“Why doesna he come, Mistress Burns?” said Mary pathetically. They had
come down to the field where Gilbert was now at work the better to watch
for their loved one’s approach. “Twilight is comin’ on an’ ’tis a lang
walk to Castle Montgomery at night. I canna wait much langer noo.”
“Never ye mind, lassie; ye shall stay the night with me,” replied Mrs.
Burns soothingly, “if Robert doesna come.”
“I’ll take ye back, Mary,” said Gilbert eagerly, going up to her. Perhaps
Robert was not coming after all, he thought with wildly beating heart.
“Thank ye, Gilbert, but I’ll wait a wee bit longer,” answered Mary
hopefully; “perhaps he’ll be here soon,” and she dejectedly dug her bare
toes into the damp earth.
“Well, lassie, I canna waste any mair time,” said Mrs. Burns
energetically. “Ye can stay here with Gilbert, while I return to my
spinning. Come, Souter, there’s some firewood to be split,” and she
quickly walked to the house, followed more slowly by the reluctant Souter.
Gilbert, with his soul in his eyes, feasted on the pathetic loveliness
of the sweet face beside him, gazing wistfully toward Mauchline, and his
aching heart yearned to clasp her to his breast, to tell her of his
love, to plead for her pity, her love, herself, for he felt he would
rather die than give her up to another. He drew closer to her.
“What is the matter, Gilbert?” asked Mary anxiously, noting his pale
face. “Are ye in pain?”
“Aye, Mary, in pain,” he answered passionately. “Such pain I’ll hope
ye’ll never know.” He bowed his head.
“I’m so sorry, lad,” she replied innocently. “I wish I could help ye,”
and she looked compassionately at the suffering man.
He raised his head suddenly and looked into her eyes.
“Are ye goin’ to marry Robert this summer, when he returns?” he asked
abruptly, his voice husky with emotion.
“Aye, if he wishes it,” answered Mary simply, wondering why he looked so
strangely white.
“He has been gone a year, ye ken,” continued Gilbert hoarsely. “Suppose
he has changed and no langer loves ye?” She looked at him with big,
frightened eyes. She had never thought of that possibility before. What
if he did no longer love her? she thought fearfully. She looked about her
helplessly. She felt bewildered, dazed; slowly she sank down on the rocky
earth, her trembling limbs refusing to support her. Her fair head drooped
pathetically, like a lily bent and bruised by the storm.
“If Robert doesna want me any more,” she murmured after a pause, a
pathetic little catch in her voice, “if he loves someone else better than
he does his Highland Mary, then I—I——”
“Ye’ll soon forget him, Mary,” interrupted Gilbert eagerly, his heart
throbbing with hope. She raised her eyes from which all the light had
flown and looked at him sadly, reproachfully.
“Nay, lad, I wouldna care to live any longer,” she said quietly.
“My heart would just break,” and she smiled a pitiful little smile
which smote him like a knife thrust. He caught her two hands in his
passionately and pressed them to his heart with a cry of pain.
“Dinna mind what I said, lass,” he cried, conscience stricken; “dinna
look like that. I dinna mean to grieve ye, Mary, I love ye too well.”
And almost before he realized it he had recklessly, passionately,
incoherently told her of his love for her, his jealousy of his brother,
his grief and pain at losing her. Mary gazed at him in wonder, scarcely
understanding his wild words, his excited manner.
“I’m fair pleased that ye love me, Gilbert,” she answered him in her
innocence. “Ye ken I love ye too, for ye’ve been so kind and good
to me ever since Robert has been awa’,” and she pressed his hand
affectionately. With a groan of despair he released her and turned away
without another word. Suddenly she understood, and a great wave of
sympathy welled up in her heart. “Oh, Gilbert,” she cried sorrowfully,
a world of compassion in her voice. “I understand ye noo, laddie, an’
I’m so sorry, so sorry.” He bit his lips till the blood came. Finally he
spoke in a tone of quiet bitterness.
“I’ve been living in a fool’s paradise this past year,” he said, “but
’tis all ended noo. Why, ever since he went awa’ I have wished, hoped,
and even prayed that Rob would never return to Mossgiel, that ye might
forget him and his accursed poetry, and in time would become my wife.” He
threw out his hands with a despairing gesture as he finished.
