That morning, when Robert first caught sight of the rose, he had experienced a sort of mental obsession in which his brain was mastered by the thought—an absurd idea perhaps, and one which his reason and his will both might easily have repelled, only he clung fondly to the belief, letting it fasten itself upon his mind and grow and grow—that Mary had passed away in the night, and that her spirit had found a temporary resting place in the heart of the white rose that had blossomed forth so unexpectedly, so unseasonably. He had watched the nodding flower on its long, slender stem of green, waving gracefully in the light breeze that had sprung up, and in his state of dreaming consciousness fancied he could see the wistful face of Highland Mary peeping out from among the snowy petals. As the feeling grew upon him that she had come to him in spirit, a great content settled down and around him, a mighty calm that seemed to still the troubled waters of his soul, and all the bitter discontent, the yearnings of his heart, the cravings, the unrest, faded away like a mist dissolved by the warm splendor of the sun. For a while he had sat there in blissful peace, a smile of ineffable rapture on his face, gazing with rapt adoring eyes at the dancing rose, which seductively blew[378] nearer and nearer to him with each gust of the swiftly rising wind, then as he would lovingly stretch out his hand to touch it, to caress it, away it would go, eluding him like a dancing sunbeam, to the farthest side of the bush, bending its saucy head lower and lower till it was lost to sight for an instant, then up it would bound, gayly nodding, and then for a moment would pause in its restless elfin dance, quivering on its stem as though tired with its sportive play, its coquetry. The sky had grown gradually darker, and little waves disturbed the smooth surface of the greenish gray grass that swayed and undulated in running billows, as the wind rose. But the kneeling man was all unconscious of the gloom that had settled over the landscape, shutting out the glorious sunshine, stilling the song of the birds, and bringing in its train a damp chill that presaged a storm. The wind tossed the curls madly about the face of the poet, but still he did not move; only as the chill air struck through his thin shirt, he mechanically pulled his plaid about his shoulders, and dreamed on happily, of the old days, when the heart was young, before sorrow had embittered his life, dreamed of a life of love with Mary by his side, dreamed and dreamed far into the morning, and so Jean had found him and left him to his slumbers. Suddenly his eyes opened, but he did not move. He sat there feeling a little cramped and stiff, until hazy recollections dawned slowly upon his mind,[379] then he raised himself from his crouching position, and leaning out of the window gazed with eyes that were wonderfully luminous at the blossom which was just beyond his eager reach. He inhaled deep breaths of its fragrant perfume, a smile of loving tenderness on his lips. All at once a feeling of sudden depression tightened around his heart as he noticed for the first time the deepening gloom without, felt the lowering temperature of the atmosphere, which chilled and depressed him so strangely. He looked again at the swiftly dancing flower, and his heart stopped beating for an instant, while a look of pain, of heart-breaking sorrow, darkened his face—the white petals were dropping one by one, and were being whirled and tossed madly through the air like flakes of snow. He watched in silence, as the wind, with reckless abandon, tore them out and scattered them here and there, some sailing merrily out of sight—one dashing through the open window and against the white, agonized face of the suffering man, clinging to it for a moment, in a sweet caress, a last embrace, then slipping down—down, till it found rest on the floor, where soon it was dead and forgotten. As the last snowy petal left its stem, leaving it looking so bare and pitiful nestling in among the leaves as though ashamed of its nakedness, a hard sob of anguish escaped his lips, for it seemed as if each petal contained a part of the soul of his loved one, and leaning his face against the sash, he[380] gave himself up to the crushing sorrow that submerged his soul and plunged him once more into black despair. It seemed as if the last link that had bound her to earth, and to him, was at last broken and she had passed on out of his life forever; not even the rose was left to preserve as a sacred memory to look at occasionally, to bring her presence nearer. And now no more such roses would bloom for him, not in this life anyway, and so he drearily mused in hopeless sorrow. All at once a vague feeling of uneasiness stole over him, a curious feeling that he was not alone; and yet he did not look around, for somehow it seemed that it was the spirit of his Mary still hovering in the air, seeking to comfort his grieving heart; and yet the strange feeling of her nearness was different from that emotion he had experienced when he in fancy had looked at her wistful face in the heart of the nodding rose. And suddenly he held his breath as the consciousness of her physical presence grew stronger and stronger upon him; his startled eyes fixed themselves upon the naked stem, swaying gently on the bush—he strained his ears to hear—he knew not what—he could not tell—a trembling seized his limbs—and when he heard a sweet, low voice call “Robert,” not from the slender stalk, but somewhere behind him, he gave no start of surprise. He told himself it—it—was only imagination—the great longing within him had—but there it was again—it[381] could not be fancy—it—it must be—he turned slowly in the direction of the voice as if afraid to find naught but the empty room to mock him, for he had heard no sound to indicate a presence within the room. As his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom and his dulled vision cleared, he saw just inside the door, standing with hands outstretched to him—a flesh and blood reality, but oh! so pitifully changed. He gave a gasping cry and sprang to clasp the swaying form close to his throbbing breast.
