Perhapsit would be well for Janet’s sake not to inquire into the history of that Sabbath afternoon. Friends arrived from Edinburgh, as Mrs Ogilvy had divined, carefully choosing that day when they were so little wanted. There were some people who walked, keeping up an old habit: the walk was long, but when you were sure of a good cup of tea and a good rest at a friend’s house, was not too much for a robust walker with perhaps little time for walking during the week: and some—but they kept a discreet veil on the means of their conveyance—would come occasionally by the wicked little train which, to the great scandal of the whole village, had been permitted between Edinburgh and Eskholm in quite recent days, by the direct influence of the devil or Mr Gladstone some thought, or perhaps for the convenience of a railway director who had a grand house overlooking the Esk higherup the stream. It may well be believed, however, that nobody who visited Mrs Ogilvy on Sunday owned to coming by the train. They could not resist the delights of the walk in this fine weather, they said, and to breathe the country air in June after having been shut up all the week in Edinburgh was a great temptation. They all came from Edinburgh, these good folks: and there was one who was an elder in the Kirk, and who said that the road had been measured, and it was little more, very little more, than a Sabbath-day’s journey, such as was always permitted. Sometimes there would be none of these visitors for weeks, but naturally there were two parties of them that day. Mrs Ogilvy, out in the garden behind the house, sat trembling among Andrew’s flower-pots in his tool-house, feeling more guilty than words could say, yet giving Janet a certain countenance by remaining out of doors, to justify the statement that the mistress just by an extraordinary accident was out. Robert was in his room up-stairs with half a shelfful of the Waverleys round him, lying upon his bed and reading. Oh how the house was turned upside down, how its whole life and character was changed, and falsity and concealment became the rule of the day instead of truth and openness! And all by the event which last Sabbath she had prayed for with all the force of her heart. Butshe did not repent her prayer. God be thanked, in spite of all, that he had come back, that he that had been dead was alive again, and that he that had been lost was found. Maybe—who could tell?—the prodigal’s father, after he had covered his boy’s rags with that best robe, might find many a thing, oh many a thing, in him, to mind him of the husks that the swine did eat!
Meantime Janet gave the visitors tea, and stood respectfully and talked, now and then looking out for the mistress, and wondering what could have kept her, and saying many a thing upon which charity demands that we should draw a veil. She had got Andrew off to his kirk, which was all she conditioned for. She could not, she felt sure, have carried through if Andrew had been there, glowering, looking on. But she did carry through; and I am not sure that there was not a feeling of elation in Janet’s mind when she saw the last of them depart, and felt the full sweetness of success. The sense of guilt, no doubt, came later on.
“And I just would take my oath,” said Janet, “that they’re all away back bythattrain. Ye needna speak to me of Sabbath-day’s journeys, and afternoon walks. The train, nae doubt, is a great easement. I ken a sooth face from a leeing one. They had far ower muckle to say about the pleesure of the walk. They’re just a’ away back by the train.”
“It’s not for you and me to speak, Janet, that have done nothing but deceive all this weary day!”
“Toots!” said Janet, “you were out, mem, it was quite true, and just very uncomfortable—and they got their rest and their tea. And I would have gathered them some flowers, but Mrs Bennet said she would rather no go back through the Edinburgh streets with a muckle flower in her hands, as if she had been stravaigin’ about the country. So ye see, mem, they were waur than we were, just leein’ for show and appearance—whereas with us (though I leed none—I said ye were oot, and yewereoot) it was needcessity, and nae mair to be said.”
Mrs Ogilvy shook her head as she rose up painfully from among the flower-pots. It was just self-indulgence, she said to herself. She had done harder things than to sit in her place and give her acquaintances tea; but then there was always the risk of questions that old friends feel themselves at liberty to ask. Any way, it was done and over; and there was, as Janet assured her, no more to be said. And the lingering evening passed again, oh so slowly—not, as heretofore, in a gentle musing full of prayer, not in the sweet outside air with the peaceful country lying before her, and the open doors always inviting a wanderer back! Not so: Robert was not satisfied till all the windows were closed, warm though the evening was, the door locked, the shutters bolted,every precaution taken, as if the peaceful Hewan were to be attacked during the night. He caught Andrew in the act of lighting that light over the door which had burned all night for so many years. “What’s that for?” he asked abruptly, stopping him as he mounted the steps, without which he could not reach the little lamp.
“What it’s for I could not take it upon me to tell you. It’s just a whimsey of the mistress. They’re full of their whims,” Andrew said.
“Mother, what’s the meaning of this?” Robert cried.
She came to the parlour door to answer him, with her white shawl and her white cap—a light herself in the dim evening. It was perhaps too dim for him to see the expression in her eyes. She said, with a little drawing of her breath and in a startled voice, “Oh, Robbie!”
“That’s no answer,” he said, impatiently. “What’s the use of it? drawing every tramp’s attention to the house. Of course it can be seen from the road.”
“Ay, Robbie, that was my meaning.”
“A strange meaning,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “You’d better leave it off now, mother. I don’t like such landmarks. Don’t light it any more.”
Andrew stood all this time with one foot on the steps and his candle in his hand. “The mistress,”he said darkly, in a voice that came from his boots, “has a good right to her whimsey—whatever it’s for.”
“Did we ask your opinion?” cried Robert, angrily. “Put out the light.”
“You will do what Mr Robert bids you, Andrew,” Mrs Ogilvy said.
And for the first time for fifteen years there was no light over the door of the Hewan. It was right that it should be so. Still, there was in Mrs Ogilvy’s mind a vague, unreasonable reluctance—a failing as if of some visionary hope that it might still have brought back the real Robbie, the bonnie boy she knew so well, out of the dim world in which, alas! he was now for ever and for ever lost.
Robert talked much of this before he went up-stairs to bed. Perhaps he was glad to have something to talk of that was unimportant, that raised no exciting questions. “You’ve been lighting up like a lighthouse; you’ve been showing all over the country, so far as I can see. But that’ll not do for me,” he said. “I’ll have to lie low for a long time if I stay here, and no light thrown on me that can be helped. It’s different from your ways, I know, and you have a right to your whimseys, mother, as that gardener fellow says—especially as you are the one that has to pay for it all.”
“Robbie,” she cried, “oh, Robbie, do not speak like that to me!”
“It’s true, though. I haven’t a red cent; I haven’t a brass farthing: nothing but the clothes I’m standing in, and they are not fit to be seen.”
