“Nay,” he answered reassuringly. Then he continued, his voice soft and low, his strong features quivering from the restraint he put upon his feelings, “Her life is just slowly slipping away from her; day by day she grows weaker and weaker, but ne’er a complaint is on her lips. She is always so cheerful an’ smilin’ that it fair makes ye weep to see her fadin’ awa’ so fast,” and his voice broke into a hard sob.
“Oh, Mary, my Highland Mary!” murmured Robert brokenly.
“Her last wish is to see the Highlands, to—to die there,” continued Gilbert, his lips contracting with a sudden, sharp pain at the thought. “So before she grows any weaker, Mrs. Dunlop, who has come from town to see her, and who is wi’ her noo, is goin’ to take her back to her old home in Argyleshire.”
“Going home to die!” repeated Robert dreamily. “Oh, if I might be taken awa’ too, if my end would only hasten,” he muttered despairingly, with the weak selfishness of the sick and sorrowing. “Then might our departing souls be united as one, to be together for all eternity.”
“Hush, Robert!” cautioned Gilbert, looking fearfully at the closed door. “Remember Jean and the bairns.”
“Gilbert, I must see her before she goes!” he cried utterly distracted. “’Tis for the last time on earth, ye ken, lad,” and he jumped up, trembling with eager excitement.
“Brother, would ye kill yoursel’?” cried Gilbert, seeking to restrain him. “’Tis madness for ye to go out in your weak condition.”
“Dinna’ stop me, Gilbert!” he panted, and he flung open the door and rushed excitedly into the room where Jean sat in patient meditation. “Jean, get my bonnet and coat, quick, quick!” he commanded with his old-time vehemence. She jumped up pale and frightened and looked questioningly at Gilbert. Quickly he told her of Mary’s illness and Robert’s determination to go to her at once. When he had finished she went to her husband, the tears of ready sympathy in her eyes, for she was not jealous of his love for Mary. She had gotten over that long ago, and laying her hand gently on his arm, she tried to coax him to sit down and listen to them.
“They’ll have to pass by here on their way to Greenock,” she told him tenderly. “And ye may be sure, Robert, that Mary will not leave Ayrshire without saying good-by to you.” And so she reasoned with him, while Gilbert joined her in assurances of Mrs. Dunlop’s intention of stopping to see him as she passed the farm. Gradually the wild light in his eyes died down, the tense figure relaxed, and with a sigh of exhaustion he allowed himself to be taken back to his room.
“Ye’re sure she’ll not forget to stop here?” he asked with pathetic eagerness. Then he continued with wistful retrospection, “Two years have come and gone and not a word have we spoken to each other since that day we parted in Edinburgh! Oh, cruel, cruel fate!” He spoke so low that none heard him.