Mrs. Dunlop and Mary had not been present at the ceremony. Mary was confined to her bed in a state of nervous collapse, and Mrs. Dunlop, much as she loved Robert, and honored him for the noble step he was taking, could not leave the stricken girl. It was her wish and determination to keep Mary with her as long as she could content herself there. Her kind, motherly heart ached in silent sympathy for the child who had received such a bitter disappointment, and who was bearing her sorrows with such patient fortitude. Before Robert left the city she wrote for him to come and see her, assuring him of her continued friendship, etc., etc. That evening found him seated beside his stanch friend in whom he confided his hopes and his fears for the future, and soon he had poured out the bitterness of his heart, the yearnings of his soul, all the cruel disappointments of his tempestuous life. She listened in sympathetic silence, a smile of encouragement, every now and then, lighting up her face. When he had finished, she told him how proud she was of him, how she gloried in his strength of purpose, his new-made resolutions, cautioned him not to forget the new vows he had so lately formed, warned him of the many vices, the back-sliding state into which one of his temperament was so apt to fall. Then with infinite tenderness she told him of the courage of the sweet maiden who now lay upon her bed of sorrow in the upper room, told him of her loyalty, her pride in his greatness, in his nobility, while he listened with the burning tears streaming unchecked down his quivering cheeks. After a pause she took him by the hand and led him softly to the door of Mary’s chamber. “For the last farewell,” she whispered sadly. Then she left him standing before the door, gazing at it as though it were the gates of Heaven which were about to open for him at his bidding. A sweet voice bade him enter, in answer to his timid knock, and softly opening the door, he stepped into the room.
Mary opened her beautiful, tired blue eyes, thinking it was her dear benefactress, and then what a divine rapture—what a dazzling wonder and joy flashed into them, giving them back their old luster of sunlight sparkling on an azure sea. She sprang up in her bed and stretched out her arms.
“Robert!” she cried sobbingly. “Oh, Robbie, my darling.”
Mrs. Dunlop came back and softly closed the door on the sacred stillness that followed. Then she slowly wended her way down to her sitting-room and sat down with a deep sigh. “What a sad old world this is,” she thought. The time dragged along very slowly as she patiently waited for Robert to come down. Presently she heard the door above close ever so gently, and then his low footfall down the thick stair carpet. She rose and met him in the reception hall. He stood on the lowest step, his hand on the balustrade, his breast heaving with the strain of his emotions. Mrs. Dunlop took his hand tenderly and pressed it in loving sympathy.
By and by he spoke, and the intense suffering in his voice touched her keenly. “As ye sow, so shall ye reap,” he muttered brokenly. She could only press his hand in silent sympathy. Gradually his grief became quiet and a look of melancholy resignation came over his expressive face.
“When will you leave the city?” she asked quietly.
He thought a moment. “My affairs will be settled by the week’s end,” he replied, “then I shall go straight to Ellisland. I——” He paused a moment, then straightened himself, and continued in a firm voice, “Jean has gone to Mauchline. She will remain there until the house at Ellisland is in condition to receive her.” He held out his hand. “And now, dear, good friend, good-by.”
“No, not good-by, laddie,” she answered tearfully. “Just au revoir, for I mean to visit you some day,” and she smiled through her tears.
With a last shake of the hand, he left her, while above stairs a sweet, wan, tear-stained face, pressed close against the pane, watched his bowed figure striding moodily toward his lodging, watched it as it faded, growing dimmer and dimmer, till it was lost to sight.