“Robbie,” she said, “I have to go in to Edinburgh in the morning. Will you come with me and get what you want?”
“Is that how it has to be done?” he said, with a laugh. “I thought you were liberal when you spoke of an outfit; but what you were thinking of was a good little boy to go with his mother, who would see he did not spend too much. No, thank you: I’ll rather continue as I am, with Andrew’s shirt.” He gave another laugh at this, pulling the corners of the collar in his hand.
Mrs Ogilvy had never allowed to herself that she was hurt till now. She rose up suddenly and took a little walk about the room, pretending to look for something. One thing with another seemed to raise a little keen soreness in her, which had nothing to do with any deep wound. It took her some time to bring back the usual tone to her voice, and subdue the quick sting of that superficial wound. “I am going very early,” she said; “it will be too early for you. I am going to see Mr Somerville, whom perhaps you will remember, who does all my business. There was something he had taken in hand, which will not be needful now. But you must do—just what you wish. You know it’s our old-fashioned way here todo no business on the Sabbath-day; but the morn, before I go, I will give you—if you could maybe tell me what money you would want——?”
“There’s justice in everything,” he said, in a tone of good-humour. “I leave that to you.”
Then he went to his room again, carrying with him another armful of Waverleys. Was it perhaps that he would not give himself the chance of thinking? It cheered his mother vaguely, however, to see him with the books. It was not reading for the Sabbath-day; but yet Sir Walter could never harm any man: and more still than that—it was not ill men, men with perverted hearts, that were so fond of Sir Walter. That was Robbie—the true Robbie—not the man that had come from the wilds, that had come through crime and misery, that had run for his life.
She left him a packet of notes next morning before she went to Edinburgh. This must not be taken as meaning too much, for it was one-pound notes alone which Mrs Ogilvy possessed. She was glad to be alone in the train, having stolen into a compartment in which a woman with a baby had already placed herself. She did not know the woman, but here she felt she was safe. The little thing, which was troublesome and cried, was her protection, and she could carry on her own thoughts little disturbed by that sound: though indeed after a while it must be acknowledged that Mrs Ogilvy succumbed to a temptationalmost irresistible to a mother, and desired the woman to “give me the bairn,” with a certainty of putting everything right, which something magnetic in the experienced touch, in the soft atmosphere of her, and thefrôlementof her silk, and the sweetness of her face, certainly accomplished. She held the baby on her knee fast asleep during the rest of the short journey, and that little unconscious contact with the helpless whom she could help did her good also. And the walk to Mr Somerville’s office did her good. On the shady side of the street it is cool, and the little novelty of being there gave an impulse to her forces. When she entered the office, where the old gentleman received her with a little cry of surprise, she was freshened and strengthened by the brief journey, and looked almost as she had looked when he found her, fearing no evil, in the great quiet of the summer afternoon two days before. He was surprised yet half afraid.
“I know what this means,” he said, when he had shaken hands with her and given her a seat. “You’ve made up your mind, Mrs Ogilvy, to make that dreadful journey. I see it in your face—and I am sorry. I am very sorry——”
“No,” she said; “you are mistaken. I am not going. I came to ask you, on the contrary, after all we settled the other day, to do nothing more——”
“To do nothing more!—I cabled as I promised, and I’ve got the man ready to go out——”
“He must not go,” she said.
“Well—— I think it is maybe just as wise. But you have changed your mind very quick. I will not speak the common nonsense to you and say that’s what ladies will do: for no doubt you will have your reasons—you have your reasons?”
She looked round her, trembling a little, upon the quiet office where nobody could have been hidden, scarcely a fly.
“Mr Somerville,” she said, “you were scarcely gone that day—oh, how long it is ago I know not—it might be years!—you were scarcely gone, when my son came home.”
“What?” he cried, with a terrifying sharpness of tone.
Her face blanched at the sound. “Was it an ill thing to do? Is there danger?” she cried; and then with deliberate gravity she repeated, “You were scarcely gone when, without any warning, my Robbie came home.”
“God bless us all!” said the old gentleman. “No; I do not know that there is any danger. It might be the wisest thing he could do—but it is a very surprising thing for all that.”
“It is rather surprising,” she said, with a little dignity, “that having always his home open to him,and no safeguards against the famine that might arise in that land—and indeed brought down for his own part, my poor laddie, to the husks that the swine do eat—he should never have come before.”
“That’s an old ferlie,” said Mr Somerville; “but things being so that he should have come now—that’s what beats me. There’s another paper with more particulars: maybe he was well advised. It’s a far cry to Lochow. That’s a paper I have read with great interest, Mrs Ogilvy, but it would not be pleasant reading for you.”
“But is there danger?” she said, her face colouring and fading under her old friend’s eye, as she watched every word that fell from his lips.
“Well,” he said, “with a thing like that hanging over a man’s head, it’s rash to say that there’s no danger; but these wild offeecials in the wild parts of America—sheriffs they seem to call them—riding the country with a wild posse, and a revolver in every man’s hand—bless me, very unlike our sheriffs here!—have not their eyes fixed on Mid-Lothian nor any country place hereaway, we may be sure. They will look far before they will look for him here.”
“But is it him—him, my son—that they are looking for, my Robbie?” she said, with a sharp cry.
“I think I can give you a little comfort in that too—it’s not him in the first place, nor yet in the second. But he was there—and he was one of them,or supposed to be one of them. Mistress Ogilvy,” said the old gentleman, slowly and with emphasis, “we must be very merciful. A young lad gets mixed in with a set of these fellows—he has no thought what it’s going to lead to—then by the time he knows he’s so in with them, he has a false notion that his honour’s concerned. He thinks he would be a kind of a traitor if he deserted them,—and all the more when there’s danger concerned. I have some experience, as you will perhaps have heard,” he said, after a pause, with a break in his voice.
“God help us all!” she said, putting out her hand, her eyes dim with tears. He took it and grasped it, his hand trembling too.
“You may know by that I will do my very best for him,” he said, “as if he were my own.” Then resuming his business tones, “I would neither hide him nor put him forward, Mrs Ogilvy, if I were you. I would keep him at home as much as possible. And if the spirit moves him to come and tell me all about it—— Has he told you——?”
“Something—about not being one to stand an examination even if he should get off, and about some man—some man that might come after him: but he will not explain. I said, Was it a man he had wronged? and he cried with a great No! that it was one that had wronged him.”
