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 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 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 in anguish, “ye will pass out o’ my life forever and I maun live on here—desolate—and heart-broken.”