A look of despair swept over Gilbert’s face at the idle words of the garrulous old man. He leaned heavily against the door, for there was a dull, aching pain at his heart of which he was physically conscious. For a few moments he stood there with white drawn face, trying hard to realize the bitter truth, that at last the day had come, as he had feared it must come, when he must step aside for the prodigal brother who would now claim his sweetheart. And she would go to him so gladly, he knew, without a single thought of his loneliness or his sorrow. But she was not to blame. It was only right that she should now be with her sweetheart, that he must say farewell to those blissful walks along the banks of the Doon which for almost a year he had enjoyed with Mary by his side. His stern, tense lips relaxed, and a faint smile softened his rugged features. How happy he had been in his fool’s paradise. But he loved her so dearly that he had been content just to be with her, to listen to the sweetness of her voice as she prattled innocently and lovingly of her absent sweetheart. A snore from Souter, who had fallen asleep in his chair, roused him from the fond reverie into which he had fallen, and brought him back to earth with a start. With a bitter smile he told himself he had no right to complain. If he had allowed himself to fall in love with his brother’s betrothed, he alone was to blame, and he must suffer the consequence. Suddenly a wild thought entered his brain. Suppose—and his heart almost stopped beating at the thought—suppose Robert had grown to love someone else, while away, even better than he did Mary? He had heard rumors of Robert’s many amourous escapades in Mauchline; then perhaps Mary would again turn to him for comfort. His eyes shone with renewed hope and his heart was several degrees lighter as he left the house. Going to the high knoll back of the cottage, he gazed eagerly, longingly, across the moor to where, in the hazy distance, the lofty turrets of Castle Montgomery, the home of the winsome dairymaid, Mary Campbell, reared their heads toward the blue heavens.
CHAPTER II
Ye banks and braes and streams around
The Castle of Montgomery,
Green be your woods and fair your flowers,
Your waters never drumlie,
There summer first unfolds her robes,
And there the langest tarry,