“Ah! that’ll just be one of them: but let ushope none of these American ruffians will follow Robert here. No, no, that could not be; but, dear me, what a risk for you to run in that lonely house. I always said the Hewan was a bonnie little place, and I could understand your fancy for it, but very lonely, very lonely, Mrs Ogilvy. Lord bless us! if anything of that kind were to happen——! But no, no; across half the continent and the great Atlantic—and for what purpose? They would never follow him here.”
“I have never been frighted of my house, Mr Somerville; and now there is my son Robbie in it, a strong man, bless him!—and Andrew the gardener—and plenty of neighbours less than half a mile off—oh, much less than half a mile.”
“Do you keep money in the house?”
“Money! very little—just enough for my quarter’s payments, nothing to speak of—unless when William Tod at the croft comes up to pay me my rent.”
“Then keep none,” said Mr Somerville; “just take my word and ask no questions—keep none. It’s never safe in a lonely house; and let in no strange person. A man might claim to be Robert’s friend when he was no friend to Robert. But your heart’s too open and your faith too great. Send away your money to the bank and lock up your doors before the darkening, and keep every strange person at a safe distance.”
“But,” said Mrs Ogilvy, “where would be my faith then, and my peace of mind? Nobody has harmed me all my days—not a living creature—if it were not them that were of my own house,” she added, after a moment’s pause. “And who am I that I should distrust my neighbours?—no, no, Mr Somerville. There is Robbie to take care of me, if there was any danger. But I am not feared for any danger—unless it were for him—and you think there will be none for him?”
“That would be too much to say. If he were followed here by any of those ill companions—— Mind now, my dear lady. You say Robert will take care of you. It will be far more you that will have to take care of him.”
“I have done that all his days,” she said, with a smile and a sigh; “but, oh, he is beyond me now—a big, strong, buirdly man.”
They were Janet’s words, and it was in the light of Janet’s admiration that his mother repeated them. “I am scarcely higher than his elbow,” she said, with a more genuine impulse of her own. “And who am I to take care of a muckle strong man.”
“Mind!” cried the old gentleman, with a kind of solemnity, “that’s just the danger. If there’s cronies coming after him, Lord bless us, it may just be life or death. Steek your doors, Mrs Ogilvy, steek your doors. Let no stranger come near you. Andmind that it is you to take care of Robert, not him of you.”
She came away much shaken by this interview. And yet it was very difficult to frighten her, notwithstanding all her fears. Already as she came down the dusty stairs from Mr Somerville’s office, her courage began to return. Everybody had warned her of the danger of tramps and vagabonds for the last twenty years, but not a spoon had ever been stolen, nor a fright given to the peaceful inhabitants of the Hewan. No thief had ever got into the house, or burglar tried the windows that would have yielded so easily. And it could not be any friend of Robbie’s that would come for any small amount of money she could have, to his mother’s house. No, no. Violence had been done, there had been quarrels, and there had been bloodshed. But that was very different from Mr Somerville’s advices about the money in the house. Robbie’s friends might be dangerous men, they might lead him into many, many ill ways; but her little money—no, no, there could be nothing to do with that. She went home accordingly almost cheerfully. To be delivered from her own thoughts, and brought in face of the world, and taught to realise all that had happened as within the course of nature, and a thing to be faced and to be mended, not to lie down and die upon, was a great help to her. She would lockthe doors and fasten the windows as they all said. She would watch that no man should come near that was like to harm her son. To do even so much or so little as that for him, it would be something, something practical and real. She would not suffer her eyelids to slumber, nor her eyes to sleep. She would be her own watchman, and keep the house, that nothing harmful to her Robbie should come near. Oh, but for the pickle money! there was no danger for that. She would like to see what a paltry thief would do in Robbie’s hands.
With this in her mind she went back, her heart rising with every step. From the train she could see the back of the Hewan rising among the trees—not a desolate house any longer, for Robbie was there. How ill to please she had been, finding faults in him just because he was a boy no longer, but a man, with his own thoughts and his own ways! But to have been parted from him these few hours cleared up a great deal. She went home eagerly, her face regaining its colour and its brightness. She was going back not to an empty house, but to Robbie. It was as if this, and not the other mingled moment, more full of trouble than joy, was to be the mother’s first true meeting with her son after so many years.
WhenMrs Ogilvy reached, somewhat breathless, the height of the little brae on which her own door, standing wide open in the sunshine, offered her the usual unconscious welcome which that modest house in its natural condition held out to every comer, it was with a pang of disappointment she heard that Robert had gone out. For a moment her heart sank. She had been looking forward to the sight of him. She had felt that to-day, after her short absence, she would see him without prejudice, able to make allowance for everything, not looking any longer for her Robbie of old, but accustomed and reconciled to the new—the mature man into which inevitably in all these years he must have grown. She had hurried home, though the walk from the station was rather too much for her, to realise these expectations, eager, full of love and hope. Her heart fluttered a little: the light went out of her eyes fora moment; she sat down, all the strength gone out of her. But this was only for a moment. “To be sure, Janet,” she said, “he has gone in to Edinburgh to—see about his luggage. I mean, to get himself some—things he wanted.” Janet had a long face, as long as a winter’s night and almost as dark. Her mistress could have taken her by the shoulders and shaken her. What right had she to take it upon her to misdoubt her young master, or to be so anxious as that about him—as if she were one that had a right to be “meeserable” whatever might happen?
“Could he not have gane with you, mem, when you were going in yoursel’?”
“He was not ready,” said Mrs Ogilvy, feeling herself put on her defence.
“You might have waited, mem, till the next train——”
“If you will know,” cried Mrs Ogilvy, indignant, “my boy liked best to be free, to take his own way—and I hope there is no person in this house that will gainsay that.”
“Eh, mem, I’m aware it’s no for me to speak—but so soon, afore he has got accustomed to being at hame—and with siller in his pouch.”
“What do you know about his siller in his pouch?” cried the angry mistress.
“I saw the notes in his hand. He’s aye verynice to me,” said Janet, not without a little pleasure in showing how much more at his ease Robert was with her than with his mother, “and cracks about everything. He just showed me in his hand—as many notes as would build a kirk. He said: ‘See how liberal——’”Janet stopped here, a little confused; for what Robert had said was, “See how liberal the old woman is.” She liked to give her mistress the tiniest pin-prick, perhaps, but not the stab of a disrespect like that.
