. As long as the fucker pays me
the finder’s fee, I couldn’t give a shit what he does.”
I snort. Like he needs more money. I know damn well that the
man is richer than most of the people that hire him. No, Atlas likes
to fuck people up, and getting paid to do it is just the icing on the
cake.
“At least tell me the next guy will put up more of a fight. I hate it
when they give in so easily.”
Atlas grins. “And you say I’m the violent one.”
I smirk, shaking my head. “I’m better at hiding my monster than
you are.”
We both turn at the sound of footsteps and see Hoffman strolling
into the building with two henchmen built like sumo wrestlers beside
him.
The man himself is a different story altogether. Around six-foot-
two and fit from countless hours spent in the gym. Though I don’t
swing that way, I can admit the guy is good-looking. His short dark
hair, tan skin, and practiced smile, paired with the expensive suit and
Rolex, draw women in like moths to a flame. But ever bother to look
into his eyes. They couldn’t have because if they did, they’d run
screaming for the hills. Hoffman’s eyes are soulless in a the lights
are on, but only a psychopath is home kind of way. But I guess it
takes one to know one.
“Ah, Atlas. Nice work, as always.” Hoffman nods to one of his
goons, who steps forward with a briefcase and offers it to Atlas.
I step in front of him and take the case, ignoring the sharp intake
of breath from my perceived disrespect while I check to make sure
the money is all there and unmarked.
Once I’m done, I snap the case closed and hand it to Atlas.
“It’s good.”
I stand beside him and face the others once more. Hoffman has
a scowl on his face, but the two no-necks remain as stoic as before.
“Problem, Hoffman?” Atlas asks with a taunt in his voice.
“I’m just surprised you’d think I’d rip you off,” he replies, just
managing to keep the hostility out of his voice.
“Do you think I’m a stupid man?” Atlas asks, walking closer to
him.
“No, of course not.”
“Do you think I got to where I am now because I take stupid
risks?”
“No—”
Atlas cuts him off, “Oh, don’t be fooled. I’m a reckless
motherfucker when the mood strikes. I’m standing here now,
relatively unscathed, because of Kenzo, who takes his work very
seriously.”
Hoffman looks at me and swallows.
“Of course, I meant no disrespect.”
I grin at that. Lying asshole. Not that I give two fucks about what
he or anyone else thinks about me.
“None taken—this time,” Atlas warns him. The threat is
unmistakable now.
Hoffman inclines his head in understanding before shrugging off
the unease of Atlas’s statement.
“Where would you like the next package delivered?” Atlas asks
him, smoothing down the lapels of his black suit jacket.
“My house here in the city. You know where it is?”
Atlas nods before walking toward the exit without another word.
I follow behind him, whistling a merry tune, my mood lighter
now. I love it when we piss off the big men who think they rule the
world. It’s always nice to remind them that they are not in charge.
I climb into the driver’s seat of the car and wait for Atlas to get in
the back before pulling away into the night.
“Where we heading, boss?” I ask, looking in the rearview mirror
as he scrolls through his cell phone with a frown.
“I need you to drop me off at the club. Something’s come up. I’ll
call Pete to pick me up when I’m done. Can you handle this on your
own?”
Now it’s my turn to frown.
“Right, stupid question. This one is a little different, that’s all. The
package is not to be harmed under any circumstances.”
My eyebrows raise at that. “That’s new. Just who exactly am I
collecting?”
“Victoria Hoffman. Hoffman’s wife.”
Now I know better than to fire a bunch of questions at Atlas, but
he must be feeling generous tonight because instead of leaving it at
that, he pulls out a photo from the inside pocket of his jacket.
Leaning forward, he holds it out for me.
I reach over and grab it, keeping my eyes on the road. It might
not be as busy right now as it is during the day, but a city never
truly sleeps, and all it takes is one asshole to sideswipe us. I’ll be
damned if I live the way I do, only to get taken out by an asshat in a
fucking station wagon.
When we stop at the red light, I glance down at the picture in my
hand and whistle. “She’s a stunner for sure.” And she is, with long,
wavy black hair and red-stained lips curved up into a teasing smile.
I look back up as the light turns green and toss the photo onto
the passenger seat. “Must have a screw loose to have married
Hoffman.”
Atlas chuckles. “In my experience, there isn’t much that women
won’t do for money and dick.”
“Maybe you’re just looking in the wrong place.”
“The day I let a woman lead me around by the dick is the day I
put a gun to my head and shoot myself.”
“I’ll remind you of that when a woman comes along and knocks
you on your ass.” I laugh, pulling up outside The Drift just as the
heavens open.
“The club is busy tonight. You sure you don’t need me?”