Ah! the rapture of that meeting, the blissful joy which filled his aching heart and crowded out stern recollections from his memory, while all thoughts of the grim present, its bitter facts which faced him, the vain regrets, all—all were now forgotten. The lines of pain in his haggard face were smoothed out gently and deep peace settled upon their troubled souls.
“Ah, Mary!” he breathed softly, breaking the sacred stillness. “Ye have come at last. Oh, it has been so long, dearie, so long, and I have wanted ye so much,” and he held her to his heart in a strong, jealous, passionate embrace, as if he could never part with her again on earth, but would shield her from even the shadow of death, that he saw stamped on her pale, pinched features, and which glowed in the haunting depths of her tired blue eyes. A smile of sadness passed quickly over her face like the sun that peeps through the sudden rift of a cloud.
[382]
“Ye knew, laddie, I couldna’ go awa’ without seeing ye just once mair,” she whispered tenderly. A fit of coughing suddenly racked her slender frame. He led her weak and trembling to a chair and gently wiped away the beads of perspiration from her forehead, and for a moment she leaned up against him in utter exhaustion. Presently she smiled up in his anxious face and faintly thanked him. “Dinna’ be alarmed, dearie,” she faltered. “I’m aright noo,” and she bravely straightened up in her seat, but he would not release her altogether.
And so they sat, sad and silent, knowing the parting, the sad, final parting would come in a few quickly-fleeing moments.
Outside the clouds had been gathering thickly over the sky, and now and then a few shafts of sunlight still forced a passage through them with steady persistency, although storm hovered over all, waiting the signal to burst forth. Suddenly a silver glare of lightning sprang out from beneath the black-winged cloud hanging low in the horizon, and a few large drops of rain began to fall. Mary nestled closer to him as she saw the brilliant flash, and shivered apprehensively. They both were thinking of that other storm, when he had bidden farewell to Ayrshire in poverty and despair, to take his place in Edinburgh among the high and mighty, to claim the reward of genius—honor, fame and renown. And now the time had come for her to say farewell, only there[383] was a difference, and such a difference! She was bidding good-by to life, to love, to everything. A happy smile broke over her wistful face as she thought of her reward; it would not be such a fleeting thing as riches, honor and fame. Thank God, it was more than those; it was an eternity of happiness. No more sorrow, no more suffering, only peace, divine peace, such as the world knoweth not, such as she had never known in her short, eventful life.
“And so, Mary,” murmured Robert brokenly, “the end of our life’s romance has come at last.”
She put her little hand in his and pressed it warmly.
“Yes, ’tis the end, Robin Adair. The end of all, but it had to come some time; we were but wearing our hearts out in vain longings, in bitter regrets, ye ken that, dear.” She paused and idly watched the rain, which was now coming down fiercely. “It will be better for—for us—all when I am gone,” she murmured presently, with a far-away look in her eyes.
A sob of anguish caused her to turn quickly to the sorrowing man by her side. Putting her hand on his head, she continued in pathetic resignation, “I will be spared much pain and sorrow, ye ken, so dinna greet for me, laddie. I—I am content, nay glad to go, for I—I am so tired—so very tired of this—long, unhappy struggle.” Her voice[384] trembled and the tears rolled slowly down her sad cheeks.
“If I, too, could only end it all,” he moaned.
“Sh! laddie!” she answered in gentle reproach. “Ye mustna’ wish for death; ye have those dependent on ye, whom ye maun think of noo, Jean and the bairns.” Her voice grew very sweet and caressing. “I saw them as I came in. Oh, they are such bonnie little lads, dearie. So like ye, too. Gilbert is o’er fond of them; he is playing wi’ them noo.”
Mrs. Dunlop had been taken ill at the last moment and had commissioned Gilbert to take her place. She had supplied him plentifully with money for the journey and had then sorrowfully taken her departure for Edinburgh, her kind old heart sad and heavy.
“Robbie lad,” continued Mary earnestly, “ye—ye maun take Jean close to your heart. Ye maun love her fondly for the bairns’ sake and—for her own, too, for she is a good, kind wife to ye, and ye’ll all—be very happy yet, I ken weel.”
He slipped down from his chair to his knees and buried his tear-stained face in her lap. “When ye go, Mary,” he murmured brokenly, “I’ll never know peace and happiness again.” She let him weep on in silence. Presently he raised his head and looked at her. “............