“Oh, Gilbert,” she faltered, with tears in her eyes, “I never dreamed ye
thought of me in that way. Had I only known, I——” she broke off abruptly
and looked away toward the cottage.
“Ye see what a villain I have been,” he continued with a bitter smile.
“But ye have nothin’ to blame yoursel’ for, Mary. I had no right to think
of ye ither than as Robert’s betrothed wife.”
“I’m so sorry, lad,” repeated Mary compassionately. Then her downcast
face brightened. “Let us both forget what has passed this day, and be the
same good friends as ever, wi’na we, Gilbert?” And she held out her hand
to him with her old winning smile.
“God bless ye, lassie,” he replied brokenly. Quietly they stood there for
a few minutes, then with a sudden start they realized that deep twilight
had fallen upon them. Silently, stealthily it had descended, like a
quickly drawn curtain. Slowly they wended their way back to the cottage.
When they reached the door Mary suddenly turned and peered into the
deepening twilight.
“Listen!” she said breathlessly. “Dinna ye hear a voice, Gilbert?” He
listened for a minute. Faintly there came on the still air the distant
murmur of many voices.
“’Tis only the lads on their way to the village,” he replied quietly.
With a little shiver, Mary drew her plaidie closely about her, for the
air had grown cool.
“I think I’ll hae to be goin’ noo,” she said dejectedly. “He willna be
here this night.”
“Very well,” answered Gilbert. “I’ll saddle the mare and take ye back.
Bide here a wee,” and he left her. She could hardly restrain the
disappointed tears, which rose to her eyes.
Why didn’t Robert come? What could keep him so late? She so longed to see
her laddie once more. She idly wondered why the lads, whose voices she
now heard quite plainly, were coming toward Mossgiel. There was no inn
hereabouts. By the light of the rising moon she saw them on the moor,
ever drawing nearer and nearer, but they had no interest for her. Nothing
interested her now. She leaned back against the wall of the cottage and
patiently awaited Gilbert’s return.
“He’s comin’! he’s comin’!” suddenly exclaimed the voice of Mrs. Burns
from within the cottage. “My lad is comin’! Out of my way, ye skellum!”
and out she ran, her face aglow with love and excitement, followed by
Souter, who was shouting gleefully, “He’s comin’! he’s comin’! Robbie’s
comin’!” and off he sped in her footsteps, to meet the returned wanderer.
“It’s Robbie! it’s Robbie!” cried Mary joyously, her nerves a-quiver,
as she heard the vociferous outburst of welcome from the lads, who were
bringing him in triumph to his very door.
“Welcome hame, laddie!” shouted the crowd, as they came across the field,
singing, laughing and joking like schoolboys on a frolic.
“Oh, I canna’, I darena’ meet him before them a’,” she exclaimed aloud,
blushing rosily, frightened at the thought of meeting him before the
good-natured country folk.
She would wait till they all went away, and, turning, she ran into the
house like a timid child. Quickly she hid behind the old fireplace,
listening shyly, as she heard them approach the open door.
“Thank ye, lads, for your kind welcome,” said Robert as he reached the
threshold, one arm around his mother. “I didna’ ken I had left so many
friends in Mossgiel,” and he looked around gratefully at the rugged faces
that were grinning broadly into his.
“Come doon to the Inn and hae a wee nippie for auld lang syne,” sang out
Sandy MacPherson, with an inviting wave of the hand.
“Nay, an’ he’ll not gang a step, Sandy MacPherson,” cried Mrs. Burns
indignantly, clinging closely to her son.
“Nay, I thank ye, Sandy,” laughingly replied Robert. “Ye must excuse me
to-night. I’ll see ye all later, and we’ll have a lang chat o’er auld
times.”
“Come awa’ noo, Robert,” said Mrs. Burns lovingly, “an’ I’ll get ye a
bite and a sup,” and she drew him into the house.
“Good-night, lads; I’ll see ye to-morrow,” he called back to them
cheerily.
“Good-night,” they answered in a chorus, and with “three cheers for
Robbie Burns” that made the welkin ring, they departed into the night,
merrily singing “Should auld acquaintance be forgot?” a song Robert
himself had written before leaving Mossgiel.