HOW this night passed over, this dreadful night, under the once peaceful roof of the Hewan, was never known. It must have been dawn, though it seemed to her so dark, when Mrs Ogilvy dropped on her knees by the dining-room door—and how she got to her own room she did not know. She came to herself with the brilliant summer morning pervading all things, her room full of light, her body full of pain, her mind, as soon as she was conscious, coming back with a dull spring to the knowledge of catastrophe and disaster, though for the first moment she could not tell what it was. She was lying upon her bed fully dressed, her white shawl, which she had been wearing last night, flung, all crumpled, upon the floor, but nothing else changed. A thicker shawl had been thrown over her. Who was it that had carried her up-stairs? This became an awful question as her mind grew clearer. Who was it? who was it?—the victor—perhaps the survivor—— She was aching from head to foot, feeling as if her bones were broken, and she could never stand on her feet again; but when this thought entered her mind she sprang up from her bed like a young girl. The survivor!—perhaps Robbie, Robbie, her once innocent boy, with the stain of blood on his hands: perhaps—— Mrs Ogilvy snatched at the shawl on the floor, which looked almost as if something dead might lie hidden under it, and wrapped herself in it, not knowing why, and stole down-stairs in the brightness of that early morning before even Janet was stirring. She hurried into the dining-room, from which she had been shut out only a few hours ago, with her heart leaping in her throat, not knowing what awful scene she might see. But there was nothing there. A chair had been knocked down, and lay in the middle of the floor in a sort of grotesque helplessness, as if in mockery of the mother’s fears. Nothing else. She stood for a moment, rendered weak again by sudden relief, asking herself if that awful vision of the night had been merely a dream, until suddenly a little heap of torn paper flung upon the ornaments in the grate brought it back again so vividly that all her fears awoke once more. Then she stole away again to the bedrooms, in which, if all was well, they should be lying asleep. There was no sound from Robbie’s, or she could hear none from the beating of her heart. She stole in very softly, as she had not ventured to do since the first morning after his return. There he lay, one arm over his head like a child, breathing that soft breath of absolute rest which is almost inaudible, so deep and so quiet. What fountains of love and tenderness burst forth in the old mother’s breast, softening it, healing it, filling its dryness with heavenly dew. Oh, Robbie, God bless him! God bless him! who at the last had stood for his mother—who would not let her be hurt—who would rather lose everything. And she had perhaps been hard upon him! There was no blood on the hand of one who slept like that. She went to the other door and listened there with her heart lightened; and the breathing there was not inaudible. She retired to her own room almost with a smile on her face.
When Mrs Ogilvy came into the room in which the two young men awaited her for the only meal they shared, the early dinner, she was startled to see a person who seemed a stranger to her in Lew’s place. He wore Lew’s clothes, and spoke with Lew’s voice, but seemed another man. He turned to Robert as she drew back bewildered, and burst into a laugh. “There’s a triumph for me; she doesn’t know me,” he said. Then he approached her with a deprecating look. “I am the man that was so rude to you last night. Forget there was ever such a person. You see I have thrown off all semblance of him.” He spoke gravely and with a sort of dignity, standing in the same place in which Mrs Ogilvy remembered in a flash of sudden vision he had almost shaken the life out of her last night, glaring at her with murderous eyes. There was a gleam in them still which was not reassuring; but his aspect was everything that was penitent and respectful. The change in his appearance was made by the removal of the beard which had covered his face. He had suddenly grown many degrees lighter in colour, it seemed, by the removal of that forest of dark hair; and the man had beautiful features, a fine mouth, that rare beauty either in man or woman. His expression had always been good-humoured and agreeable. It was more so, a look in which there seemed no guile, but for that newly awakened tigerish expression in his eyes. Mrs Ogilvy felt a thrill of terror such as had not moved her through all the horrors of the previous night, when Robbie for a moment left the room. She felt that the handsome smiling man before her would have strangled her without a moment’s hesitation had there been any possibility of getting the money for which he had struggled in another way, in what was for her fortunately the only possible way. She felt his grip upon her shoulders, and a shiver ran through her in spite of herself. She could not help a glance towards the door, where, indeed, Janet was at the moment about to come in, pushing it open before her. There was no danger to-day, with everybody about—but another night—who could tell?
When the dinner was over, Lew addressed her again. “This,” he said, putting up his hand to his chin, “is my toilette de voyage. You are going to be free of us soon. We shall make no flourish of trumpets, but go suddenly as we came.”
“If it doesn’t prove too late,” said Robert, gruffly.
“Listen to the croaker! It isn’t, and it shan’t be, too late. I don’t admit the possibility—so long as your mother, to whom we behaved so badly last night——”
“You,” Mrs Ogilvy breathed forth in spite of herself.
“Oh, he was in it just as much as I was,” said the other, lightly; “but he’s a canny Scot, Bob; he knows when to stop. I, when I am in a good way, don’t.”
There was a savage meaning in the lightness of this speech and the smile that accompanied it. Mrs Ogilvy, terrified, felt herself again shaking like a leaf, like a rag in these tremendous hands. And Robbie, who only knew when to stop—oh, no, no—oh, no, no—she would not believe that: though he had stood still long and looked on.