“Tony’s working tonight, so it’s fine. Besides, I’m only going to be
here for an hour, two tops. I have a bunch of applications to go
through. Busy nights like this are great for business, but I need
more bar staff to keep up with the demand.”
“The sad tales of the rich and famous.”
He flips me off before moving to open his door.
“What’s the deal with the wife, anyway?”
“Seems the wife is pregnant and suffering from a mental
breakdown. Hoffman sounded genuinely worried about her, which is
new. He said something about her struggling to carry a baby to
term. She’s convinced she’s going to lose this one like the others. He
wants her subdued and returned without a scratch. He’s having her
admitted to a mental health facility until after the baby is born.”
“Fuck.”
“I’ll text you the details.” He climbs out and slams the door. I wait
until he’s inside before I pull away, lifting my hand in goodbye to
Arnold, who is on the door tonight.
He’ll make sure Tony knows Atlas is there and I’m not. Not that
Atlas can’t take care of himself.
I head across the city without any destination in mind until the
text comes through from Atlas, followed by a set of coordinates.
Don’t engage. Package will become hostile, which could
endanger her and the baby. Subdue and deliver.
Tapping the coordinates into the GPS, I marvel at the
ridiculousness of my life.
I go from beating the shit out of a man to collecting a woman
who’s deemed special cargo, and both deliveries are for the same
man. It’s just a reminder of how multifaceted people can be.
But I know two things for sure: first, if I had a wife and kid out
there in possible danger, I’d be the one collecting them. Second, I
sure as shit wouldn’t send a man like me to do it. After all, I tend to
break pretty things.
I wait for it to spit out the directions before turning the car
around. I don’t think much about where I’m going until I end up in
the warehouse district. There are no residential buildings around
here. In fact, there is nothing here but the docks and… a bridge.
Fuck. I pick up my speed and stop before my destination, not
wanting to give myself away.
I park in the shadows of an old abandoned shoe factory and
shove the photo from the passenger seat into the glove box.
I climb out and move around to pop the trunk, making sure there
is nothing in there that she can hurt herself with. After transporting
the last asshole in here, I’m pretty sure it’s still empty, but it never
hurts to check that they didn’t leave anything behind. Thanks to a
friend in the business, there is no safety release hatch in the trunk
anymore, despite the fact that it’s a brand-new Mercedes-AMG. Call
it a perk, but when I kidnap someone, I like them to stay where I
put them, at least until I decide otherwise.
I leave it open and pull my gun as I make my way toward the
bridge. For a minute, I don’t see anything, making me wonder if I’ve
made a mistake. But as I’m about to turn, I catch sight of someone
leaning over the concrete railing, staring down into the water.
I watch from the shadows for a moment before I make my silent
approach. The last thing I want her to do is spot me and jump
before I can stop her.
I slide my gun into my holster and creep closer, hearing the faint
sound of humming. I pause when she turns a little, and I can just
make out the shape of her large bump as she strokes her hand over
it.
She’s lost in her own world, which works to my advantage. She
doesn’t realize she isn’t alone. I watch as a sixth sense kicks in, and
she freezes, but by then it’s too late.
I have my arm around her neck and my hand on the back of her
head, holding her in place as she struggles and fights for all she’s
worth. But they don’t call it the sleeper hold for nothing. With her
oxygen supply cut off, it doesn’t take long for her to go limp in my
arms. I scoop her up and carry her back to the car.
I look down at her briefly. Her head is tucked against my chest,
her dark hair covering her face, but her breathing is even, and right
now, that’s all that matters. I don’t waste time, knowing she won’t
be out for long. Picking up the pace, I jog back to my car and place
her in the trunk before closing it.
Driving through the city, I wonder if I should tell Hoffman how
close he came to losing them both, but then decide against it. That’s
one mess I want no part of. It’s a sad story for sure, but we all have
sad fucking stories.
Hell, I grew up on the streets, both parents dead before I even
hit puberty. Nobody gave a fuck about me until Atlas came along
and offered me something more.
Nah, the way I see it, the woman made her bed, now she has to
lie in it.
The gates to Hoffman’s estate open as I approach, so I pull in
and stop near the ostentatious fountain. I keep the engine running
and wait for someone to approach, which they do moments later.
A tap on the window has me lowering it for Hoffman.
“The package?”
“In the trunk, signed, sealed, and delivered.”
