“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[29] 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.
[30]
“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[31] 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[32] 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.
[33]
“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[34] 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.