“’Tis my Maggie,” cried Tam almost tearfully. “She’s comin’ back for her master,” and with a bound he reached the open doorway. A few steps took him to the stone wall along the other side of which ran the King’s Highway. “She’s comin’, she’s comin’, my faithful Maggie is comin’,” he cried joyfully.
“She must be an unco sight wi’out a tail, Tam,” sneered Souter. A roar of laughter greeted this sarcastic retort.
“Dinna’ ye dare laugh,” cried Tam, turning on them furiously. The hoofbeats stopped suddenly. In the misty moonlight they caught a glimpse of a huge white creature, looking very spectral and ghost-like, impatiently tossing its head from side to side as if in search of something or someone. With a glad cry Tam vaulted the fence, old as he was, and dashed down the road, calling lovingly, “I’m comin’, Maggie, I’m comin’ to ye.” A whinny of delight, a snort of pleasure, greeted him as he reached his old mare’s side. Then like a phantom, the old gray mare and her rider sped swiftly past them on into the night and away toward Carrick.
Silently they watched them, while the hoofbeats grew fainter and fainter and then were lost to sound. Such was Tam O’Shanter’s tale, the fame of which soon spread throughout all Ayrshire.
CHAPTER IX
In a sequestered spot beside the brook which runs through the lower end of the big field at Mossgiel farm, Robert sat dreamily watching the shallow brook at his feet slowly trickle along over the stones. He had left the field, his heart filled with anger against his brother, who had been reproving him for his thoughtlessness, his absent-mindedness; but gradually his temper had melted, and removing his bonnet from his fevered brow, he had given himself up to his reveries. A little later Gilbert found him there, his loose unbleached linen shirt open at the neck, eagerly writing on a scrap of paper he held in his hand.
The last few weeks Gilbert had thrown off his cloak of habitual reserve, and had treated his brother with less harshness, less severity. He had watched the slowly drifting apart of the lovers with wonder and delight. Could it be that they were tiring of each other? he asked himself over and over again. If that were so then perhaps some day—but he would not permit himself to think of the future. He would be happy in the present. For he was comparatively happy now, happier than he had ever expected to be. Since Robert’s avoidance of her, Mary had again turned to him for sympathy, and once more they were on their old friendly footing. True she was a sad, despondent companion, but he was blissfully happy just to walk beside her from kirk, to listen to the sound of her sweet voice, even though his brother was the only topic of conversation, to feel the touch of her little hand as he helped her over the stile. He thought of all this now as he regarded his brother in thoughtful silence. Presently he called his name. Receiving no answer, he strode through the overhanging willows and touched him quietly on the shoulder.
With a start Robert looked up into his brother’s face, then he turned slowly away. “What is wrong noo, Gilbert?” he asked bitterly. “It seems I will be doing nothing right o’ late.”