“I wish to be liberal,” said Mrs Ogilvy. “I am very glad he was pleased: and I knew he was going,—there was nothing out of the way about it that you should meet me with such a long face. I thought nothing less than that he must be ill after all his fatigues and his travels.”
“Oh, no a bit of him,” said Janet—“no ill: I never had ony fears about that.”
Mrs Ogilvy by this time had quite recovered herself. “He will have a good many things to do,” she said. “He will never be able to get back to his dinner. I hope he’ll get something comfortable to eat in Edinburgh. You can keep back the roast of beef till the evening, Janet, and just give me some little thing: an egg will do and a cup of tea——”
“You will just get your dinner as usual,” said Janet, doggedly, “as you did before, when you were in your natural way.”
When she was in her natural way! It was a cruel speech, but Mrs Ogilvy took no notice. She did not fight the question out, as Janet hoped. If she shed a few tears as she took off her things in her bedroom, they were soon wiped away and left no traces. Robbie could not be tied to her apron-strings. She knew that well, if Janet did not know it. And what could be more natural than that he should like to buy his clothes and get what he wanted by himself, not with an old wife for ever at his heels? She strengthened herself for a quiet day, and then the pleasure of seeing him come back.
But it was wonderful how difficult it was to settle for a quiet day. She had never felt so lonely, she thought, or the house so empty. It had been empty for fifteen years, but it was long since she had felt it like this, every room missing the foot and the voice and the big presence, though it was but two days since he came back. But she settled herself with an effort, counting the trains, and making out that before five o’clock it would be vain to look for him. He would have to go to the tailor’s, and to buy linen, and perhaps shoes, and a hat—maybe other things which do not in a moment come to a woman’s mind. No; it could not be till five o’clock, or perhaps even six. He would have a great many things to do. She would not even wonder, she said to herself, if it were later. He would, no doubt, just walk abouta little and look at things that were new since he went away. There were some more of these statues in the Princes Street Gardens. Mrs Ogilvy did not care for them herself, but Robbie would. A young man, noticing everything, he would like to see all that was new.
A step on the gravel roused her early in the afternoon—the swing of the gate, and the sound of the gradually nearing footstep. Ah, that was him! earlier than she had hoped for, knowing she would be anxious, making his mother’s heart to sing for joy. She watched discreetly behind the curtain, that he might not think she was looking out for him, or had any doubts about his early return. Poor Mrs Ogilvy! she was well used to that kind of disappointment, but it seemed like a blow full in her face now, a stroke she had not the least expected, when she saw that it was not Robbie that was coming, but the minister—the minister of all people—who had the right of old friendships to ask questions, and to have things explained to him, and who was doubtless coming now to ask if she had been ill yesterday,—for when had it happened before that she had not been in her usual place in the kirk? She sat down faint and sick, but after a moment came round again, saying to herself that it would have been impossible for Robbie to get back so soon, and that she richly deserved a disappointment that she had brought on herself.When Mr Logan came in she was seated in her usual chair (she had moved it from its old place since Robert seemed to like that, placing for him a bigger chair out of the dining-room, which suited him better), and having her usual looks, so that he began by saying that he need not ask if she had been unwell, for she was just as blooming as ever. Having said this, the minister fell into a sort of brown study, with a smile on his face, and a look which was a little sheepish, as if he did not know what more to say. He asked no questions, and he did not seem even to have heard anything, for there was no curiosity in his face. Mrs Ogilvy made a few short remarks on the weather, and told him she had been in Edinburgh that morning, which elicited from him nothing more than a “Dear me!” of the vaguest interest. Not a word about Robbie, not a question did he ask. She had been alarmed at the idea of these questions. She was still more alarmed and wondering when they did not come.
“I had a call from Susie—the other day,” she said at last. Was it possible that it was only on Saturday—the day that was now a marked day, above all others, the day that Robbie came home!
“Ay!” said the minister, for the first time looking up. “Would she have anything to tell you? I’m thinking, Mrs Ogilvy, Susie has no secrets from you.”
“I never heard she had any secrets. She is a realupright-minded, well-thinking woman. I will not say bairn, though she will always be a bairn to me——”
“No, she’s no bairn,” said the minister, shaking his head. “Two-and-thirty well-chappit, as the poor folk say. She should have been married long ago, and with bairns of her own.”
“And how could she be married, I would like to ask you,” cried Mrs Ogilvy, indignant, “with you and your family to look after? And never mother has done better by her bairns than Susie has done by you and yours.”
“I am saying nothing against that. I am saying she has had the burden on her far too long. I told you before her health is giving way under it,” the minister said. He spoke with a little heat, as of a man crossed and contradicted in a statement of fact of which he was sure.
“I see no signs of that,” Mrs Ogilvy said.
“I came up the other night,” he went on, “to open my mind to you if I could, but you gave me no encouragement. Things have gone a little further since then. Mrs Ogilvy, you’re a great authority with Susie, and the parish has much confidence in you. I would like you to be the first to know—and perhaps you would give me your advice. It is not as to the wisdom of what I’m going to do. I am just fairly settled upon that, and my mind made up——”
“You are going—to marry again,” she said.
He gave a quick look upward, his middle-aged countenance growing red, the complacent smile stealing to the corners of his mouth. “So you’ve guessed that!”
“I have not guessed it—it was very clear to see—— both from her and from you.”
“You’ve guessed the person, too,” he said, the colour deepening, and the smile turning to a confused laugh.
“There was no warlock wanted to do that; but what my advice would be for, I cannot guess, Mr Logan, for, if your mind’s fixed and all settled——”
“I did not say just as much as that; but—well, very near it. Yes, very near it. I cannot see how in honour I could go back.”
“And you’ve no wish to do so. And what do you want with advice?” Mrs Ogilvy said.
She was severe, though she was thankful to him for his preoccupation, and that he had no leisure at his command to ask questions or to pry into other people’s affairs.
“Me,” he said; “that’s but one side of the subject. There’s Susie. It’s perhaps not quite fair to Susie. I’ve stood in her way, you may say. She’s been tangled with the boys—and me. There’s no companion for a man, Mrs Ogilvy, like the wife of his bosom; but Susie—I would be the last to deny it—has been a good daughter to me.”
