ROBERT had led the way sullenly into the dining-room. He had made as though he would not sit down at table, where the other placed himself at once unceremoniously, pulling towards him the dish which Janet had just placed on the table, and helping himself eagerly—waiting for no grace, giving no thanks, nor even the tribute of civility to his entertainers, as Mrs Ogilvy remarked in passing, though her mind was full of other and more important things. “I’m too tired, I think, to eat; I’ll go to bed, mother,” Robbie said. Mrs Ogilvy seized the chance of separating him from the other with rapture. She ventured—it was not always she could do so—to give him a good-night kiss on his cheek, and whispered, “I will send you up something,” unwilling that he should suffer by so much as a spoilt meal.
“What! are you going to leave me in the lurch, Bob? steal another march on me, now I’ve thrown myself like an innocent on your good faith? That’s not like a bon camarade. I thought we were to stick to each other for life or death.”
“I never bargained—you were to come here and frighten my mother.”
“No, no,” she cried; “no, no,” with her hand on his arm patting it softly, endeavouring to lead him away.
“Your mother’s not frightened, old boy. She’s full of pluck, and we’re the best of friends. It’s you that are frightened. You think I’ve got hold of you again. So I have, and you’re not going to give me the slip so soon. Sit down and don’t be uncivil. I never yet got the good of a dinner by myself.”
Mrs Ogilvy held her son’s arm with her hand. She felt the thrill in him turning towards his old comrade, though he did not move. Perhaps the pressure of her hand was too strong on his arm. A woman does not know exactly how far to go. An added hair’s-breadth is sometimes too much.
“I don’t want to be uncivil,” said Robbie, after a moment’s hesitation. “After all, I think I’ll try to eat a morsel, mother; I’m in my own place. And you asked him in, I suppose; he’s in a manner your guest——”
“If you think so, Robbie——” Her hand loosened from his arm. Perhaps if she had been firm at that moment,—but she had already been fighting for a long time; and when a woman is old she gets tired. Her legs were trembling under her. She did not feel as if she could stand many minutes longer. She did, however; while Robbie, with an air of much sullenness and reluctance, took his place at the table, and secured the remains of the dish which his friend had nearly emptied. Robert held his place as host with an air of offended dignity, which would have touched his mother with amusement had her mind been more free. But there was no strength in him; already he was yielding to the stronger personality; and as he ate and listened, though in spite of himself, it was clear that one by one the reluctances gave way. Mrs Ogilvy did not pretend to take part in the meal. It was prepared for Robbie, as was always the case when he went to Edinburgh and returned late. She remained in the room for a time, sometimes going to the kitchen to see what more could be found to replenish the table,—for the stranger ate as if he had fasted for a twelvemonth, and Robbie on his part had always an excellent appetite. How it did not choke them even to swallow a morsel in the situation of danger in which they were, bewildered her. And greater wonders still arose. As she went and came, the conversation quickened between them; and when she came back the second time from the kitchen, Robbie was leaning back in his chair, his mouth open in a great peal of laughter, his countenance so brightened and smoothed out, that for the first time since his return Mrs Ogilvy’s heart bounded with a recognition of her bright-faced smiling boy as he had been, but was no more. His face overcast again for a moment at the sight of her, as if that was enough to damp all pleasurable emotion; and when she had again looked round the table to see if anything was wanted, the mother, with a little movement of wounded pride, left them. She went into her parlour, and sat down in the dark, in the silence, to rest a little. If her overstrained nerves and the quick sensation of the wound of the moment brought a tear or two to her eyes, that was nothing. Her mind immediately began to plan and arrange how this dangerous stranger could be got away, how his safety could be secured. I presume that Mrs Ogilvy had forgotten what his crime was. Is it not impossible to believe that a man who is under your own roof, who is like other men, who has smiled and spoken, and shown no barbarous tendency, should be a murderer? The consciousness of that had gone out of her mind. She thought, on the contrary, that there was good in him: that he was not without understanding, even of herself, an old woman, which was, Mrs Ogilvy was aware, unusual among young men. He had no contempt for her, which was what they generally had, even Robbie: perhaps—it was at least within the bounds of possibility—he might be got to do what she suggested. She searched into all the depths to find out what would be the best. To provide a place for him more private than the Hewan, a room in a cottage which she knew, where he would be made quite comfortable; and then, after great thought taken, where would be the best and safest refuge, to get him to depart thither, with money enough—money which, with a faint pang to lose it for Robbie, she felt would be well-spent money to free him for ever from that dangerous companion. Mrs Ogilvy thought, and better thought, as she herself described the process: where would be the safest place for him to go? How would one of the Highland isles do, or the Isle of Man, or perhaps these other islands which she believed were French, though that would most likely make no difference—Guernsey or Jersey, or some of these? She was strongly, in her mind, in favour of an island. It was not so easy to get at, and yet it was easy to escape from should there be any pursuit. She thought, and better thought, sitting there in the dark, with the window still open, and the air of the night blowing in. The wind was cold rather; but her mind was so taken up that she scarcely felt it. It is when the mind is quite free that you have time to think of all these little things.
