In a sequestered spot beside the brook which runs through the lower end of the big field at Mossgiel farm, Robert sat dreamily watching the shallow brook at his feet slowly trickle along over the stones. He had left the field, his heart filled with anger against his brother, who had been reproving him for his thoughtlessness, his absent-mindedness; but gradually his temper had melted, and removing his bonnet from his fevered brow, he had given himself up to his reveries. A little later Gilbert found him there, his loose unbleached linen shirt open at the neck, eagerly writing on a scrap of paper he held in his hand. The last few weeks Gilbert had thrown off his cloak of habitual reserve, and had treated his brother with less harshness, less severity. He had watched the slowly drifting apart of the lovers with wonder and delight. Could it be that they were tiring of each other? he asked himself over and over again. If that were so then perhaps some day—but he would not permit himself to think of the future. He would be happy in the present. For he was comparatively happy now, happier than he had ever expected to be. Since Robert’s avoidance of her, Mary had again[109] turned to him for sympathy, and once more they were on their old friendly footing. True she was a sad, despondent companion, but he was blissfully happy just to walk beside her from kirk, to listen to the sound of her sweet voice, even though his brother was the only topic of conversation, to feel the touch of her little hand as he helped her over the stile. He thought of all this now as he regarded his brother in thoughtful silence. Presently he called his name. Receiving no answer, he strode through the overhanging willows and touched him quietly on the shoulder.
With a start Robert looked up into his brother’s face, then he turned slowly away. “What is wrong noo, Gilbert?” he asked bitterly. “It seems I will be doing nothing right o’ late.”
“Nothin’ is wrong, lad,” replied Gilbert, his face reddening. “I—I only came to tell ye I am sorry I spoke sae harshly to ye just noo.”
“Say no more, brother,” replied Robert quickly, rising with outstretched hand, his face bright and smiling. So ready was he to forgive any unkindness when his pardon was sought. “’Tis all forgot. I ken I do try your patience sore wi’ my forgetfulness and carelessness, but I couldna’ help it. The voice of the Goddess Muse, whom I adore, suddenly whispered in my ear and I forgot my work, my surroundings, and stood enraptured, entranced behind my patient steed, catchin’ the thoughts and fancies that were tumblin’, burstin’ from my brain, eager to be let[110] loose, and this is the fruit o’ my inspiration almost perfected.” He handed his brother the paper on which he had been writing.
“Is it a song of harvesting?” asked Gilbert sarcastically without glancing at it.
“Nay,” replied Robert softly. “’Tis called the ‘Cotter’s Saturday Night,’ an’ ye will recognize, no doubt, the character and the theme, for ’tis partly of our own and of our father’s life I have written. ’Tis my best work, Gilbert, I ken truly.” He eagerly watched his brother’s face as he slowly read the verses through.
“May the light of success shine on it,” he said kindly, when he had finished. “But it seems o’er doubtful noo that the world will e’er see this, or any of your verses, for not a word hae ye heard from Edinburgh since ye sent Sir William Creech your collection of poems.”
Robert raised his head and regarded his brother in despairing hopelessness. “I ken it weel, brother,” he replied. “And my heart grows sick and weary, waitin’, waitin’, for tidings, be they good or bad. Two lang months have passed since I sent him my collection, an’ still not a word, not a sign. Nae doubt they were thrown in a corner, overlooked an’ neglected.” For a moment he stood there gazing across the fields, his vision blurred by the tears of disappointment which filled his eyes. “Oh, why did Lord Glencairn raise my hopes so high?” he cried passionately,[111] “only to have them dashed to the ground again.” Gilbert remained silent, his eyes cast down. The sight of his brother’s misery touched him keenly. But there was nothing he could say. “I believed him and trusted to his honor, his promise,” continued Robert dejectedly, “an’ for what?” He put on his bonnet and clasping his hands behind him in his characteristic attitude, slowly walked toward the cottage, a prey to his gloomy thoughts.