“Unharmed?”
“I didn’t leave a mark on her, but it seems I got there just in
time.”
His face pinches and he looks toward the trunk.
“If you just give me the money, I’ll get out of your hair.”
He slips a backpack off his shoulder and hands it to me through
the window. I peek inside to give it the once-over. It all seems to be
here.
“Looks good. I’m sure Atlas will call you if there is an issue. Nice
doing business with you.” I toss the bag on the passenger seat, shut
Other documents randomly have
different content
Then tied him fast upon a cart,
Like a rogue for forgerie.
Chorus:
They wasted o’er a scorching flame
The marrow of his bones;
But a miller us’d him worst of all—
For he crush’d him ’tween two stones.
Burns:
And they ha’e ta’en his very heart’s blood,
And drank it round and round;
And still the more and more they drank,
Their joy did more abound.
Chorus:
Then let us toast John Barleycorn,
Each man a glass in hand;
And may his great posterity
Ne’er fail in old Scotland!
[There is general acclamation and toasting.]
Burns (jumping down from his chair, a little ‘flown’): Fill up—fill up!
John Barleycorn is Scotland’s king, and shall be so for ever! Fill up!
There’s a pretty Nell. How’s that for a song, landlord?
The Landlord: Very good sentiments, Robin. Let all honest men
prosper, say I.
Burns: Meaning, most noble landlord, all honest men to be John
Barleycorn’s liege subjects—that pay tribute, mark you. Drink up,
Tam Laurie—why so doomsday, man?
Tam (a meek, hard-driven little man): It’s the cursed factors, Robin.
They’ll not let a man scrape supper gruel from his toil.
Burns: Blast and misfortune to them! Craft and fat bellies—a flea on
a dog’s tail is a respectable work of God beside a factor. A toast,
friends, fellow-citizens of Mauchline—‘To hell with all factors.’
[The toast is drunk with enthusiasm.]
A lean but well-to-do Farmer: That’s all very well, but rents have to
be paid.
Burns: Friends—another toast—‘To hell with all rents.’
[And again.]
Burns: Michael, you speak as a man the Lord prospers.
Michael: I speak as one who is diligent.
Burns: Diligent, quotha! A man left a fat inheritance and his croft all
favoured by nature, and he talks diligence. Have you sweated,
Michael, with your share always ringing on the stones, and your
breeches letting in the cold blast behind you, and your boots full of
March rain, and your belly empty, and a bare table to go home to
when dark comes, and a gap in the roof above you as wide as a
lassie’s embrace? Have you done these things, and kept the heart
true steel within you, like Tam Laurie there?
Tam: I’ve to quit come Tuesday week.
Burns: To quit, Michael—do you hear that? Do you know what
quitting means? You stand out there under the sky, and your steps
may as well go this way as that, for you have no door in the world,
and a ditch to starve in is all you can borrow. And rents must be paid.
To hell with such rents I say!
Michael: I’ll not listen to such heresies in the state. Respectable
houses are not safe when tongues are loose like this. But the Lord
will look to his own.
Burns: You put off settlement with the Lord as long as you can,
Michael Johnson—you’ll be wise.
Michael: They say that Mr. Armour will not be put off, though.
[Burns is suddenly silenced by this, and with his parting
score Michael goes, two or three of the others following him.
One or two of the party are now asleep, two or three others
talking together, Tam sitting by himself. The landlord is
smoking, and Nell cleaning pots.]
Tam: He was always bitter to poverty. Thank you, Robin, for
speaking.
Nell: What’s that about Mr. Armour?
Burns: They’ve beaten me, Nell. I’ve got to go.
Nell: How’s that?
Burns (sitting at a table near to us, in dejection. Nell comes to him,
still working. Some of the others at another table are playing cards):
We were friends, Nell, you and I.
Nell: Good friends, Robin.
Burns: Parnassus Hill, you remember?
Nell: You and I, and love, and John Barleycorn—yes.
Burns: Then there was my Mary; she died. Then Jean came. You
didn’t scold.
Nell: I knew they would come. I told you I was not for wedding.
Burns: Jean is a mother.
Nell: You?
Burns: Yes.
Nell: You’ll wed her then, so why grieve? She’s good, and she’s
comely.
Burns: I love her, Nell, and I’d be proud of her. But I’m not to wed
her.
Nell: But that’s not honest, Robin.
Burns: They won’t let me.
Nell: Who won’t?
Burns: That’s what Michael meant. Mr. Armour. He’s forbidden it. I’m
not genteel enough. He says I’m profligate. He’s right I dare say. But
that, it’s bitter, that. He’d rather have his girl be shamed alone than
be shamed by wedding me. And I can’t pay as I’m ordered (he
shows her a paper), so it’s jail or leaving Scotland. John Barleycorn
is all now. Fill my pot, Nell.
[Nell does so, and brings it to him.]
Nell: What will you do?
Burns: I came here to forget it. I’m going. Jamaica—that’s a world’s
journey off, Nell. Jean, and Scotland—I’m losing both.
[He sings.]