While she was sitting so quiet the conversation evidently warmed in the other room, the voices grew louder, there were peals of laughter, sounds of gaiety which had not been heard there for many a day. Mrs Ogilvy’s heart rose in spite of herself. She had not heard Robbie laugh like that—not since he was a boy. God bless him! And, oh, might she not say, God bless the other too, that made him laugh so hearty? He could not be all bad, that other one: certainly there was good in him. It was not possible that he could laugh like that, a man hunted for his life, if he had his conscience against him too. She began to think that there must be some mistake. And so great are the inconsistencies of human nature, that this mother who had repulsed the stranger with almost tragic passion so short a time ago, sat in the dark soothed and almost happy in his presence—almost glad that her Robbie had a friend. She heard Janet come and go, with a cheerful word addressed to her, and giving cheerful words in return and advice to the young men to go to their beds and not sit up till all the hours of the night. After one of these colloquies Robbie came into the room where Mrs Ogilvy was. “Are you here, mother?” he said, “sitting in the dark without a candle—and the window still open. I think it is your craze to keep these windows open, whatever I may say.”
“It can matter little now, Robbie—since he’s here.”
“Oh, since he’s here! and how about those that may come after him? But you never will see what I mean. There is more need than ever to bar the doors.” He closed the window himself with vehemence, and the shutters, leaving her in total darkness. “I will tell Janet to bring you a light,” he said.
“You need not do that: I will maybe go up-stairs.”
“To your bed—as Janet has been bidding us to do.”
“I’ll not promise” said Mrs Ogilvy; “I’ve many things to think of.”
“Never mind to-night; but there’s one thing I want of you,—your keys. Janet says the mistress locks everything up but just what is going. There is next to nothing in the bottle.”
“Oh, Robbie, my man, it’s neither good for him nor for you! It would be far better, as Janet says, to go to your beds.”
“It is a pretty thing,” said Robbie, “that I cannot entertain a friend, not for once, and he a stranger that has heard me boast of my home; and that you should grudge me the first pleasant night I have had in this miserable dull place.”
“Oh, Robbie!” she cried, as if he had given her a blow. And then trembling she put her keys into his hand, groping to find it in the dark. He went away with a murmur, whether of thanks or grumbling she could not tell, and left her thus to feel the full force of that flying stroke. Then she picked herself up again, and allowed to herself that it was a dull place for a young man that had been out in the world and had seen much. And it was natural that he should be pleased and excited, with a man to talk to. Almost all women are humble on this point. They do not hope that their men can be satisfied with their company, but are glad that they should have other men to add salt and savour to their life. It gave Mrs Ogilvy a pang to hear her gardevin unlocked, and the bottles sounding as they were taken out: but yet that he should make merry with his friend, was not that sanctioned by the very Scripture itself? She sat there a while trying to resume the course of her thoughts; but the sound of the talk, the laughing, the clinking of the glasses, filled the air and disordered all these thoughts. She went softly up-stairs after a while; but the sounds pursued her there almost more distinctly, for her room was over the dining-room,—the two voices in endless conversation, the laughter, the smell of their tobacco. You would have said two light-hearted laddies to hear them, Mrs Ogilvy said to herself: and one of them a hunted man, in danger of his life! She did not sleep much that night, nor even go to bed, but sat up fully dressed, the early daylight finding her out suddenly in her white shawl and cap when it came in, oh! so early, revealing the whole familiar world about,—giving her a surprise, too, to see herself in the glass, with her candle flickering on the table beside her. It was broad daylight—but they would not see it, their shutters being closed—before the sounds ceased, and she heard them stumbling up-stairs, still talking and making a great noise in the silence, to their rooms; and then after a while everything was still. And then she could think.
