“’Tis so hard, so cruel, to say good-by forever,” he breathed huskily, for his throat was dry and parched. His swaying figure tottered a moment, then he drew her slowly into his arms and pressed his lips to her forehead. “’Tis the last time on earth, Mary,” he whispered brokenly. Her lips trembled, but she would not give way to the feeling of dizziness that threatened to rob her of her consciousness. She must leave him with a smile, she told herself; she must not make it harder for him. “Yes, for the last time, Robert,” she repeated slowly. “May God bless and watch over ye, Robin Adair—till—we—meet in Heaven. Good-by.” Her voice died away inarticulately, and she sank forward into his arms, where she lay motionless with closed eyes, utterly spent in body and spirit, and save for a shivering sob that now and then escaped her, she seemed almost insensible. Jean rushed quickly forward and drew her into a chair, while Gilbert fetched a glass of water, which he held to her white lips.
The wind shook the doors and whistled shrilly through the crevices, then as though tired of its own wrath, surged away in hoarse murmurs, through the branches of the creaking old beech, toward the Loch, and there was a short, tense silence while they waited to see signs of life appear in the face of the stricken girl. Presently she opened those azure blue eyes and smiled up in their anxious faces; then she struggled to her feet, but she put her hand quickly to her heart and tottered.
“Oh, my—poor—weak heart,” she gasped faintly. Jean caught her quickly in her strong arms and stroked her soft cheek with a curious yearning sensation of love tugging at her heartstrings.
“Poor dear,” she said compassionately, “you’re too weak to stand so much excitement,” and she put her back firmly in the chair. Mary attempted to rise again, but Jean would not permit her. “Gilbert shall carry you to the carriage,” she told her. Gilbert stepped to her side.
“I will be a light burden noo, Gilbert,” she faltered, smiling pathetically into his strong, rugged face, which bore traces of his deep, bitter grief. Jean gently put her arms about her and in silence implanted a kiss on her pure, sweet face; then she turned away and covered her face with her hands. Gilbert bent over and picked up the frail body, and in spite of his efforts to restrain his emotion, a sigh that was almost a groan escaped him, for she was no heavier than a child of a few summers. He carried her past his brother, who was sitting with head bowed upon his breast in an attitude of absolute despair.
“Greet not for me, dearie,” whispered Mary faintly, stretching out her hand and letting it rest tenderly on his head. “God’s—will—be—done,” and her dry, burning eyes took their last look, and said their last farewell as Gilbert slowly carried her from the room and closed the door, shutting Robert out from her lingering gaze.