MRS AINSLIE, who is a person with whom this history is little concerned, and whose character and antecedents I have no desire to set forth, had been moved, by the suddenness and unexpectedness of her vision through the dining-room window of the Hewan, to commit what she afterwards felt to be a great mistake. Hitherto, after the experience gained in a hundred adventures, she had found the rôle which she had chosen to play in the rustic innocence of Eskholm not a difficult one. No one suspected her of anything but a little affectation, a little absurdity, and a desire to be believed a fine lady, which, if it did not deceive the better instructed, yet harmed nobody. Society, even in its most obscure developments—and especially village society—is suspicious, people say. If so—of which I am doubtful—then it is generally suspicious in the wrong way; and there was nobody in Eskholm who had the least suspicion of Mrs Ainslie’s antecedents, or imagined that she could be anything but what she professed to be, an officer’s widow. Military ladies are allowed to be like their profession, a little pushing and forward, not meek and mild like the model woman. She knew herself, of course, how much cause for suspicion there was; and she saw discovery in people’s eyes who had never even supposed any inquiry into the truth of her statements to be called for: and thus she was usually very much on her guard, notwithstanding the apparent freedom of her manners and lightness of her heart. But the sudden sight of an old comrade in the very midst of this changed and wonderful life of respectability which she was living, had startled her quite out of herself. Lew! in the midst of respectability even greater than her own, in the Hewan, the abode of all that was most looked up to and esteemed! The surprise took away her breath; and with the surprise there came a flood of recollections, of remembered scenes—oh! very much more piquant than anything known on Eskside; of gay revelry, movement, and adventure, fun and freedom. That life which is called “wild” and “gay” and “fast,” and so many other misnomers, and which looks in general so miserable to the lookers-on, has no doubt its charms like another, and the excitements of the past look all pure dash and delight to the people who have forgotten what deadliest of all ennui lay behind them. There flashed upon this woman a sudden thought of a gay meeting like those of old, full of reminiscence, and mutual inquiry, what has become of Jack and what has happened to Jill, and of laughter over many a sport and feat that were past. It did not occur to her at the moment that to hear what had happened to Jack and Jill would probably be dismal enough. She thought only, amid the restraints of the present life in which no fun was, what fun to see one of the old set again, and to ask after everybody, and hear all that had been going on, all at her ease, and without fear of discovery in the middle of the night. She divined without difficulty that Lew was here in hiding for no innocent cause, and that Mrs Ogilvy’s long-vanished son, who was mysteriously known to have returned, but who had never showed himself openly, was in some compromising way involved with him, and keeping him out of sight. She understood now the stories about the long night-walks of the two gentlemen at the Hewan of which she had heard: and her well-worn heart gave a jump to think of a jovial meeting so unexpected, so refreshing, in which she could renew her spirit a little more than with all the preparations necessary for her future part of the minister’s wife. It would be a farewell to the past which she could never have dared to anticipate, and the thought gave an extraordinary exhilaration, as well as half-panic which was part of the exhilaration, to her mind. It was as if a stream of life had been poured into her veins—life, which was not always enjoyable, but yet was living, according to the formula of those to whom life has probably more moments of complete dulness and self-disgust than to the dullest of those half-lives which they despise.
