the next few days jean was very busy with her preparations for their sojourn at the seaside. the date of their departure was already fixed and it now lacked but a few days before they would bid farewell to ellisland forever, for robert had decided to take up his residence in dumfries when his visit was ended, for the duties of his new office would necessitate his being there the quarter part of his time.
as the day of their departure drew near, robert grew more and more depressed, and day by day he sat in melancholy silence beside the window gazing with unseeing eyes upon the tangled yet graceful wilderness of flowers. jean watched him in growing fear and anxiety as he sank deeper and deeper into those protracted fits of gloom and depression, and vainly sought to find some reason for the sudden change. he had been so elated at getting his promotion and at the many advantageous changes it would make in their condition—had dwelt with affectionate wonder on eppy’s kindness in extending to them the invitation to accompany them to brow, and had seemed to greatly improve in health and spirits for a few days. then came gilbert’s letter stating that he had arrived in time to[372] prevent the eviction of the dear ones at home. the letter had plunged him into a state of feverish excitement and restless anxiety, and all day he would sit at the open window, watching with burning eyes the long narrow road that twisted and turned on its way to mossgiel, straining his eyes eagerly at the approach of any casual traveler who might be passing, then with a look of patient despair, sink back in his chair, pale and listless, his unfocused eyes again gazing into space. one night after he had left his chair and had retired to his bed for the night, looking more haggard than usual, jean spied on the floor a crumpled paper which had evidently dropped from his nerveless hand. picking it up, she smoothed it out and found it to be gilbert’s letter, which she had not seen, as robert had read it to her and then put it carefully aside. slowly her gaze wandered over it. suddenly she gave a great start, for at the bottom of the page this sentence caught her eye: “mary leaves to-morrow for the highlands and will pass through ellisland.” thoughtfully she put the letter on the chair where he could find it in the morning, and sat down by the cradle of the bairn and gently rocked him till his fretful crying ceased; then she gave herself up to the heart-burning thoughts that filled her mind. she had tried so hard to be patient all these years, she had struggled and struggled to do her duty without a word of complaint, she thought, while bitter tears of patient grief and[373] secret yearning for the love that she knew belonged to another rolled down her sorrowing cheek. she had no word of complaint to make against robert though, for he had never sought to deceive her once, and there was no feeling of resentment in her heart against the little dairymaid. it was not the child’s fault. it was not the fault of either that they still loved each other. only robert might have shown her the letter, she thought with quivering lips; there was no need to keep it from her. she would know it when mary came to the house, anyway. she might have guessed the reason for his sudden change, she thought, wiping away her tears, only her mind had been so filled with the household preparations for moving that mary had been quite forgotten. for a while she gently rocked the sleeping child, watching its sweet, flushed face, listening to its soft breathing, and soon all disturbing thoughts slipped away from her troubled mind, and a peaceful, holy calm entered her patient heart and shone through her love-lit eyes. covering its little form carefully, she carried the cradle into her chamber and placed it within reach of her bed. then as she disrobed for the night in dreary silence, her eyes fixed on the pale face of her husband, who was tossing and muttering in his sleep, a tender wave of pity swept over her at the thought of the sweet lass who would shortly pass out of their lives forever, leaving only a sweet, haunting memory behind to remind them of[374] her pathetic young life. quickly she slipped into bed beside her restless husband, upon whose feverish cheek she pressed a tender kiss, and closing her tired eyes, fancied she slept, though her sleep was but a waking dream of love for her husband and children, in which all bright hopes and vague longings reached their utmost fulfillment, and yet were in some strange way crossed with shadows of sorrow and grief, which she had no power to disperse.
on the following morning the heat was intense. no breath of air stirred a ripple on the sluggishly-flowing nith, and there was a heaviness in the atmosphere which made the very brightness of the sky oppressive. such hot weather was unusual for that part of scotland, and, according to souter johnny, betokened some change. the sun was dazzling, yet there was a mist in the air as though the heavens were full of unshed tears. a bank of nearly motionless clouds hung behind the dark, sharp peaks of the distant mountains which lay beyond mossgiel, for there was no wind stirring, and robert, seated in his chair by the window, found himself too warm with his thick plaid wrapped closely around him, and throwing it back he let the sunshine bathe him in its golden glow and play on the uncovered ebony of his hair. he no longer watched the road with such eager intensity. rarely this morning had his gaze wandered beyond the bush beneath the window, with its one snowy-white rose, the last rose of summer, nestling[375] among the faded, worm-eaten leaves, looking so pure, so fragrant, so delicately white against the background of rusty, dead-looking foliage. it had blossomed in the night, and in the morning when he had approached the lattice from force of habit, although he had given up all hope of seeing mary before she left ayrshire, he had spied it in all its delicate beauty. each morning for six days now he had gone to that window, expecting before the day drew to its close to see the beloved form of his mary approach, only to go to his bed at night in bitter disappointment. gilbert’s letter stated she would start that day, and now the sixth day had come and yet there was no sign of her. he had told himself he would not watch the road this morning; there was no use, she had gone; she had not wanted to see him; she felt too bitter against him—it was only natural she should. these bitter thoughts had filled his mind with misery and wretchedness as he drew near the open window. suddenly his eyes had rested on the spot of white nestling on the top of the bush. with a strange thrill at his heart, he had knelt down beside the latticed window, and folding his arms on the sill, gazed at the message from heaven, sent to bring peace and hope to his aching heart, so he fondly believed, while bright tears filled his eyes and brimmed over, falling warmly on his folded hands.
“oh, mary, my love, my love!” he whispered brokenly. “come to me before ye die.” and all[376] that morning he had watched it expand and stretch out its petals to its utmost, wafting its perfume up into his grateful nostrils, till a peace such as had not visited his heart for many years, smoothed out the lines of suffering from his brow and softened the hard light in his deepened eyes. a verse of a poem he had written a few years before flashed across his memory:
“oft hae i roved by bonnie doon,
to see the rose and woodbine twine;
and like a bird sang o’ its luve,
and fondly sae did i o’ mine;
wi’ lightsome heart i pu’d a rose,
fu’ sweet upon its thorny tree;
but my fausse luver stole my rose,
but ah! he left the thorn wi’ me.”
jean, coming into the room a little later, found him there, his head resting on his hands, a smile of contented calm upon his face, which now seemed like the face of the youth she had known in mauchline, and the sight thrilled her strangely and brought a spasm of pain to her overcharged heart.