“It would set you ill, or any man, to deny it!” cried Mrs Ogilvy. “And what are you going to do for Susie, Mr Logan? A sister that keeps your house, you just say Thank you, and put her to the door; but your daughter—you’re always responsible for her——”
“Till she’s married,” he said, giving his severe judge a shamefaced glance.
“Have you a man ready to marry her, then?” she asked, sharply.
“It’s perhaps not the man that has ever been wanting,” said the minister, with a half laugh.
“And how are you going to do without Susie?” said Mrs Ogilvy, always with great severity. “Who is to see the callants off to Edinburgh every morning, and learn the little ones their lessons? It will be a great handful for a grand lady like yon.”
“That’s just a mistake that is very painful to me,” said Mr Logan. “The lady that is going to be—my wife——”
“Your second wife, Mr Logan,” said Mrs Ogilvy, with great severity.
“I am meaning nothing else—my second wife—is not a grand lady, as you all suppose. She is just a sweet, simple woman—that would be pleased to do anything.”
“Is she going to learn the little ones their lessons, and be up in the morning to give the boys their breakfasts and see them away?”
Mr Logan waved his hand, as a man forestalled in what he was about to say. “There is no need for all that,” he said—“not the least need. The servant that has been with them all their days is just very well capable of seeing that they get off in time. And as for the little ones, I have heard of a fine school—in England.”
Mrs Ogilvy threw up her arms with a cry. “A school—in England!”
“Which costs very little, and is just an excellent school—for the daughters of clergymen—but, I confess, it’s clergymen of the other church: it is not proved yet if a Scotch minister will be allowed——”
“A thing that’s half charity,” said Mrs Ogilvy, scornfully. “I did not think, Mr Logan, that you, that are come of well-kent folk, would demean yourself to that.”
“She says—I mean, I’m told,” said the poor man, “that it’s sought after by the very best. The English have not our silly pride. When a thing is a good thing and freely offered——”
“You will not get it, anyway,” said Mrs Ogilvy, quickly. “You’re not a clergyman according to the English way. You’re a Scotch minister. But if all this is to be done, I’m thinking it means that there will be no place for Susie at all in her father’s house.”
“She will marry,” the minister said.
“And how can you tell that she will marry? Is she to do it whether she will or not? There might bemore reasons than one for not marrying. It’s not any man she wants, but maybe just one man.”
Mrs Ogilvy thought she was well aware what it was that had kept Susie from marrying. Alas, alas! what would she think of him now if she saw him, and how could she bear to see the wonder and the pain reflected in Susie’s face?
“I thought,” said Mr Logan, rising up, “that I would have found sympathy from you. I thought you would have perceived that it was as much for Susie I was thinking as for myself. She will never break the knot till it’s done for her. She thinks she’s bound to those bairns; but when she sees they are all provided for without her——”
“The boys by the care of a servant. The little ones in a school that is just disguised charity——”
“You’re an old friend, Mrs Ogilvy, but not old enough or dear enough to treat my arrangements like that.”
“Oh, go away, minister!” cried the mistress of the Hewan. She was beginning to remember that Robbie’s train might come in at any moment, and that she would not for the world have him brought face to face with Mr Logan without any warning or preparation. “Go away! for we will never agree on this point. I’ve nothing to say against you for marrying. If your heart’s set upon it, you’ll do it, well I know; but to me Susie and the bairns are the first thing, and notthe second. Say no more, say no more! for we’ll never agree.”
“You’ll not help me, then?” he said.
“Help you! how am I to help you? I have nothing to do with it,” she cried.
“With Susie,” he repeated. “I’ll not quarrel with you: you mean well, though you’re so severe. There is nobody like you that could help me with Susie. You could make her see my position—you could make her see her duty——”
“If it is her duty,” Mrs Ogilvy said.
She could scarcely hear what he said in reply. Was that the gate again? and another step on the gravel? Her heart began to choke and to deafen her, beating so loud in her ears. Oh, if she could but get him away before Robbie, with his rough clothes, his big beard, his air of recklessness and vagabondism, should appear! She felt herself walking before him to the door, involuntarily moving him on, indicating his path. I think he was too deeply occupied with his own affairs to note this; but yet he was aware of something repellent in her aspect and tone. It was just like all women, he said to himself: to hear that a poor man was to get a little comfort to himself with a second wife roused up all their prejudices. He might have known.
It was time for Robbie’s train when she got her visitor away. She sat down and listened to his footstepsretiring with a great relief. That sound of the gate had been a mistake. How often, how often had it been a mistake! She lingered now, sitting still, resting from the agitation that had seized upon her till the minister’s steps died away upon the road. And as soon as they were gone, listened, listened over again, with her whole heart in her ears, for the others that now should come.
It was six o’clock past! If he had come by this train he must have been here, and there was not another for more than an hour. He must have been detained. He must have been looking about the new things in the town, the new buildings, the things that had been changed in fifteen years, things that at his age were just the things a young man would remember; or perhaps the tailor might be altering something for him that he had to go back to try on, or perhaps—— It would be all right anyway. What did six o’clock matter, or half-past seven, or whatever it was? It was a fine light summer night; there was plenty of time,—and nobody waiting for him but his mother, that could make every allowance. And it was not as if he had anything to do at home. He had nothing to do. And his first day in Edinburgh after so many years.
She was glad, however, to hear the step of Janet, so that she could call her without rising from her seat, which somehow she felt too tired and feeble to do.
“Janet,” she said, “you will just keep back the dinner. Mr Robert has been detained. I’ve been thinking all day that perhaps he might be detained, maybe even later than this. If we said eight o’clock for once? It’s a late hour; but better that than giving him a bad dinner, neither one thing nor another, neither hot nor cold. Where were you going, my woman?” Mrs Ogilvy added abruptly, with a suspicious glance.
“I was just gaun to take a look out. I said to mysel’ I would just look out and see if he was coming: for it’s very true, you say, a dinner in the dead thraws, neither hot nor cauld, is just worse than no dinner at all.”
“Just bide in your kitchen,” said her mistress, peremptorily. “I’ll let you know when my son comes.”
“Oh, I’ll hear soon enough,” Janet said. And then the mother was left alone. But not undisturbed: for presently Andrew’s slow step came round the corner, with a clanking of waterpots and the refreshing sounds and smell of watering—that tranquil employment, all in accord with the summer evening, when it was always her custom to go out and have a talk with Andrew about the flowers. She did not feel as if she could move to-night—her feet were cold and like lead, her cheeks burning, and her heart clanging in her throat.Nevertheless the bond of custom being on her, and a strong sense that to fulfil every usual occupation was the most satisfying exercise, she presently rose and went out, the pleasant smell of the refreshed earth and thirsty plants, bringing out all the sweetest home breath of the flowers, coming to meet her as she went forth to the open door.
