Soon the whole guilty truth must be disclosed, his faithlessness, his unworthiness. If she suffered now, what would be her misery when she learned that an insurmountable barrier had arisen between them, cruelly separating them forever. The thought filled him with unspeakable anguish.
“Forgive me, Rob, for my hasty words,” said Gilbert remorsefully. “But ye ken Mary is very dear to—to us all; that is why I spoke so plainly.”
At that moment the door of the cottage opened and the object of their discussion stepped into view. The poor little moth could not help fluttering around the candle, and so she was to be found at Mossgiel whenever her duties would permit her to steal away.
“Oh, here ye are, lads,” she called out to them, her face brightening. “Will ye be comin’ in to tea noo?” They did not answer. “My, what long faces ye both have,” she continued, smiling. “This isna’ the Sabbath Day, so there’s no need of such sorrowful faces.”
“I didna’ ken ye were here,” answered Gilbert, going toward her.
Robert sat down by the well, the look of pain on his melancholy face deepening as he listened to her gentle voice. He closed his eyes wearily and leaned back against the curbing, the paper held loosely in his hand. It was so hard to realize that never again would he press that form to his aching heart, that he must renounce her utterly. Oh, if he could only die now, how much better it would be for them all, he weakly told himself.
“I’m going to stay here to tea wi’ ye this night,” said Mary wistfully. Why didn’t Robert speak to her just one word of greeting? she thought sadly. “Your mother bade me tell ye supper is waiting whenever ye are ready.” She took a few halting steps toward the well. “Are ye comin’ in, Robert?” she inquired timidly.
“In a wee,” he answered quietly, without looking at her. “After I have finished my poem.” Mary turned back, crushed to the heart by his apparent coldness.
“Weel, lads,” cried Mrs. Burns brightly, stepping out on the low, broad stoop followed by Souter, who held a cup of steaming tea in one hand and some oatcakes in the other, on which he nibbled with evident relish. “I heard your voices and couldna’ stay within,” and she beamed on them lovingly.
“Ye’re at it again, I see, Robert,” observed Souter tactlessly. Robert flushed angrily. He was easily irritated in his present state of mind. “Ye’ll write yoursel’ into the grave, mon; ye’re not lookin’ very peart the noo.”