But when Mrs Ainslie got home, and began to reflect on the matter, she saw how great a mistake she had made. If she knew him, so did he also know her and all her antecedents. It had given her a thrill of pleasure to think of meeting him, and talking over the past; but it was equally possible to her to betray him, in her new rôle as a respectable member of society: and she knew that she would not hesitate to do so, should it prove necessary. But it was equally possible that he might betray her. It did not take her more than five minutes’ serious thinking, when the first excitement of the discovery was over, to show her that to disclose herself to Lew, and put in his hands a means of ruining her, or of holding her in terror at least, was the last thing that was to be desired. Lew in Colorado, or as a chance exile from that paradise, ready to disappear again into the unknown, was little dangerous, and a chance meeting with him the most amusing accident that was likely to befall her. But Lew in England, or, still worse, Scotland, at her very door, ready on any occasion to inform her new friends who she was or had been, was a very different matter. She owned to herself that she had never done anything so mad or foolish in her life. On the eve of becoming Mr Logan’s wife, of being provided for for the rest of her life, of being looked up to and respected, and an authority in the place—and by one foolish word to throw all this, which was almost certainty, into the chaos of risk and daily danger, at the mercy of a man who could spoil everything if he pleased, or could at least hold the sword over her head and make her existence a burden to her! What a thing was this which she had done! When she saw Mr Logan to the door on that evening, her aspect was more animated and bright than ever, but her heart in reality was quaking. It was foolish of her to take the candle; but it was her habit, and it would have been remarked, she thought in her terror, if she had not done it: and then she stood and looked up and down, still with that light in her hand—thankful that at least the minister was gone, that he would not meet these visitors if they came: then with relief making up her mind that they would not come—that Lew, if he were in hiding, would be as much afraid of her as she of him.
She had a disturbed night, full of alarm and much planning and thinking, sitting up till it was almost daylight, in terror that the visit which she had been so foolish as to invite might be paid at any unlawful hour. And when the next morning came, it was apparent to her that she must do something at once to provide against such a danger, to save herself from the consequences of her foolishness. How it had been that an adventuress like this had managed to secure for her daughter the most respectable of marriages in respectable Edinburgh, is a question into which I cannot enter. It had not been, indeed, Mrs Ainslie’s doing at all. The girl, who knew none of her mother’s disreputable secrets, had made acquaintance in a foreign hotel with some girls of her own age, who had afterwards invited her to visit them in Edinburgh. Such things are done every day, and come to harm so seldom that it is scarcely worth taking the adverse chances into consideration. And there, in the shelter of a most respectable family, the most respectable of men had fallen in love with Sophie. It was all so rapid that examination into the position of the Ainslies was impossible. Sophie had no money: her father had been killed in some campaign in India which happened to coincide with the date of her birth. She was pretty, and not anything but good so far as her up-bringing had permitted. I give this brief sketch in hot haste, as indeed the matter was done—for Mrs Ainslie had announced that she had only come to Eskholm for a few weeks, and was going “abroad” again immediately. Perhaps it was the acquisition of a son-in-law so absolutely correct as Mr Thomas Blair—dear Tom, as his mother-in-law always called him—that put into her head the possibility of becoming herself an exceptionable member of society, furnished with all possible certificates by marrying Mr Logan. At all events, it was her son-in-law to whom she now betook herself after many thoughts, with that skill of the long-experienced schemer which is capable of using truth as an instrument often more effectual than falsehood. She went to him (he was a lawyer) with all the candour of a woman who has made, with grief for her neighbour, a dreadful discovery, and who in the interests of her neighbour, not in her own—for what could she have to do with anything so wicked and terrible?—thinks it necessary to reveal what she has seen. In this way she made Mr Blair aware of the circumstances of her visit at the Hewan, and the man she had seen there. She told him that she had been present at the trial of this man in America—it was one of her frank and simple statements, which were so perfectly candid and above board, that she had lived in various parts of America after her husband’s death—for various terrible crimes. She had seen him in court for days together, and could not be mistaken in him: and the idea that so excellent a person as Mrs Ogilvy had such a man in her house was too dreadful to think of. What should she do? Should she warn Mrs Ogilvy? But then no doubt he was in some way mixed up with Mrs Ogilvy’s son, who had lately returned home in a mysterious and unexpected way. Mr Blair was much interested by the story. He sympathised fully in the dreadful dilemma in which the poor lady found herself. He, too, knew Mrs Ogilvy, and remembered Robbie in his youth perfectly well. He was always a weak fellow, ready to be led away by any one. No doubt her idea was quite right. And then he smote his hand upon his leg, and gave vent to a whistle. “What if it should turn out to be this Lew Smith or Lew Wallace or something, for whom there was a warrant out, and a detective from America on the search!”
