“Aye, an’ ye finished the last one for that reason, no doubt,” replied Mrs. Burns wrathfully. “Ye’re a pig, mon. Come awa’, lads, your supper will be gettin’ cold,” and she led the way inside, followed meekly by Souter. Gilbert waited for Mary to enter, but she stood wistfully gazing at Robert. With a sigh he left them together, and Robert entered the cottage.
Mary slowly approached Robert as he stood looking across to the distant hills, and patiently waited for him to speak to her, but he stood there in tense silence, not daring to trust himself to even look at the pure flower-like face held up to his so pleadingly.
“Robbie,” she said timidly after a pause, which seemed interminable to them both, “willna’ ye let the sunlight enter your heart an’ be your old bonnie sel’ once mair? It will make us all sae happy.” She put her hand on his arm lovingly. “Why are ye sae changed, laddie? Dinna’ ye want me to love ye any mair?”
At the gentle touch of her fingers an uncontrollable wave of passionate love and longing came over him, sweeping away all resolutions resistlessly. “Oh, my Mary, my Mary,” he cried hoarsely. “I do want your love, I do want it noo an’ forever,” and he clasped her lovingly to his aching heart. Blissfully she lay in his strong arms while he showered her flushed and happy face with the hungry, fervent, loving kisses which he had denied himself so long, and murmured little caressing words of endearment which filled her soul with rapture and happiness. “How I love ye, Mary,” he breathed in her ear again and again as he held her close.
“An’ how happy ye make me once mair, laddie,” she answered, nestling against him lovingly.
“An’ how happy we will——,” he began, then stopped pale and trembling, for grim recollection had suddenly loomed up before him with all its train of bitter, ugly facts; and conscience began to drum insistently into his dulled ear. “Tell her the truth now, the whole truth,” it said. But the voice of the tempter whispered persuasively, saying, “Why tell her now? wait, let her be happy while she may, put it off as long as possible.”
“What is it, Robbie?” cried Mary fearfully. “Tell me what is troublin’ ye; dinna’ be afraid.” His bowed head bent lower and lower.
“Oh, Mary, I’m sae unworthy, sae unworthy of all your pure thoughts, your tender love,” he faltered despairingly, resolved to tell her all. “Ye dinna’ ken all my weakness, my deception, and into what depths of sin I have fallen.” She sought to interrupt him, but he continued rapidly, his voice harsh with the nervous tension, his face pallid from the stress of his emotions. “I have a confession to make ye——”
“Nay, nay, laddie,” cried Mary, putting her hand over his trembling lips. “Dinna’ tell me anything. I want nae confession from ye, except that o’ your love,” and she smoothed his cheek tenderly. “Ye ken that is music to my ears at all times, but if ye are deceivin’ me, if ye have na always been true to me, an’ your vows, why, laddie, keep the knowledge to yourself’. I am content noo, and ye ken happiness is such a fleetin’ thing that I mean to cling to it as long as I can.” She took his hands in both her own and held them close to her heart. “Ye ken, Robbie, ill news travels apace and ’twill reach my ears soon enough,” she continued with a mournful little quaver in her voice. “But no matter what comes, what ye may do, my love for ye will overlook it all; I will see only your virtues, my love, not your vices.”