Then she could think! Oh, her plan was a very simple one, involving little thought,—first that house down the water, on the very edge of the river, where Andrew’s brother lived. It was as quiet a place as heart could desire, and a very nice room, where in her good days, in Robbie’s boyhood, in the time when there were often visitors at the Hewan, she had sent any guest she had not room for. Down the steep bank behind on which the Hewan stood, you could almost have slid down to the little house in the glen. There would be very little risk there. Robbie and he could see each other, and nobody the wiser; and then, after he was well rested, he would see the danger of staying in a place like the Hewan, where anybody at any moment might walk up to the door. And then the place must be chosen where he should go. If he would but go quiet to one of the islands, and be out of danger! Mrs Ogilvy’s mind was very much set on one of the islands; I cannot tell why. It seemed to her so much safer to be surrounded by the sea on every side. If he would consent to go to St Kilda or some place like that, where he would be as safe as a bird in its nest. Ah! but St Kilda—among the poor fisher-folk, where he would have no one to speak to. A chill came over her heart in the middle of her plans. Would he not laugh in her face if she proposed it? Would he go, however safe it might be? Did he care so much for his safety as that? She wrung her hands with a sense of impotence, and that all her fine plans, when she had made them, would come to nothing. She might plan and plan; but if he would not do it, what would her planning matter? If she planned for Robbie in the same way, would he do it? And she had no power over this strange man. Then after demonstrating to herself the folly of it, she began her planning all over again.
In the morning there were the usual pleasant sounds in the house of natural awakening and new beginning, and Mrs Ogilvy got up at her usual hour and dressed herself with her usual care. She saw, when she looked at herself in the glass, that she was paler than usual. But what did that matter for an old woman? She was not tired—she did not feel her body at all. She was all life and force and energy, thrilling to her finger-points with the desire of doing something—the ability to do whatever might be wanted. She would have gone off to St Kilda straight without the loss of a moment, if her doing so could have been of any avail. But of what avail could that have been? The early morning passed over in its usual occupations, and grew to noon before there was any stirring up-stairs. Then Janet, who had no responsibility, who had always kept her old footing with Robbie as his old nurse who might say anything and do anything—without gravity, laughing with him at herself and her old domineering ways, yet sometimes influencing him with her domineering more than his mother’s anxious love could do—Janet went boldly up-stairs with her jugs of hot water, and knocked at one door after another. Mrs Ogilvy then heard various stirrings, shouts to know what was wanted, openings of doors, Robbie, large and heavy, though with slippered feet, going into his companion’s room, and the loud talk of last night resumed. Nearly one o’clock, the middle of the day. Alas for that journey to St Kilda, or anywhere! When the day was half over, how was any such enterprise to be undertaken? And if the police were after him—the police! in her honourable, honest, stainless house—how was he to get away, to have a chance of escape? in his bed and undefended, sleeping and insensible to any danger, till one of the clock. It must have been two before Robbie showed down-stairs. He was a little abashed, not facing his mother—looking, she thought, as if his eyes had been boiled.
“We were a little late last night,” he said. “I’m sorry, but it’s nothing to look so serious about. Lew’s first night.”
“Robbie,” she said, “it’s nothing. I’m old-fashioned. I have my prejudices. But it was not that I was thinking of. Is he in danger of his life or no?”
Robbie blanched a little at this, but shook himself with nervous impatience. “That’s a big word to use,” he said.
