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. “ye dinna’ ken, lassie, how i have hungered for a sight of your dear face—a word from your sweet lips, this last year.” he clung to her passionately. “an’ noo in a few minutes,” he continued[385] in anguish, “ye will pass out o’ my life forever and i maun live on here—desolate—and heart-broken.”
“nay, nay!” she cried reproachfully. “dinna’ say that, laddie, not alone, not alone,” and she looked compassionately at the door of the kitchen where jean sat in patient misery holding her bairn to her aching heart. at that moment gilbert softly opened the door and told them that they would have to start at once, that the storm would not let up and that they must catch the boat at greenock that night.
“ye had better say good-by, noo,” and he closed the door quietly behind him.
they looked at each other, too dazed for words. then she started to rise to her feet, but he clasped her hands tightly, though she did not feel the pain, and pressed her into the seat again.
“not yet, not yet, mary!” he gasped. “i canna’ let ye go just yet. ’tis like tearing my heart out by its roots.”
“ye mustna’ greet so, laddie,” said mary, frightened by the vehemence of his sorrow.
“’tis all my fault,” he moaned, “all thro’ my sinful weakness that ye are made to suffer noo, all my fault.”
she put her fingers on his lips. “sh! dearie!” she remonstrated softly. “dinna’ blame yoursel’. if we suffer noo, we must na’ forget how happy we have been, and we were happy, weren’t we, laddie?”[386] and she smiled in fond reminiscence, then continued a trifle unsteadily, “an—an hour’s happiness is worth a year of pain, for when we get sad an’ lonely, we can live it all over again, canna’ we?” she paused and sighed pathetically. “only it—it isna’ real, is it, laddie?” a sudden break in her voice caused her to put her hand to her throat and look away with quivering lips. then she went on in plaintive, pleading gentleness, “ye will sometimes think of me—way up—in the highlands, won’t ye, dearie? it willna’ wrong—jean, for—soon your mary will be—in heaven, in her castle grand.”
the thunder rolled along the sky in angry reverberating echoes, stilling the low voice, while frequent flashes of lightning leaped out like knives suddenly drawn from dark sheaths—yet toward the north over greenock the sky was clearing, and streaks and beams of gold fell from the hidden sun, with a soothing promise of a clear and radiant sunset. mary’s face brightened as she watched the sunbeams struggling through the lightened clouds, and she went on dreamily, in the prolonged lull of the storm:
“my home there will be so fine, much finer than the castle in edinburgh.” she smiled tenderly and let her hand slip down from his head to his heaving shoulder, where it rested in loving quiet. “how happy i was that night,” she mused; “an’ the sweet gown was so pretty i—hated to take it off, but it[387] wasna’ mine.” she paused with quivering lips. “but—but—i was going to buy one the next day for my own, wasna’ i? a white one—all smooth and soft and shiny—for—for my wedding gown.” her voice died away in a hushed, mournful quaver.
“don’t, don’t, mary!” sobbed robert unrestrainedly. “i canna’ bear to think of that noo, noo when i maun give ye up forever.” he stroked her face and covered her pale, thin, toil-worn hands with heart-breaking kisses. presently he grew calmer. “i shall never forget that night, mary, that night with its pleasures and pain,” he went on with dreamy pathos. “it is ever in my thoughts; e’en in my dreams your dear bonnie face haunts me with its sweet, pathetic smile, and your tender lips seem to say, ‘laddie, ye were not true to your vows, ye have broken my heart.’” she gave a little cry of pain.
“no, no, laddie, i never thought that,” she cried, and she looked at him with gentle, pitying eyes.
“i wad try to speak, to implore your forgiveness for the misery i had caused ye,” continued robert, his husky voice heard faintly above the wail of the wind, which shook the lattice with a sort of stealthy clatter, like a midnight prowler striving to creep in to steal and plunder. “and in my dumb despair and anguish i would clutch at your floating garments only to have them vanish into air, and i would awake to find myself—alone—with my bitter remorse[388] and sorrow.” a low, choked sob broke from his hollow breast—he covered his face with his hands. “can ye ever forgive me?” he murmured.
mary regarded him with infinite compassion, a heroic smile on her tired, quivering lips. “freely do i forgive everything, laddie,” she replied, “an’ when i am gone i want ye to remember always that mary campbell had only love, pity and forgiveness in her heart for ye.” she raised her trembling hands solemnly. “may god bring peace to your troubled heart, laddie, and may your future dreams be filled with joy and happiness, of love and prosperity.”