“It’s very good for them, Andrew, after this warm day.”
“Ay, it’s good for them,” Andrew said.
“You will mind to shut up everything as soon as my son comes home,” she said.
“Oh ay,” said Andrew, “there was plenty said about it yestreen.”
“The sweet-williams are coming on nicely, Andrew.”
“Ah,” said Andrew, “they’re common things; they aye thrive.”
“They are very bonnie,” said Mrs Ogilvy; “I like them better than your grand geraniums and things.”
“There’s nae accounting for tastes,” Andrew said, in his gruff voice.
By this time she felt that she could not continue the conversation any longer, and went back to her chair inside. The sound of the flowing water, and even of Andrew clanking as he moved, was sweet to her. The little jar and clang fell sweetly into the evening, and they were so glad of that refreshingshower, the silly flowers! though maybe it would rain before the morning, and they would not need it. Then Andrew—though nobody could say he was quick, honest man!—finished his task and went in. And there was a great quiet, the quiet of the falling night, though the long light remained the same. And the time passed for the next train. Janet came to the door again with her heavy step. “He will no be coming till the nine train,” she said; “will you have the dinner up?” “Oh no,” cried Mrs Ogilvy; “I’ll not sit down to a big meal at this hour of the night. Put out the beef to let it cool, and it will be supper instead of dinner, Janet.”
“But you’ve eaten nothing, mem, since——”
“Am I thinking of what I eat! Go ben to your kitchen, and do what I tell you, and just leave me alone.”
Janet went away, and the long vigil began again. She sat a long time without moving, and then she took a turn about the house, looking into his room for one thing, and looking at the piles of books that he had carried up-stairs. There were few traces of him about, for he had nothing to leave behind,—only the big rough cloak, of a shape she had never seen before, which was folded on a chair. She lifted it, with a natural instinct of order, to hang it up, and found falling from a pocket in it a big badly printed newspaper, the same newspaper in which MrSomerville had showed her her son’s name. She took it with her half consciously when she went down-stairs, but did not read it, being too much occupied with the dreadful whirl of her own thoughts. Nine o’clock passed too, and the colourless hours ran on. And then there was the sound all over the house of Andrew fulfilling his orders, shutting up every window and door. When he came to the parlour to shut the window by which she sat, his little mistress, always so quiet, almost flew at him. “Man, have you neither sense nor reason!” she cried. It was more than she could bear to shut and bar and bolt when nobody was there that either feared or could come to harm. No one disturbed her after that. The couple in the kitchen kept very quiet, afraid of her. Deep night came on; the last of all the trains rumbled by, making a great crash in the distance in the perfect stillness. There had been another time like this, when she had watched the whole night through. And midnight came and went again, and as yet there was no sound.
Whenone struck on the big kitchen clock, with an ominous sound like a knell, Janet, trying to reduce her big step to an inaudible footfall, came “ben” again. She found her mistress sitting still idly as if she were dead, the lamp burning solemnly, not the sound even of a breath in the room. “No stocking in her hands, not even reading a book,” Janet said. For a moment, indeed, with a quick impulse of fear, the woman thought that Mrs Ogilvy had died in the new catastrophe. “Oh, mem, mem!” she cried, and in an instant there was a faint stir.
“Well, Janet,” Mrs Ogilvy said in a stifled voice.
“Will ye sit up longer? A’ the trains are passed, and long passed. He will be coming in the morning; he must just—have missed the last.”
“I am not going to my bed just yet,” the mistress said.
“But, mem, you will be worn out. You have just had no meat and no sleep and no rest, and you’ll be weariet to death.”
“And what would it matter if I was?” she answered, with a faint smile.
“Oh, dinna say that; how can we tell what may be wanted of you, and needing a’ your strength?”
Mrs Ogilvy roused herself at these words. “And that’s quite true,” she said. “You have more sense than anybody would expect; you are a lesson to me, that have had plenty reason to know better. But, nevertheless, I will not go to my bed yet—not just yet. I can get a good sleep in this chair.”
“With the window open, mem, in the dead of the night, after all Mr Robert said!”
“Do you call that the dead of the night?” said the mistress. And the two women looked out silenced in the great hush and awe of that pause of nature between the night and the day. It was like no light that ever was on sea or land, though itisdaily, nightly, for watchers and sleepless souls. It was lovely and awful—a light in which everything hidden in the dark came to life again, like the light alone of the watchful eyes of Him who slumbereth not nor sleeps. They felt Him contemplating them and their troubles, knowing what was to come of them, which they did not, from the skies—and their hearts were hushed within them: there was silence for a moment, theprofound silence that reigned out and in, in which they were as the trees.
Then Mrs Ogilvy started and cried, “What is that?” Was it anything at all? There are sounds that enhance the silence, just as there are discords that increase the harmony of music—sounds of insects stirring in their sleep, of leaves falling, of a grain of sand losing its balance and rolling over on the way. Janet heard nothing. She shook her head in her big white cap. And then suddenly her mistress gripped her with a force that no one could have suspected to be in those soft old hands. “Now, listen! There’s somebody on the road, there’s somebody at the gate!”
I will not describe the heats and chills of the moment that elapsed before the big loose figure appeared on the walk, coming on leisurely, with a perceptible air of fatigue. “Ah, you’re up still,” he said, as he came within hearing. Janet had flown to open the door for him, undoing all the useless bars, making a wonderful noise in the night. “I could have stepped in through the window,” he said. “You’ve walked from Edinburgh,” cried Janet; “you must be wanting some supper.” “I would not object to a little cold meat,” he said, with a laugh. His tone was always pleasant to Janet. His mother stood and listened to this colloquy within the parlour door. She must have been angry, you would say, jealous that her maidshould be more kindly used by her son than she, exasperated by his heedless selfishness. She was none of all those things. Her heart was like a well, a fountain of thankfulness welling up before God: her whole being over-flooded with sudden relief and sweet content.