“You shall see that I will keep my word,” she said, and hurried out of the room to fetch the money which she had brought from Edinburgh with so many precautions. She who had been above all fear felt it now penetrating to her very soul. She locked her door when she went into her room, a precaution she had probably never taken in her life before. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror as she passed, and saw that her countenance was blanched, and her eyes wide with fright. Two men, perhaps—at least one in the fulness of his strength—and she such a little old feeble woman. Had the money she possessed been more easily got at, she knew that she would have had short shrift. And, indeed, if he killed her, there would have been no need of making her sign anything first. It would all go to Robbie naturally—provided she could be sure that Robbie would be free of any share of the guilt. Oh, he would be free! he would not stand by and see her ill-used—he had not been able to bear it last night. Robbie would stand by her whatever happened. But her bosom panted and her heart beat in her very throat. She had to go down again into the room where red murder was in the thoughts of one, and perhaps—God forbid it! God forbid it! Oh, no, no, no!—it was not in nature: not on his mother, not on any one to kill or hurt would Robbie ever lay a hand.
She went down-stairs after a very short interval, and as she reached the dining-room door heard the voice of Lew talking to Janet in the most genial tones. He was so cheerful, so friendly, that it was a pleasure to hear so pleasant a voice; and Robbie, very silent behind backs, was altogether eclipsed by his friend, although to Janet too that often sullen Robbie was “my ain laddie,” dear in spite of all. But there was no drawback in her opinion of Mr Lewis, as she called him, “Aye canty and pleasant, aye with a good word in his head; no pride about him; just as pleasant with me as if I were the Duchess hersel’.” She held up her hands in expressive horror as she met her mistress at the door. “He carries it off wi’ his pleasant ways; but oh, he has just made an objeck of himself,” Janet said.
Mrs Ogilvy went in, feeling as if she were going to her doom. She took her little packet to the table, and put it down before him. The room was filled with clouds of smoke; and that bottle, which was so great a trial to her, stood on the table; but these details had sunk into absolute insignificance. She had taken the trouble to get the money in English notes and gold—the latter an unusual sight in the Hewan, where one-pound notes were the circulating medium. In the tremor of her nerves and commotion of her feelings she had added twenty pounds which were in the house, of what she called “her own money,” the money for the housekeeping, to the sum which she had told him was to be for him. It was thus a hundred and fifty pounds which she put before him—hastily laying it down as if it burned her, and yet with a certain reluctance too.
“Ah!” he said, and threw a look across the table to Robbie; “another twenty pounds—and more where that came from, mother, eh?”
“I have no more—not a farthing,” she said, hastily; “this was my money for my house. I thought I would add it to the other: since you were not pleased—last night.”
It was evidently an unfortunate movement on her part. “You will perhaps find some more still,” he said, with a laugh, “before this night. It’s not very much for two, and one your only son; but there will be plenty of time to settle that to-night.”
“Robbie,” she said, breathlessly, “is not going—he is not going: it is for you.”
“Are you not going, Bob?”
Robert said not a word in reply—he sat with his head supported on his hands, his elbows on the table: and his countenance was invisible—he made no movement or indication of what he meant to do.
“I have no more,” said Mrs Ogilvy, with a trembling voice; for she was afraid of the look, half fierce, half mocking, with which he met her eyes. “It would perhaps have been better if I had—money in the bank, and could draw a cheque like most people now; but I have always followed the old-fashioned way, and all I have is in the hands of——”
She broke off with a quavering, broken sound—seeing over again the scene of last night, and the paper with Mr Somerville’s name upon it,—she remembered now, suddenly, that Mr Somerville’s name was upon the paper which they had wanted her to sign. What had become of Mr Somerville that he had not come, as he promised, to speak to Robbie, to persuade the other one to go away? It was difficult to recall to herself the fact that it was only two days since she had gone to Edinburgh and poured her trouble into his sympathetic ears. Perhaps it would have been better if she had not done this, or opened her heart to any one. Mr Somerville would never betray them, he would not betray Robbie; but still it seemed that something had happened between that time and this, a greater sense of insecurity, the feeling that something was going to happen. Things had been better before, when that strange life which she had felt to be insupportable was going on: now it was more than insupportable, it was almost over, and after——? A great chasm seemed to have opened at her feet, and she felt herself hurrying towards it, but could not tell what was below. After? what was to happen after, if Robbie drifted away again, and she saw his face no more?