O thou pale Orb, that silent shines,


While care-untroubled mortals sleep!
Thou seest a wretch that inly pines,
And wanders here to wail and weep!
With Woe I nightly vigils keep,
Beneath thy wan, unwarming beam;
And mourn, in lamentation deep,
How life and love are all a dream.

[As he is ending the song, three men come to the door. One is
James Armour, Jean’s father, another a Factor, and with
them is Holy Willie. The Factor goes to the counter and
drinks.]
Armour: So you can sing in the midst of the desolation you’ve
caused.
Burns: It was no happy song, Mr. Armour.
Armour: There’s a warrant coming down the road for you.
Burns: But I cannot pay, I told you. I’ll work for Jean, but you’ll not let
me.
Armour: I will not. I want no creeping seducer for a son-in-law.
Burns: That’s—I’ll not say what it is, Mr. Armour. Ask Jean. She loves
me. We’re proud of it, if you would let us be.
Armour: Proud of it, you Barbary sheep! The girl’s a scandal to my
name, but she’s not for you. Let her be proud of it alone.
Holy Willie: I told you of this, young man. I preached the light to you.
Burns: Good counsel from you would corrupt the saints, minister.
Why won’t you let me wed Jean, Mr. Armour?
Armour: I came to give no reasons, Robert Burns. I came to see you
knew the choice rightly. You can pay, or you can feel handcuffs, or
you can go where you’ll never offend honest Scots eyes with the
sight of you more.
Holy Willie: And whichever you choose, you’ll first do penance in kirk
for an incontinent sinner. It is the kirk’s will.
Burns: Let him that is without sin, minister—but let that go. Again,
Mr. Armour, I ask it in good faith, let me take Jean to church. There’ll
be no penance in that, but hope and goodwill, I promise it.
Armour: You’ve no virtue, but if you were made of it, I’ld say no still.
You’ve not rank enough for the Armours.
Burns: Rank, rank, rank! Then destroy her and destroy me, and ask
your holy friend here to pray God to show you your own black and
proud and silly heart. Fill up my pot, Nell.
[As she does so, the Factor is about to leave, but seeing
Tam Laurie, goes across to him.]
The Factor: Have you found that money, Laurie?
Tam: It’s not for finding.
The Factor: It’s for spending, it seems.
Tam: I’ve had but two pots, and not to my score.
The Factor: Tuesday week then. I hope you’ll have joy of your
travels.
Tam: It’s a poor thing to fleer at a man that’s beaten.
Burns (crossing, pot in hand): A dirty thing, Master Factor, a thing
that makes old Nickie-ben laugh down among the sulphur the
minister is so fond of gabbing about. And before I’m gone, I’ll stand
up and prophesy among you. Mr. Armour, you’re a little man, in a
little place, and for your peddling bit of dignity and self-esteem you’ll
break your girl’s heart and ruin me. Minister, you’ll sit on the Lord’s
right hand till He turns round and catches you there. And you, Factor,
will sit on a lord’s right hand till he turns round and finds your fingers
in his pocket. And you’re all upright pillars of repute, praise the Lord,
Amen. And Tam here is a pauper, and I’m forfeit, and before the God
that you blaspheme with your devil’s work, we’ll take our chance at
the day of judgment against the lot of you. He’ll have mercy on us,
for we are sinners, but I doubt he’ll take no notice of you at all, and
you’ll find it a wide place to wander in and learn your lesson.
[Outside is heard the sound of music and song, coming from
a band of Beggars passing along the road.]
Burns (going to the window, and looking out): Listen to them—
vagabonds, unwashed, thieves perhaps, and kiss who kiss can. But
they’re free, and they’re honester than your sort, righter
commanders. (Opening the door.) Come in, come in—a pot apiece
for a song, my hearties—come and teach the gentlemen to say their
grace.
[The Beggars crowd at the door.]
Armour: You think we’ll stay with you and your dirty rapscallions. By
your leave—
[He, the Factor, and Holy Willie move to go.]
Burns: No, no—persuade them friends. (Tam and the others, Nell
and the Landlord assisting, hold them back, while Burns cries to
the Beggars.) Come in—come in—serve them, Nell, my dear, full
pots all round.
[He locks the door, and Nell hands round the full pots.]
Armour: This shall be a case for the Justice.
Burns: Justice is a blind wench, Mr. Armour—and it would be a
bonny jest for the parish, wouldn’t it? I think we shall swallow it. Now,
you jolly beggars, drink and sing.
[The First Beggar, an old man in soldier’s rags, a girl in his
arms, sings.]
I am a son of Mars, who have been in many wars,
And show my cuts and scars wherever I come;
This here was for a wench, and that other in a trench,
When welcoming the French at the sound of the drum.