“the door opened and jean quietly entered the room.”
the door opened and jean quietly entered the room, her tense, white face full of patient sorrow. she had sat in the kitchen for an eternity it seemed to the waiting woman, while mary was taking her farewell of her husband. she had tried to talk to gilbert, to interest herself in the news of home, but the words simply refused to leave her lips, and so she had sat there, listlessly watching the children playing around their uncle’s knee, her ears straining to hear some sound from the other room. no one knew how she suffered, to step aside, to welcome to her home his former sweetheart, to know they were there clasped in each other’s arms; and yet she did not feel bitter toward mary somehow, strange as it might seem. she pitied her, she pitied them both, and it filled her with a strange feeling of surprise[389] that she could feel so. still loving robert as fondly as she did, she could not help the feeling of despair which crept over her at times, to know, to fully realize, that she held only a secondary place in his affections, to hear him calling for another, for mary. sometimes in thought she caught herself bitterly arraigning him for his thoughtlessness, his apparent heartlessness; then the thought of his weak condition, his ill health, his distracted state of mind, these past months, tempered her judgment. he was hardly responsible for his actions, and if he were conscious of his own selfishness he had lost the power, the strength of will, to restrain his feverish impulses. she wondered vaguely if it would be different when—when she had passed away forever—if her memory would still come between them. she hoped not—she prayed that it might not be so.
gilbert had left her to her silent musings, and had gone out to harness the horses. returning, he told her that they must start at once, so she had opened the door to tell them, and as her eyes took in the misery which was reflected in their white, drawn faces she was moved to intense pity, and the tears rained slowly down her cheeks.
“come, mary, gilbert says ’tis time to start,” she faltered. they both looked up slowly at the sound of her voice, then gazed dully into each other’s eyes. presently mary rose from her chair and stood up unsteadily, stretching out her little, cold, white[390] hands to robert, who clutched them in his own feverish palms as a drowning man clutches a straw.
“the time has come to part, laddie,” she said bravely, a wan little smile on her bluish lips.
a violent shuddering seized him, he did not move for a moment. finally he staggered to his feet, and a quiver of agony passed over his face. he looked at her with dulled, glazed eyes and his face assumed a ghastly hue.
“’tis so hard, so cruel, to say good-by forever,” he breathed huskily, for his throat was dry and parched. his swaying figure tottered a moment, then he drew her slowly into his arms and pressed his lips to her forehead. “’tis the last time on earth, mary,” he whispered brokenly. her lips trembled, but she would not give way to the feeling of dizziness that threatened to rob her of her consciousness. she must leave him with a smile, she told herself; she must not make it harder for him. “yes, for the last time, robert,” she repeated slowly. “may god bless and watch over ye, robin adair—till—we—meet in heaven. good-by.” her voice died away inarticulately, and she sank forward into his arms, where she lay motionless with closed eyes, utterly spent in body and spirit, and save for a shivering sob that now and then escaped her, she seemed almost insensible. jean rushed quickly forward and drew her into a chair, while gilbert fetched a glass of water, which he held to her white lips.
[391]
the wind shook the doors and whistled shrilly through the crevices, then as though tired of its own wrath, surged away in hoarse murmurs, through the branches of the creaking old beech, toward the loch, and there was a short, tense silence while they waited to see signs of life appear in the face of the stricken girl. presently she opened those azure blue eyes and smiled up in their anxious faces; then she struggled to her feet, but she put her hand quickly to her heart and tottered.
“oh, my—poor—weak heart,” she gasped faintly. jean caught her quickly in her strong arms and stroked her soft cheek with a curious yearning sensation of love tugging at her heartstrings.
“poor dear,” she said compassionately, “you’re too weak to stand so much excitement,” and she put her back firmly in the chair. mary attempted to rise again, but jean would not permit her. “gilbert shall carry you to the carriage,” she told her. gilbert stepped to her side.
“i will be a light burden noo, gilbert,” she faltered, smiling pathetically into his strong, rugged face, which bore traces of his deep, bitter grief. jean gently put her arms about her and in silence implanted a kiss on her pure, sweet face; then she turned away and covered her face with her hands. gilbert bent over and picked up the frail body, and in spite of his efforts to restrain his emotion, a sigh that was almost a groan escaped him, for she was[392] no heavier than a child of a few summers. he carried her past his brother, who was sitting with head bowed upon his breast in an attitude of absolute despair.
“greet not for me, dearie,” whispered mary faintly, stretching out her hand and letting it rest tenderly on his head. “god’s—will—be—done,” and her dry, burning eyes took their last look, and said their last farewell as gilbert slowly carried her from the room and closed the door, shutting robert out from her lingering gaze.