“Be patient, Rob, yet a while,” said Gilbert encouragingly, as he walked along beside him. “Who kens what the morrow will bring forth?”
“The morrow?” repeated Robert grimly. “Methinks I’ll ne’er know peace an’ tranquillity again on this earth.”
They strode on in silence. As they neared the cottage Gilbert laid his hand on his brother’s shoulder, bringing him to a standstill. “Robert,” he said quietly and firmly, “I want to speak to ye about Mary.”
Robert turned his head away abruptly. “What of her?” he asked in a low voice.
“What are your intentions toward her?” demanded Gilbert earnestly. “Do ye intend to marry her, or are ye but triflin’ idly wi’ her affections?”
Robert turned on him quickly. “Triflin’?” he repeated indignantly. “Nay, Gilbert, ye wrong me deeply.”
“Forgive me, but ye ken Mary is not like other[112] lassies to think lightly o’,” said Gilbert, his eye searching his brother’s face keenly.
“Heaven forbid,” ejaculated Robert in a low, tense voice.
“I canna’ understand your conduct o’ late,” continued Gilbert earnestly. “I fear your stay in Mauchline is responsible for the great change in ye, for ye are not the same lad ye were when ye left hame. I fear ye have sadly departed from those strict rules of virtue and moderation ye were taught by your parents, Robert.”
“What mean ye, Gilbert?” inquired Robert, startled.
“Ah, Rob,” responded Gilbert, shaking his head sadly, “I ken mair than ye think; reports travel e’en in the country.”
The thought that his wild escapades were known to his narrow-minded though upright brother, and perhaps to others, filled Robert with sudden shame. “Weel, Gilbert,” he replied, trying to speak lightly, “Ye ken that I have been fallin’ in love and out again wi’ a’ the lassies ever since I was fifteen, but nae thought of evil ever entered my mind, ye ken that weel.”
“Aye, I ken that,” answered Gilbert quickly, “until ye went to Mauchline. And noo ye have come back a changed lad, your vows to Mary forgotten. If I thought ye would try to wrong her——” he stopped abruptly, for Robert had faced[113] him, white and trembling, his eyes flashing indignantly.
“Stop, Gilbert!” he commanded, intensely calm. “Mary Campbell’s purity is as sacred to me as an angel’s in heaven. I would sooner cut my tongue out by the roots than to willingly say aught to cause her a moment’s misery or sorrow. Ye cruelly misjudge me, Gilbert.” He turned away, feeling hurt and angry that he should be so misunderstood by his brother, and yet was he misjudging him, was he not indeed causing her much sorrow? he asked himself bitterly.
Soon the whole guilty truth must be disclosed, his faithlessness, his unworthiness. If she suffered now, what would be her misery when she learned that an insurmountable barrier had arisen between them, cruelly separating them forever. The thought filled him with unspeakable anguish.
“Forgive me, Rob, for my hasty words,” said Gilbert remorsefully. “But ye ken Mary is very dear to—to us all; that is why I spoke so plainly.”
At that moment the door of the cottage opened and the object of their discussion stepped into view. The poor little moth could not help fluttering around the candle, and so she was to be found at Mossgiel whenever her duties would permit her to steal away.
“Oh, here ye are, lads,” she called out to them, her face brightening. “Will ye be comin’ in to tea noo?” They did not answer. “My, what long[114] faces ye both have,” she continued, smiling. “This isna’ the Sabbath Day, so there’s no need of such sorrowful faces.”
“I didna’ ken ye were here,” answered Gilbert, going toward her.
Robert sat down by the well, the look of pain on his melancholy face deepening as he listened to her gentle voice. He closed his eyes wearily and leaned back against the curbing, the paper held loosely in his hand. It was so hard to realize that never again would he press that form to his aching heart, that he must renounce her utterly. Oh, if he could only die now, how much better it would be for them all, he weakly told himself.
“I’m going to stay here to tea w............