Lal de daudle, etc.

And now tho’ I must beg with a wooden arm and leg
And many a tatter’d rag hanging over my limbs,
I’m as happy with my wallet, my bottle, and my callet,
As when I us’d in scarlet to follow a drum.

Lal de daudle, etc.

[He is followed, after drinking and laughter, by the girl in his


arms, who sings.]

I once was a maid, tho’ I cannot tell when,


And still my delight is in proper young men;
Some one of a troop of dragoons was my daddie,
No wonder I’m fond of a sodger laddie.

Sing, Lal de lal, etc.

The first of my loves was a swaggering blade,


To rattle the thundering drum was his trade;
His leg was so tight, and his cheek was so ruddy,
Transported I was with my sodger laddie.

Sing, Lal de lal, etc.

But the godly old chaplain left him in the lurch,


The sword I forsook for the sake of the church;
He ventur’d the soul, and I risket the body,
’Twas then I prov’d false to my sodger laddie.

Sing, Lal de lal, etc.

Full soon I grew sick of my sanctified sot,


The regiment at large for a husband I got;
From the gilded spontoon to the fife I was ready,
I askèd no more but a sodger laddie.

Sing, Lal de lal, etc.

And now I have lived—I know not how long,


And still I can join in a cup and a song;
But whilst with both hands I can hold the glass steady,
Here’s to thee, my hero, my sodger laddie.

Sing, Lal de lal, etc.

[Then comes a dark, tragic woman, who has been sitting


apart.]

A Highland lad my love was born,


The lalland laws he held in scorn;
But he still was faithfu’ to his clan,
My gallant, braw John Highlandman.

Chorus

Sing hey my braw John Highlandman!


Sing ho my braw John Highlandman!
There’s not a lad in a’ the lan’
Was match for my John Highlandman.

With his philibeg an’ tartan plaid,


An’ guid claymore down by his side,
The ladies’ hearts he did trepan,
My gallant, braw John Highlandman.

Sing hey, etc.

They banish’d him beyond the sea,


But ere the bud was on the tree,
Adown my cheeks the pearls ran,
Embracing my John Highlandman.

Sing hey, etc.

But, och! they catch’d him at the last,


And bound him in a dungeon fast;
My curse upon them every one,
They’ve hang’d my braw John Highlandman.

Sing hey, etc.

And now a widow, I must mourn


The pleasures that will ne’er return;
Nae comfort but a hearty can,
When I think on John Highlandman.

Sing hey, etc.

[As she finishes, the First Beggar, leaving his doxy, goes up
to her and sings.]

Let me ryke up to dight that tear,


And go wi’ me and be my dear,
An’ then your every care and fear
May whistle owre the lave o’t.

Chorus

I am a fiddler to my trade,
An’ a’ the tunes that e’er I play’d,
The sweetest still to wife or maid,
Was whistle owre the lave o’t.

But bless me wi’ your heav’n o’ charms,


And while I kittle hair on thairms,
Hunger, cauld, and a’ sic harms,
May whistle owre the lave o’t.

I am, etc.
[At the conclusion she sinks into his arms, and there is an
altercation between the two Beggar women, the Old Beggar
quieting them, and then there are cries from all to Burns.]
Now, Master, a song for a song, a taste of your quality, good liquor
makes good tunes, a song, a song!
Burns (leaps on to the table with): Here’s for you, then, my hearties.
[And sings.]

I am a Bard of no regard,
Wi’ gentle folks, an’ a’ that:
But Homer-like, the glowrin byke,
Frae town to town I draw that.

