“Nay,” said I, “for this Earlstoun shall ever be a kindly and a beloved spot to me. Often when the ways are long and dreary, the folk unfriendly, will my heart turn in hither. And, whenever I am in Galloway, be sure that I will not pass you by. Your father hath been a good and loving friend to me.”
“My father!” she cried, with a little disdainful outward pout of the lip.
“Aye, and you also, Mistress Mary. You have been all too kind to a broken man—a man who, when the few coins he carries in his purse are expended, knows not whence he will get his next golden guinea.”
I was silent for a while and only looked steadily at her. She moved her feet this way and that on the floor uncertainly. Her grace and favour cried out to me anew.
“As for me, Mary,” I said, “I need not tell you that I love you. I have loved you ever since I met you on the Bennan brae-face. But now more greatly—more terribly that I love altogether without hope. I had not meant to speak again, but only to take your hand once thus—and get me gone!”
Impulsively she held her fingers out to me and I clasped them in mine.
I thought she was ready to bid me farewell, and that she desired not to prolong the pain of the interview.
“Fare thee well then, Mary,” said I. “I have loved the cause because it is the Cause of the Weak. I have striven to raise again the Banner of Blue. I have loved my people. But none of these hath this aching, weary heart loved as it has loved Mary Gordon. I have neither heart nor right to speak of my love, nor house nor home to offer. I can but go!”
“Speak on,” she said, a little breathlessly, but never once taking her eyes from my face.
“There is no other word to tell, Mary,” said I. “I have spoken the word, and now there remains but to turn about and set face forward as bravely as may be, to shut out the pleasant vision, seen for a moment, to leave behind for ever the heart’s desire——”