My love for her grew daily, but I hesitated to declare it till I should know whether it was returned. And Mary gave me no clue. If on a day she had lifted me to the heights of bliss by some special winsomeness, she would dash my hope to the earth again by avoiding me for a time so that I was thrown back on my thoughts for companionship. And they gave me little solace. Over and over again I remembered the warning of the dear old saint of the hills: "She’s no’ for you. The dove maunna mate wi’ the corbie."
At nights I lay awake distraught. Was her kindness to me, her winning sweetness, no more than the simple out-pouring of a woman’s heart for a man she pitied? I had no need of pity: I hated it: my heart hungered for love. I had yet to learn that there is always pity in a woman’s love.
At last I brought my fevered mind to a resolute decision. I would speak. For the sake of those who had succoured me I must leave Daldowie, but before I went I must try to find out the secret in Mary’s heart.
The hour came unsought, and took me almost unaware.
We had wandered further afield than was our wont, and on a mellow autumn afternoon we sat by the side of a burn. We had been chatting gaily, when, suddenly, silence fell between us like a sword.
I looked at Mary. Her eyes were fixed on distance, and my gaze fell from the sweet purity of her face to the rich redness of the bunch of rowan berries set in the white of her bodice.
"Mary," I began, "I have something to say to you." She turned and looked at me quickly, but did not speak.
I drew an anxious breath and continued: "I am going away."
Her pointed little chin rose quickly, and she spoke rapidly: "You’re gaun away. Whatever for?"
"It is not my will," I said, "but need that urges me. Your mother, your father, and, more than all, you have been kind to me--you found me in sore straits and succoured me. My presence at Daldowie means danger to you all, and for your sakes I must go."
Pallor swept over her face: the red berries at her breast moved tremulously.
"Danger," she said--"the hill-folk think little o’ danger: that needna’ drive ye away. Is there nae ither reason?"
Before I could speak she continued: "I doot there’s some English lassie waiting for ye ayont the Border," and turning her face away from me she whispered, "It maun e’en be as ye will."