Chorus

For a’ that, an’ a’ that,


An’ twice as muckle’s a’ that;
I’ve lost but ane, I’ve twa behin’,
I’ve wife eneugh for a’ that.

Great love I bear to a’ the fair,


Their humble slave, an’ a’ that;
But lordly will, I hold it still
A mortal sin to thraw that.

For a’ that, etc.

Their tricks an’ craft ha’e put me daft,


They’ve ta’en me in, and a’ that;
But clear your decks, and here’s the Sex!
I like the jades for a’ that.

Chorus

For a’ that, an’ a’ that,


And twice as muckle’s a’ that;
My dearest bluid, to do them guid,
They’re welcome till’t for a’ that.

[This is received with an uproar of acclamation. The doxy


climbs up on to the table beside Burns, and shouts above
the din, ‘A chorus, a chorus, and then for the road!’ and they
sing in chorus.]

A fig for those by law protected!


Liberty’s a glorious feast!
Courts for cowards were erected,
Churches built to please the priest.

Life is all a variorum,


We regard not how it goes;
Let them cant about decorum
Who have characters to lose.

[The Beggars depart, to the music that brought them, Burns


exchanging farewells as they pass through the door. The
villagers follow them, except one lying in a drunken sleep on
the floor. Burns, Armour, Holy Willie, the Factor, Tam,
the Landlord, and Nell are all that remain. The room is now
in confusion, filled with fumes, the floor stained with liquor,
tankards lying about, a litter of straw and oddments of rags
left by the Beggars.]
Burns: And that, your reverences, is life too. They’ll all come to the
Day of Judgment with the rest of us. Miserable sinners, God bless
them. Is there anyone to say God bless you, think you?
Armour: Let us pass.
Burns: Aye, in a moment. That tune has just put another rhyme to
shape—I’ld have you hear it before you go.
Holy Willie: You heard what Mr. Armour told you. There’s a warrant
coming this way. Now for the reckoning.
The Landlord (coming forward): Aye, the reckoning.
Burns (his hand going uselessly to his pockets): Yes, landlord. How
much is it?
The Landlord: Four shillings and a penny.
Burns: Four—not a penny even. There now. Wouldn’t one of you
gentlemen—?
Holy Willie: For shame, young man.
Burns: It was a good mumming, worth it surely. Mr. Armour, it would
be an act of grace—a soul might almost be saved for four shillings
and a penny.
The Landlord: Let it be, let it be. I’d have none of their pence. Wipe it
out, Nell.
[Nell cleans the slate.]
Burns: That’s honour for you, true bred out of Elysium. I have it all in
my head now. You with your rank and your rents and your holy
purses and your grand little airs, listen.
[To the tune of ‘I am a bard of no regard,’ he sings, in a
passion of conviction now.]

Is there, for honest poverty,


That hings his head, and a’ that?
The coward-slave, we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a’ that!
For a’ that, and a’ that,
Our toils obscure, and a’ that,
The rank is but the guinea’s stamp,
The man’s the gowd for a’ that!

Ye see yon birkie, ca’d a lord,


Wha struts, and stares, and a’ that;
Though hundreds worship at his word,
He’s but a cuif for a’ that:
For a’ that, and a’ that;
His ribband, star, and a’ that,
The man of independent mind
He looks and laughs at a’ that!

Then let us pray that come it may—


(As come it will for a’ that)
That Sense and Worth, o’er a’ the earth,
May bear the gree, and a’ that;
For a’ that, and a’ that,
It’s comin’ yet for a’ that,
That man to man, the world o’er,
Shall brothers be for a’ that!