“Lew—that is exactly the name—I had forgotten—his other name I don’t remember. He was spoken of as Lew——”
“And you could swear to this fellow? You are sure you could swear to him?”
“Swear! oh, with a clear conscience! But don’t ask me to, dear Tom. Think what it is for a delicate woman—the publicity, the notoriety! Oh, don’t make me appear in a court: I should never, never survive it!” she cried.
“Oh, nonsense, mamma!” The respectable son-in-law was so completely innocent of all suspicion that he had adopted his wife’s name for her mother. “But I allow it’s not pleasant for a lady,” he said: “perhaps you won’t be wanted—but you could on an emergency swear to him.”
“If it was of the last necessity,” she said, trembling, and her trembling was very real. She said to herself at the same moment, No! never! appear in an open court with Lew opposite to me,—never! never! She was one of the many people in the world who think, after they have put the match to the gunpowder, that there is still time to do something to make it miss fire.
Tom Blair was very sympathetic with the woman’s tremors who could not appear in a public court, and yet would do so if it was absolutely necessary. He bade her go home to Sophie and have some lunch, and that he would himself return as early as he could, and tell her if he heard anything. And Mrs Ainslie went to the Royal Crescent, where the pair were established, and admired the nice new furniture, and the man in livery of whom Sophie was so proud. But she did not wait to hear what news dear Tom would bring home. She left all sorts of messages for him, telling of engagements she had, and things to be done for Mr Logan. She could not face him again: and it began to appear a danger for her, though she had great confidence in her powers of invention, to be questioned too closely by any one accustomed to evidence, who might turn her inside out before she knew. And, indeed, her mind was very busy working, now that she had put that match to the gunpowder, to prevent it going off. She went into a stationer’s shop on the way to the station, and got paper and an envelope, and wrote, disguising her hand, an anonymous letter to Mrs Ogilvy, bidding her get her guest off at once, for the police were after him. This was a work of art with which Mrs Ainslie was not at all unacquainted, and she flattered herself that the post-mark “Edinburgh” would quench all suggestions of herself as its author. If he only could get away safe without compromising any one, that would be so much better. She did not want to be hard upon him. Oh, not at all. She had been silly, very silly, to think of a meeting: but she bore him no malice. If he had the sense to steal away before any one went after him, that would be far the best and the safest of all.
She went home to her house, and there proceeded with her preparations for her marriage, which had been going on merrily. She spent the afternoon with her dressmaker, an occupation which pleased her very much. She was not a needlewoman, she could not make anything that was wanted for herself—but she could stand for hours like a lay figure to be “tried on.” That did not weary her at all; and this process made the time pass as perhaps nothing else could have done. Mr Logan once more spent the evening with her, and she had again a time of dreadful anxiety, in the fear that still Lew might appear, might meet the minister at the door, and rouse a thousand questions. For the first time it began to appear possible to her that her marriage might not come off after all. She might never wear these new dresses—all dove-colour and the softest semi-religious tints—as Mr Logan’s wife. She might have to set out on the world again, and get her living somehow, instead of being safe for the rest of her days. Instinctively she began to scheme for that, as well as for the direct contrary of that, and in the same breath arranged, in her mind, for the packing of the new dresses and their transfer to the capacious cupboards in the manse, and for sending them back to the dressmaker if she should have to turn her back on the manse and fly. She did not feel sure now which thing would come to pass.