“It was the word he used to me when he came upon me last night. If he is in danger of his life, he is not safe for a moment here.”
“Rubbish!” said Robbie; “why is he not safe? It is as out of the way as anything can be. Not a soul about but your village people, who don’t know him from Adam, nor anything about us, good or bad. I am just your son to them, and he is just my friend.”
“If that were so! It is not a thing I know about: it is only what you have told me, him and you. He said he was in danger of his life.”
“He was a fool for his pains; but he always liked a sensation, and to talk big——”
“Then it is not true?”
She looked at him, and he at her. He was pale, too, with the doings of last night, but a quick colour flashed over his face under her eyes. “I am not going to be cross-examined,” he said. Then after a pause: “It may be true, and it mayn’t be true—if they’re on his track. But he doesn’t think now that they are on his track.”
“He thought so last night, Robbie.”
“What does it matter about last night? You’re insufferable—you can imagine nothing. There is a difference between a man when he’s tired and fasting, and when he’s had a good rest and a square meal. He doesn’t think so now. He’s quite happy about us both. He says we’ll pull along here famously for a time. You so motherly (he likes you), and Janet such a good cook, and the whisky very decent. He’s a connoisseur, I can tell you!—and nobody here that has half an idea in their heads——”
“You may be deceived, there,” said Mrs Ogilvy, suddenly resenting what he said—“you may be deceived in that, both him and you——”
“Not about the cook and the whisky,” said Robbie, with a laugh. “In short, we think we can lie on our oars a little and watch events. We can cut and run at any moment if danger appears.”
“You say ‘we,’ Robbie?”
“Yes,” he said, with a momentary scowl, “I said ‘we.’ Of course, I’m in with Lew as soon as he turns up. I always said I was. You forget the nonsense I’ve talked about him. That’s all being out of sight that corrupts the mind. Lord, what a difference it makes to have him here!”
She looked a little wistfully at the young man to whom her own love and devotion mattered nothing. He calculated on it freely, took advantage of it, and thought no more of it—which was “quite natural”: she quieted all possibilities of rebellion in her own mind by this. “But, Robbie,” she said, “if he is in danger. I’m not one to advise you to be unfaithful to a friend—oh, not even if—— But his welfare goes before all. If it’s true all I’ve heard—if there’s been wild work out yonder in America, and he’s blamed for it——”
“Who told you that?”
“Partly Mr Somerville before you came, Robbie, and partly yourself—and partly it was in a newspaper I read.”
“A newspaper!” he cried, almost with a shout. “If it has been in the newspapers here——”
“I did not say it was a newspaper here.”
“I know what it was,” said Robbie, with a scornful laugh. “You’ve been at a woman’s tricks. I thought you were above them. You’ve searched my pockets, and you’ve found it there.”
“I found it lying with your coat, in no pocket: and I had seen it before in Mr Somerville’s hands. You go too far—you go too far!” she said.
“Well,” he said with bravado, “what does a Yankee paper matter?—nobody reads them here. Anyhow,” he added, “Lew and I, we’re going to face it out. We’ll stay where we are, and make ourselves as comfortable as we can. Danger at present there’s none. Oh, you need not answer me with supposing this or that; I know.”
Mrs Ogilvy opened her lips to speak, but said no word. She was perhaps tempted to suggest that it was her house, her money, her life and comfort, of which these two men were disposing so calmly; but she did not. After all, she said to herself, it was not hers, but Robbie’s; everything that was hers was his. She had saved the money which he might have been spending had he been at home—which he might have been extravagant with, who could tell?—for him. And should she grudge him the use of it now? If he was right, if all was safe, if there was no need for alarm, why, then—— Her peace was gone; but had she not all these years been ready to sacrifice peace, comfort, life itself—everything in the world—for Robbie’s sake? And now that he had been brought back to her as if it were out of the grave,—“this thy son was dead, and is alive again; he was lost, and is found,”—what was there more to say? That father who ran out to meet his son, who fell upon his neck, and clothed him in the best garment, and would not even listen to his confession and penitence—perhaps when the prodigal had settled back again into the monotony of home, was not so happy in him as he had hoped to be.