[While he sings, a man of bearing and authority has come in


and taken a seat quietly at the back, unobserved. He now
comes forward.]
Burns: Mr. Hamilton. A respectful good-even to you.
Gavin Hamilton: Well sung, Robert. A new one?
Burns: Yes, Mr. Hamilton.
Hamilton: I hear of trouble.
Burns: These gentlemen could tell you.
Hamilton: No doubt. They would find it an agreeable narrative. I
know them.
Holy Willie: I’ll trouble you, Mr. Hamilton, to keep your offensive
observations to yourself.
Hamilton: But why, when I part with them so suitably in your
company?
[A Sheriff’s Officer comes in.]
The Officer: Are you Robert Burns?
Burns: I am.
The Officer (serving a warrant): In the King’s name.
Hamilton: What is this?
Burns: I’m a ruined man, Mr. Hamilton. Mr. Armour’s daughter—I
can’t pay—and he won’t let me wed her as I would.
Armour: He will not. And he will bid you good-night.
[He goes, Holy Willie and the Factor with him.]
Hamilton (taking the warrant, and speaking to the Officer): Perhaps
you could keep this till to-morrow afternoon?
The Officer: If Mr. Hamilton asks me to.
Hamilton: You may bring it to my house.
The Officer: Certainly, sir.
[He goes.]
Hamilton: Robert, you’re a fool.
Burns: I believe you, Mr. Hamilton.
Hamilton: But I’m not going to see you destroyed by men of that
tonnage. We must consider.
Burns: I had a fancy, but there’s no time now.
Hamilton: What was it?
Burns: If I could print some of my rhymes, and you and some like
you, Mr. Hamilton, could get a little interest for me—
Hamilton: Good. Yes. Come to-morrow morning. We’ll talk of it. What
was that factor fellow doing here?
Burns: Tam Laurie there.
Hamilton: O, it’s you.
Tam: I’m sorry to say it is, Mr. Hamilton.
Hamilton: Rent?
Tam: A week come Tuesday.
Hamilton: Yes. I think I might change his mind. Good-night, Robert.
Burns: Good-night, Mr. Hamilton.
The Landlord: I suppose, Mr. Hamilton (going to the slate), let me
see, four shillings and a penny—
[But Hamilton has gone.]
The Landlord: No, quite so—not four shillings and a penny.
Burns: Never mind, landlord, when I’m laureate crowned, you shall
supply the nectar.
The Landlord: Aye, and I’ll be more than four shillings and a penny
out on that I take it. (Waking the sleeping man.) Now then, John
Anderson, bed-time.
Burns: Good-night, landlord. Good-night, Nell. (He kisses her.) Come
along, Tam. John Anderson, my jo, John, get up.
John (lifting himself, as uncertain as his speech): I was sleeping with
the seven kings, and the Beast of the Apocalypse. I’m getting too old
to be called before the sunrise.
Burns: Come with us my jo, John—we’ll take you home.
John: But I don’t wish to go home. There will only be a wifely
exhortation, and I’m troubled by the seven Beasts of the Apocalypse.
Burns: This way. Take an arm, Tam.
[He sings.]

John Anderson, my jo, John,


When we were first acquent;
Your locks were like the raven,
Your bonnie brow was brent;
But now your brow is beld, John,
Your locks are like the snaw;
But blessings on your frosty pow,
John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John,


We clamb the hill thegither;
And mony a canty day, John,
We’ve had wi’ ane anither:
Now we maun totter down, John,
And hand in hand we’ll go;
And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson, my jo.

[They go down the road together.]


The Landlord: Good-night, lass. Lock the door. Leave chores till the
morning.
Nell: Good-night, Mr. Lomas.
[The Landlord goes.]
[Nell puts a little of the confusion to rights, goes to the door,
opens it and looks down the road. She comes into the room,
leaving the door open, and, moving about, sings.]

O whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lad,


O whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lad:
Tho’ father and mother and a’ should gae mad,
O whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lad.

[She stands looking at the door for a moment. Then she goes
to it, closes and locks it, and puts out the lamp. She goes out
by the candlelight of the stairway door, and leaves the scene
in darkness, and the music continues as
THE CURTAIN FALLS
SCENE III
At Professor Ferguson’s house in Edinburgh, nearly a
year later—in February.
It is a cheerful, comfortable room, marked by the taste and
culture of Edinburgh literary society at its best, with the
elegance of fashion. A few portraits of Scots men of letters
and action hang on the wall—Allan Ramsay, Robert
Fergusson, James VI., Robert Bruce; in addition there are
books and a pair or two of claymores, and two or three prints,
including one by Bunbury of a dead soldier and his dog. On
the mantelpiece is a bust of David Hume. The chill Scots
winter day is brightened by a large fire in the grate; outside is
snow.
Folding doors are open to a room beyond, where a luncheon
party has been taking place. The ladies have left the table,
and are seated round the room before us. They are the
hostess, Mrs. Ferguson, the Duchess of Gordon, Mrs.
Montgomery, Miss Taylor, and with them a boy of fifteen,
the young Walter Scott. Men’s voices can be heard from
time to time.
Another lady, young and beautiful, Mrs. Stewart of Stair,
is seated at the piano, singing to her own accompaniment.

Flow gently, sweet Afton! among thy green braes,


Flow gently, I’ll sing thee a song in thy praise;
My Mary’s asleep by thy murmuring stream—
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides,


And winds by the cot where my Mary resides!
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave,
As gathering sweet flow’rets she stems thy clear wave!

