Robert suddenly stiffened and his eyes grew wide and staring. He gripped the sides of the chair as a wave of sudden dizziness dulled his understanding. Presently it passed away, and like one in a dream he whispered hoarsely, “Tell me the worst, Gilbert; is—is she dead?”
He closed his eyes and waited with breathless stillness for the answer.
“Thank God, not that!” replied Gilbert feelingly. Robert breathed a sigh of relief. “But she is very ill, an’ I ken she hasna’ long on earth noo. The doctors say there is no hope for her,” and he bit his lips to keep back the rising tears.
Slowly, sorrowfully, Robert’s head drooped till it rested on his bosom. For a moment he sat like one on the verge of dissolution.
“Oh, God!” he moaned bitterly, “that sweet young life crushed out in all its innocent purity, like a delicate flower, and through my sin, my reckless folly. Oh, how can I live and bear my punishment!” A convulsive sob racked his weakened frame. Gilbert bent over him with tears in his eyes, forgetting his own crushing sorrow in witnessing that of his brother.
“Dinna’ greet so, Robert,” he cried. “’Twas not your fault, ye ken. It was to be.” His philosophical belief in fate helped him over many a hard and stony path, and enabled him to meet with calmness and fortitude the many heartaches and disappointments which befell him.
Soon the convulsive shudders ceased, and leaning wearily back in his chair, Robert fixed his great mournful eyes upon his brother in sorrowful resignation.
“How did she look when ye last saw her, Gilbert?” he asked faintly, pressing his hand tightly to his heart, for the old pain had come back with exhausting results.
“Like an angel, lad,” replied Gilbert tenderly. “So sweet and pure, so patient and forgiving.”
“Does she suffer much?”