“How imprudent with that window open—in the middle of the night; how can you tell who may be about?” were the first words he said, going up himself to the window and closing it and the shutters over it hastily. “I’m sorry I’m late,” he said afterwards. “I missed the last train, and then I think I missed the road. I’ve been a long time getting here. These confounded light nights; you’ve no shelter at all, however late you walk.”
“You will be tired, my dear.” He had brought in an atmosphere with him that filled in a moment this little dainty old woman’s room. It was greatly made up of tobacco, but there was also whisky in it and other odours indiscriminate, the smell of a man who had been smoking all day and drinking all day, though the latter process had not affected his seasoned senses. Of all things horrible to her this was the most horrible: it made her faint and sick. But he was, of course, quite unconscious of any such effect, nor did he notice the paleness that had come over her face.
“Yes, I am tired,” he said; “Janet’s suggestion wasnot a bad idea. I have not walked so far for years. A horse between my legs, and I would not mind a dozen times the distance; but I’ve got out of the use of my own feet.” He spoke more naturally, with a lighter heart than he had shown yet. “I have not had a bad day. I looked up some of the old howffs. Nobody there that remembered me, but still it was a little like old times.”
“Wouldn’t you be better, Robbie, oh my dear, to keep away from the old howffs?” she said, trembling a little.
“It was to be expected that you would say that. If you mean for the present affair, no; if you mean for general good behaviour, perhaps yes; but it is early days. I may surely take a little licence the first days I am back. There are some of your new clothes,” he added, tossing down a bundle, “and more will be ready in a day or two. I’ve rigged myself out from head to foot. But I wouldn’t have them sent out here. I’m not too fond of an address. I promised to call for them on Saturday.”
The poor mother’s heart was transfixed as with a sudden arrow. This, then, would be repeated again; once more she would have to watch the day out and half the night through—and again, no doubt, and again.
“There’s Janet as good as her word,” he said, as the sound of her proceedings in the next room becameaudible. And he ate an immense meal in the middle of the night, the light growing stronger every moment in the crevices of the shutters. I don’t know what there is that is wholesome, almost meritorious, in the consumption of food. Mrs Ogilvy forgot the smell of the tobacco and the whisky in the pleasure of seeing the roast beef disappear in large slices from his plate. “It was a pleasure to see him eating,” she said afterwards to Janet. Yes, it is somehow wholesome and meritorious. It implies a good digestion, not spoiled by other pernicious things; it implies (almost) an easy mind and a peaceful conscience, and something like innocence in a man. A good meal, not voracious, as of a creature starving, but eaten with good appetite, with satisfaction,—it is a kind of certificate of morality which many a poor woman has hailed with delight. They have their own way of looking at things.
And thus the evening and the morning made a new day.
The next day, before she left her room, Mrs Ogilvy took the newspaper, which she had laid carefully aside, and read for the first time—locking her door first, which was a thing she had scarcely done all her life before—the story of the crime which had thrown a shadow over her son, and had made him “cut and run,” as he said, for his life. She had to read it three or four times over before she could make out what it meant, and even then her understanding was not veryclear. For one thing, she had not, as was natural, the remotest idea what “road agents” were. Mercifully for her: for I believe, though I know as little as she, that it means, not to put too fine a point upon it, highwaymen, neither more nor less. A party of these men—she thought it must mean some kind of travelling merchants; not perhaps a brilliant career, but no harm in it, no harm in it!—had been long about the country, a country of which she had never heard the name, in a half-settled State equally unknown, and at length had been traced to their headquarters. They had been pursued hotly by the Sheriff for some time. To Mrs Ogilvy a sheriff meant an elderly gentleman in correct legal costume, a person of serious importance, holding his courts and giving his judgments. She could not realise to herself the Sheriff-Substitute of Eskshire riding wildly over moss and moor after any man; but no doubt in America it was different. It was proved that the road agents had sworn vengeance against him, and that whoever met him first was pledged to shoot him, whether he himself could escape or not. The meeting took place by chance at a roadside shanty in the midst of the wilds, and the Sheriff was shot, before his party had perceived the other, by a premeditated well-directed bullet straight to the heart. Who had fired it? The most likely person was the leader of the band, of whom the Western journalist gave a sensational history, and to secure him wasthe object of the police; but there were half-a-dozen others who might have done it, and whom it was of the utmost importance to secure, if only in the hope that one of them might turn Queen’s evidence. (I don’t know what they call this in America, nor, indeed, anything but what I have heard vaguely reported of such matters. The better instructed will pardon and rectify for themselves.) Among these, but at the end—heaven be praised, at the end!—was the name of Robert. The band had dispersed in different directions and fled, all but one, who was killed.
When she had got all this more or less distinctly into her mind, she read the story of the captain of the band, Lewis or Lew Winterman, with a dozen aliases. He was a German by origin, though an American born. He spoke English with a slight German accent. He was large and tall and fair, of great strength, and very ingratiating manners. He had gone through a hundred adventures all told at length. He had ruined both men and women wherever he took his fatal way. He was a hero of romance, he was a monster of cruelty. Slaughter and bloodshed were his natural element. He was known to have an extraordinary ascendancy over his band, so that there was nothing they would not do while under his influence; though, when free from him, they hated and feared him. Thus every man of the party was the object of pursuit, if not for himself, yet in hopes offinding some clue to the whereabouts of this master ruffian, whose gifts were such that, though he would not recoil from the most cold-blooded murder, he could also wheedle the bird from the tree. Mrs Ogilvy carefully locked this dreadful paper away again with trembling hands. It took her a little trouble to find a safe place to which there was a lock and key, but she did so at last. And when she went down-stairs it was with a feeling that Mr Somerville’s prayer to steek her doors, and Robbie’s concern for the fastening of all the windows, were perhaps justified; but what would bring a man like that over land and sea—what would bring him here to the peaceful Hewan? No, no; it was not a thing for any reasonable person to fear. There were plenty of places in the world to take refuge in more like such a man. What would he do here?—he could find nothing to do here. America, Mrs Ogilvy had always heard, was a very big place, far bigger than England and Scotland and Ireland put together. He must have plenty of howffs there. And if not America, there was Germany, which they said he came from, or other places on the Continent, far, far more likely to have hiding-holes for a criminal than the country about Edinburgh. No, no. No, no. Therefore there was no fear.