But once more the evening passed and nobody came. She stood for some time at her door after the minister left: but this time in the darkness, without any candle, listening earnestly for any step or movement in the night; but no one came. Had he taken fright and gone away at once? That was the thing most to be desired, but from that very fact the most unlikely to have happened. It was too good to be true; and Lew was not the man to be challenged and not to accept the challenge—unless he were arrested already! That was always possible, but that too was almost too good to be true. And then there was the chance that he might say something about her, that he might spoil her fortune without doing any good to his own. If she harmed him, it was for good reasons, to save herself; and also, a plea not to be despised, to save poor good old Mrs Ogilvy: but he, if he did so, would do it only out of revenge, and without knowing even that it was she who had betrayed him. All that night and the next day she was in a great state of nervous excitement, not able to keep quiet. She went to the manse, and she came back again, and could not rest anywhere. Apparently nothing had happened; for if there had been a raid of the police, however private, and an arrest effected at the Hewan—and she knew Lew would not tamely allow himself to be taken—some news of it must have oozed out. It would be strange if it passed off without bloodshed, she said to herself. She would have understood very well that movement of his hand to his pocket which Mrs Ogilvy beheld so quietly without knowing at all what it meant. However carefully he might be entrapped, however sudden the rush might be upon him, Lew, who always had his wits perfectly about him, would have time to get at his revolver. She knew so much better than any one what must happen, and yet here she was a mile off and knowing nothing. She fluttered out and in of the manse in the afternoon in her excitement, very gay to all appearance, and talking a great deal.
“You are in excellent spirits to-day, my dear,” said the minister, who was delighted with her gaiety. “But I hope the leddy be-na fey,” was what his old experienced cook, who, not able to tolerate a new mistress, was leaving, said.
“You used to pay visits in the evening before I came on the scene,” she said to her elderly lover. “You used to go and see your ladies: now confess—I know you did.”
“I don’t know what you mean by my ladies,” said the minister, who was, however, flattered by the imputation. “I have never had any lady, my dear, till I met you.”
“That is all very well,” she replied, “but we know what pastoral visits mean. You don’t go and see the men like that. Now there is Mrs Ogilvy, who was, you told me, your oldest friend. You never go near her now. You used to go there at all times—in the afternoons, and in the evenings, and sometimes to supper——”
“My dear, I have wanted to see nobody but you for a couple of months past,” the minister said.
“Let us go back to the old customs,” she said. “I want a bit of change to-night. I have got the fidgets or something. I can’t sit still. I want, if you understand what that is, or if you won’t be shocked, a bit of a spree.”
“Oh, I understand what it is,” said Mr Logan, with a laugh; “but I am much shocked, and when you come to the manse you must not speak any more of a bit of a spree.”
“I shan’t want it then perhaps,” she said, with a look that flattered the foolish man. “But, for the present moment, what do you say to walking up to the Hewan after supper?—and then perhaps we shall see something of Mrs Ogilvy’s two mysterious men.”
“You’ll not do that, surely you’ll not do that, papa!” cried Susie. “Mrs Ogilvy’s men are just her son Robbie, whom we all know, and some friend of his. They are not mysterious—there is nothing at all to find out—and it would vex her if we tried to find out,” she cried in a troubled tone.
“You shall just come too, to punish you for your objections, Susie. Come, come! I have taken one of my turns to-night. I can’t keep still. Let us go. The walk will be delightful, and then it will amuse me to find out the mysterious men. I shouldn’t wonder if I knew one of them. I always know somebody wherever I go. Now, are you going to humour me, James, or are you not? I shall take the last train to Edinburgh, and go to a theatre or somewhere to blow away my fidgets, if you won’t come.”
“We must just humour her, Susie,” said the minister.
“Do so if you like, papa,” said Susie; “but not me. I have plenty to do at home.”
“She thinks Mr Maitland may perhaps look in, to ask for the hundredth time if she will fix the day. That’s always amusing—a man after you like that; but make her come, James, make her come. I want her to come with us to-night.”
“I tell you we will just have to humour her, Susie,” Mr Logan said. He was charmed, and yet he was a little troubled too by the vivacity of his betrothed. When she was “at the manse,” as he said, she must be made to understand that nocturnal expeditions like this were not in an elderly bridegroom’s way. But at all events, for once she must be humoured to-night.