Flow gently, sweet Afton! among thy green braes,


Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays!
My Mary’s asleep by thy murmuring stream—
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

[At the end of the song Walter Scott goes to a desk at the
back of the room, and turns over the pages of a book.]
The Duchess: Bravo! A very beautiful song.
Miss Taylor (very fashionable, rather plain, towards fifty, and not for
poetry): And you say he gave it to you?
Mrs. Stewart: He sent it this morning.
Miss Taylor: Rather indelicate, don’t you think—that piece about
snowy feet?
Mrs. Stewart: I think it’s lovely.
Miss Taylor: Well, I must say I should feel rather embarrassed
myself.
Mrs. Ferguson (benign and easy, the professor’s wife): I like that
tune so much—Afton Water, isn’t it?
Mrs. Stewart: Yes.
Mrs. Ferguson: Jamie used to whistle it, I remember.
Mrs. Montgomery (marble, more the duchess than Gordon herself):
I must say, Mrs. Ferguson, your young lion behaves himself quite
prettily.
The Duchess: Why shouldn’t he, Mrs. Montgomery?
Mrs. Montgomery: Oh well, Duchess, you would hardly expect it from
a ploughman, now would you?
The Duchess: ‘Flow gently, sweet Afton! among thy green braes’—
wouldn’t you expect it of that?
Mrs. Stewart: His conversation is entrancing.
Miss Taylor: A very dangerous young man, and with those eyes too.
The Duchess: Nonsense, Martha. You needn’t alarm yourself.
Miss Taylor: Well, I shouldn’t like to be alone with him.
The Duchess: I am sure he would be discreet. I think you’re a very
lucky woman, Mrs. Stewart. I wish Mr. Burns would write poems to
me. My husband says there’s never been such a natural genius in
Scotland before.
Mrs. Montgomery: Oh, come now. For an uncultivated talent it is
pretty well, we may allow. But we must not turn his head.
Miss Taylor: I entirely agree with you, Mrs. Montgomery. Most
unsafe.
Mrs. Stewart: I wonder he hasn’t married.
Mrs. Montgomery: Oh, my dear, haven’t you heard of the scandal in
his own village? It would have been jail I’m told if it hadn’t been for
some Mr. Gavin Hamilton who took a fancy to him. But I believe he
has several families.
Miss Taylor: I really don’t think we ought to encourage him. And one
of his poems, I hear, is quite friendly to the Devil.
The Duchess:
But, fare-you-weel, auld Nickie-ben!
O wad ye tak’ a thought an’ men’!
Ye aiblins might—I dinna ken—
Still hae a stake—
I’m wae to think upo’ yon den,
E’en for your sake!
Miss Taylor: Most confusing.
Walter Scott (moving from his book to Mrs. Stewart): Have you
any more of his poems, ma’am?
Mrs. Stewart: I have his book, Walter.
Walter Scott: I wish I could read it.
Mrs. Stewart: I’ll lend it to you.
Walter Scott: Will you really? Thank you. He has got lovely eyes,
hasn’t he? I should write poems if I had eyes like that. Couldn’t you
sing again?
Mrs. Ferguson: Yes, please do, Mrs. Stewart.
Miss Taylor: Something with a little religion in it.
Mrs. Stewart (after a glance at this, sings):
Her flowing locks, the raven’s wing,
Adown her neck and bosom hing;
How sweet unto that breast to cling
And round that neck entwine her!

Her lips are roses wat wi’ dew,


O, what a feast her bonnie mou’!
Her cheeks a mair celestial hue,
A crimson still diviner.

Miss Taylor: Really!


The Duchess: I think my husband is right, Miss Taylor.
[From the room beyond comes the sound of voices, or
particularly of one voice, raised in argument. Mrs.
Montgomery majestically moves up to a view of the
proceedings.]
Mrs. Montgomery: Dear me. Mr. Burns seems to be making a
speech. I fear I was mistaken.
The Duchess: It’s that foolish man Robertson. He was speaking ill of
Mr. Gray’s Elegy. He was very provoking. Mr. Burns does quite right
to defend it.
Burns’s voice (from the far room): Sir, I now perceive a man may be
an excellent judge of poetry by square and rule, and after all be a
damned blockhead.
[The Reverend Mr. Robertson, a pedantic and acidulated
clergyman, comes hurriedly through the door accompanied by
his host, Professor Ferguson, followed by Burns.]

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