When Robert came down-stairs, which was not till late, he was a little improved in appearance by a newcoat, but not so much as his mother had hoped. She was disappointed, though in face of the other things this was such a very small matter. He was just a backwoodsman, a bushman, whatever you call it, still. He had not got back that air of a gentleman which had been his in his youth—that most prized and precious thing, which is more than beauty, far more than fine clothes or good looks. This gave her a pang: but then there were many things that gave her a pang, though all subsided in the thought that he was here, that he had come back guiltless and uninjured from Edinburgh, notwithstanding the anxiety he had given her. But was it not her own fault that she was anxious, always imagining some dreadful thing? After his breakfast (again such an excellent breakfast, quite unaffected by his late hours or his large supper!) he came to her into the parlour with the ‘Scotsman,’ which Janet had brought him, in his hand. “I thought you would like to hear,” he said, carefully closing the door after him. “You remember that man I mentioned to you?”
“Yes, Robbie,”—she had almost said the man’s name, but refrained.
“There is no word of him,” he said. “That was one thing I was anxious about. There are places where—communications are kept up. I had an address in Edinburgh to inquire.”
“What has he to do with Edinburgh?” she cried in dismay.
“Nothing; but there’s a kind of a communication, everywhere. Nothing has been heard of him. So long as nothing is heard of him I can breathe free. There’s no reason he should come here——”
“Come here! For what would he come here?”
“How can I tell? If you knew the man——”
“God forbid I should ever know the man,” she cried with fervour.
“I say Amen to that. But if you knew him, you would know it’s the place that is least likely which is the place where he appears.”
“It may be so,” Mrs Ogilvy said; “but a place like this—a small bit house deep in the bosom of the country, and nothing but quiet country-folk about——”
“What is that but the best of places for a hunted man? He said once that if I ever came home he would come after me—that it was just the place he wanted to lie snug in, where nobody would think of looking for him. You think me a fool to be so anxious about the bolts and the bars; but the room might be empty one moment, and the next you might look round, and he would be there.”
Though it was morning, before noon, and the safety of the full day was upon the house, with its open windows, he cast a doubtful suspicious glance round,as if afraid of seeing some one behind him even now.
“Robbie,” said Mrs Ogilvy, “there is no man that has to do with you, were he good or bad, that I would close my doors upon, except the shedder of blood. He shall not come here.”
“There is nothing I can refuse him,” cried the young man. “I would say so too. I say, Curse him; I hate his very name. He’s done me more harm than I can ever get the better of. I’ve seen him do things that would curdle your blood in your veins; but him there and me here, standing before each other—there is nothing I can refuse him!” he cried.
“Robbie, you will think I am but a poor old woman,” said his mother, with her faltering voice. “I could not stand up, you will think, to any strange man; but the shedder of blood is like nothing else. It shall never be said of me that I harboured a shedder of blood.”
“Oh, mother! how can you tell—how can you tell?” he cried, “when I that know tell you that I could not refuse him anything. I am just his slave at his chariot-wheels.”
“But I am not his slave,” said Mrs Ogilvy, with a glitter of spirit in her eyes. “I can face him, though you may not think it. He shall never come here!”
He flung himself down into a chair, and put thenewspaper between her and himself, making a semblance of reading. But this he could not keep up: the stillness, and the peace, and the innocence about him affected the man, who, whatever he was now, had been born Robbie Ogilvy of the Hewan. He made a stifled sound in his throat once or twice as if about to speak, but brought forth no certain sound for some five minutes, when he suddenly burst forth in a high but broken voice, “What would you say if I were to tell you——?” and suddenly stopped again.
“What, Robbie?” she said, quivering like a leaf.
“Nothing,” he replied, looking up with sudden defiance in her face.
And there was a silence again in the room—the silence of the sweet morning: not a sound to break the calm: the birds in the trees, the scent of the roses coming in at the window—there was no such early place for roses in all Mid-Lothian—and the house basking in the sun, and the sun shining on the house, as if there was no roof-tree so beloved in all the basking and breathing earth. Then the voice of the little old lady uplifted itself in the midst of all that peace of nature—small, like her delicate frame; low—a little sound that could have been put out so easily,—almost, you would have said, that a sudden breath of wind would have put it out.
“Robbie, my son,” she said, “there is nothing you could tell me, or that any man could tell me, that would put bar or bolt between you and me. What is yours is mine, if there is any trouble to bear; and thankful will I be to take my share. There is no question nor answer between you and me. If you’ve been wild in the world, my own laddie, I’ve been here on my knees for you before the Lord. Whatever there is to tell, tell it to Him, and He will not turn His back upon you. Then, do you think your mother will? But that’s not the question—not the question. My house is my own house, and I will defend it and my son, and all that is in it—ay, if it were to the death!”
He looked at her for a moment, half impressed; but the glamour soon went out of Robert’s eyes. The reality was a very quiet feeble old woman, with the strength of a mouse, with a flash of high spirit such as he knew of old his mother possessed, and a voice that shook even while it pronounced this defiance of every evil thing. Short work would be made with that. He could remember scenes in which other old women had tried to protect their belongings, and short work had been made with them. He had never, never laid a finger on one himself. If he had ever dared to make his penitence, and could have disentangled his own story from that of those among whom he was, it might have been seen how little real guiltthere ever was in his disorderly wretched life; but he could not disentangle it, even to himself: he felt himself guilty of many things in which he had had no share. Even in the confusion of the remorse that sometimes came upon him, he believed himself to have executed orders which were never given to him. The only thing he was not doubtful about was where these orders came from, and that if the same voice spoke them again suddenly at any moment, it would be his immediate impulse to obey.
And after this he took up the ‘Scotsman,’—that honest peaceable paper, with its clever articles, and its local records, and consciousness of the metropolitan dignity which has paled a little in the hurry and flash of the times—the paper that goes to every Scotsman’s heart, whatever may be his politics, throughout the world, which everywhere, even in busy London, compatriots will offer to each other as something always dear. Wild as his life had been, and distracted as he now was, the sight and the sound of the ‘Scotsman’ was grateful to Robert Ogilvy. The paper in his hands not only shielded his face from observation, but gradually calmed him down, drew back his interest, and, wonder of wonders, occupied his mind. He had himself said he could always read. After this scene, with its half revelation and its overmastering dread, he in a few minutes read the ‘Scotsman’ as if there had been neither crime norpunishment in the world. And Mrs Ogilvy had already taken up her knitting; but what was in her heart, still throbbing and aching with the energy of that outburst, and how much less quickly the high tide died down, I will not venture to say.