He avoided her all day, while she watched for him at every corner, eager only to get a word, to ask a question, to put forth a single prayer. The afternoon was terribly long: it went over, one sunny hour after another, hot, breathless, terrible. It was clear by all those signs that a thunderstorm was coming, and the most appalling roll of thunder would have been a relief; but even that delayed its coming, and a dead stillness hung over heaven and earth. There was not a breath of air, the flowers languished in the borders, the leaves hung their heads, and all was still indoors. She did not know what the young men were doing, but they made no sound. Perhaps the weather affected them too—perhaps, another storm coming, which they had been long looking for, had overcome their spirits. Perhaps they were making preparations for their departure. But what preparations could they make, unless it were a bundle on the end of a stick like the tramps? She said to herself they, and then with anguish changed it in her mind to he, but did not believe it even while she did so. No! she had a conviction in her heart that Robbie would go. What was there to keep him back? Nothing but dulness and the society of an old woman. What was that to keep a man at home? She was not angry with him, nor intolerant, but simply miserable. What was there in her to make a young man happy at home? to keep him contented without society or any amusement? No, no, she could not blame Robbie. He wanted movement, he wanted life at his age. He was not even like a young lad who sometimes has a great feeling for his mother. She could not expect it of him that he should stay here for his mother. Even the flight, the excitement of being pursued, the difficulty of getting away—Mrs Ogilvy had heard that such things were more attractive than quietness and safety at home. It was natural—and, what was the chief thing above all other, Robbie was not so much, not so very much, to blame.
She was still wandering about when the day began to wane into evening, like an unquiet soul. Where were they? what were they doing? The quiet of the house became dreadful to her. She who had loved her quiet so, who had felt it so insupportable to have her calm solitude so spoiled and broken!—but now she would have given much only to hear the scuffle of their feet, the roar of their loud laughter. She went about the house from one room to another, avoiding only the bedrooms where she supposed they were. She would not drive them out of that last refuge. She would not interfere there, be importunate, disturb them, if, perhaps, it was the last day.
And then she went outside and gazed right and left for she knew not what. She was looking for no one—or was it the storm she was looking for? Everything was grey, the sky, like some deep solid lid for the panting breathless world, stealing down upon the earth, closely hiding the heavens: it seemed to come closer and closer down, as if to smother the universe and all the terrified creatures on it. The birds flew low, making little agitated flights, as if they thought the end of the world was at hand. So did she, to whom, as far as she knew, everything was hastening to a conclusion—her son about to disappear again into the unknown, if he had not already done so, and her life about to be wound up for ever. For she knew well there would be no second coming back. Oh! never, never again would she sit at her door, and listen and hope for his step on the path. If he left her now, it would be for ever. It might be that for the sake of the money he would have seen some violence done to his mother; but no money, if it were ten times as much, would bring him back again—none! none! not if it were ten times as much. If he went now, he would never come back; and how could she keep him from going now?
About seven o’clock the windows of heaven were opened, and torrents of rain fell—not the storm for which everybody had been looking, but only the tail of the storm, which sounded all round the horizon in distant dull reports, like a battle going on a dozen miles away, and the tremendous downpour of rain. She said to herself, “In such a night they can never go,” with a mingled happiness and despair—happiness to put off the inevitable, to gain perhaps a propitious moment, and supplicate her son not to go; and despair in the prospect of another twenty-four hours of misery like this, the dreadful suspense, the terror of she knew not what. When the first darkening of the twilight began, Mrs Ogilvy began to think of another night to go through, and Lew’s laughing threats, and the devil in his eyes. He had said there would be time to talk of that to-night. Perhaps he would murder her to-night; and all the country-side would believe it was her son, and curse him, though it would not be Robbie—not Robbie, who had saved her once, but perhaps might not again. She asked herself whether it would not be better to go away somewhere, to save herself and, above all, them, from such a dreadful temptation. But where could she go, exposing the misery of her house? and how did she know that something might not happen which would make her presence a protection to them? She gazed out from the window through the rain, and it occurred to her that she could always run out there and hide herself among the trees. They would not think of looking for her there. She would be safe there, or at least—— This idea gave her a little comfort. How could he find her in the dark, in the heavy rain, among her own trees?
The rain had driven her indoors, and in the parlour where she was, she heard them overhead. They seemed to be moving about softly, and sometimes crossed the passage, as if going from one room to another. They had shared the clothes with which Robbie had liberally provided himself on his return—and the thought that they were busied only with so homely an occupation as packing brought back a little comfort to her. A man does not fash about his clothes, she thought, who has murder in his head. She shook off her terror with a heat of shame flaming over her. Shame to have done injustice to her neighbour, how much more to her son! They were thinking of no such dreadful things: it was only the panic of her own imagination which was in fault. She said to herself that if it must be so, if Robbie left her, she would get from him a sure address, and there she would send him the money he wanted, or whatever he wanted—for was it not all his? This was what she would do: she had nothing to give him now. Perhaps, perhaps he might be deterred by that and wait till she could get it for him, while his friend went on. What a thing this would be, to get him alone, to talk to him, to represent to him how much better to take a little time, to think, to give himself a chance. She thought over all this, and shook her head while she thought; for, alas! this was what Robbie would never do.
Suddenly, it seemed in a moment, the rain stopped, the distant thunder came to an end, the battle in the skies was over. And after all the tumult and commotion of the elements, the clouds, which had poured themselves out, dispersed in rags and fragments of vapour, and let the sky look through—the most serene evening sky, with the stars faintly visible through the wistful lingering daylight—the sweetest evening, with that clearness as of weeping, and radiance as of hope returned, which is in the skies after the relief of the rain, and in a human countenance sometimes when all its tears have been shed, and there are no more to come. Was it a good omen, or was it only the resignation of despair which shone upon her out of that evening sky?