The continued disappointment, which was no disappointment but only the
fall of a fancy, a bubble of fond imagination in which there was no
reality at all--happened once more, while these two ladies sat together
and listened. And then the shadow of a man crossed the open window--a
little man--who, not knowing he was seen, paused to wipe his bald head
and recover his breath before he rang the bell at the open door. The
house was all open, fearing nothing, the sunshine and atmosphere
penetrating everywhere.
“It is Mr Somerville, my man of business. It will only be something
about siller,” Mrs Ogilvy said in a low tone.
“I will go away, then,” said Susie. She paused a little, holding her old
friend’s hands. “And if it’s any comfort,” she said, “when you’re
sitting alone and thinking, to mind that there is one not far away that
is thinking too--and believing----”
“It is a comfort, Susie--God bless you for it, my dear----”
“Well, then, there are two of us,” she said, with a smile beaming out of
the tearfulness of her face, “and it will be easier when this weary
month is past.”
Susie, in her fresh summer dress, with her sweet colour and her pleasant
smile, met, as she went out, the old gentleman coming in. She did not
know him, but gave him a little bow as she passed, with rural politeness
and the kindness of nature. Susie was not accustomed to pass any
fellow-creature without a salutation. She knew every soul in the parish,
and every soul in the parish knew her. She could not cross any one’s
path without dropping, as it were, a flower of human kindness by the
way, except, of course, when she was in Edinburgh or any other large and
conventional place, where she only thought her goodwill to all whom she
met. The visitor, coming from that great capital and used to the
reticences of town life, was delighted with this little civility. He
seized his hat, pulling it once more off his bald head, and went into
the Hewan uncovered, as if he had been going into the presence of the
Queen. It gave him a little courage for his mission, which, to tell the
truth, was not a very cheerful mission, nor one which he had undertaken
with any alacrity. It was not that Mrs Ogilvy’s income had sustained any
diminution, or that he had a tale of failing dividends and bad
investments to tell. What she had was invested in the soundest
securities. It did not perhaps bring her in as much as would now be
thought necessary; but it was as safe as the Bank of England, and the
Bank of Scotland, and the British Linen Company, all rolled into one.
Her income scarcely varied a pound year by year. There was very little
for her man of business to do but to receive the modest dividends and
send her the money as she required it. She would have nothing to do with
banks and cheque-books. She liked always to have a little money in the
house--but there was little necessity for frequent meetings between her
and the manager of her affairs. He would sometimes come in on rare
occasions when he had taken a long walk into the country: but Mr
Somerville was not so young as he once had been, and took long walks no
more. Therefore she looked at him not with anxiety but with a little
curiosity when he sat down beside her. She was far too polite to put,
even into a look, the question, What may you be wanting? but it caused a
little embarrassment between them for the first moment. She, however,
was more at ease than he was--for she expected nothing more than some
question or advice about money, and he knew that what he had to say was
something of a much more troublous kind. This made him prolong a little
the questions about health and the remarks on the weather which form the
inevitable preliminaries of conversation with such old-fashioned folk.
When they had complimented each other on the beautiful season, and the
young crops looking so well, and new vegetables so good and plentiful,
there came a little pause again. Mrs Ogilvy was leaning back a little in
her chair, very peaceful, fearing no blow, when the old gentleman, after
clearing his throat a great many times, began--
“You will remember, Mrs Ogilvy--it is a thing you would be little likely
to forget--a commission that you charged me with, in confidence--it is
now a number of years ago----”
She raised herself suddenly in her chair, and drew a long breath. The
expression of her countenance changed in a moment. She said nothing, nor
was it necessary: her look, the changed pose of her person leaning
towards him, her two hands clasped together on the arm of her chair,
were enough.
“You must not expect too much, my dear lady--it is perhaps nothing at
all, perhaps another person altogether; but at least, for the first
time, it appears to me that it is something in the shape of a clue. I
have been very cautious, according to your directions, but all the same
I have made many inquiries: and none of them have ever come to
anything.”
“I know, I know.”
“This, if there’s anything in it, is no credit of mine, it is pure
accident.” Mr Somerville paused here to feel in his pockets for
something. He tried his breast-pocket, and his tail-pockets, and all
the other mysterious places in which things can be hidden away. “I must
have left it in my overcoat,” he said. “One moment, if you permit, and
I’ll get it before I say more.”
Mrs Ogilvy made no movement, while she sat there and waited. She closed
her eyes, and there came from the depths of her bosom a low sigh, which
was something like the breath of patience concentrated and condensed.
She was perfectly still when he went back again, full of apologies:
after having made a great rustling and searching of pockets in the outer
hall, he came back with a newspaper in his hand.
“We have a good deal of business with America,” he said. “I can scarcely
tell you how it began. One of our clients had a son that went out, and
got on very well in business, and one thing followed another; what with
remittances home, and expenses out, and money for the starting of farms,
and so forth,--and then being laid open to the temptation of American
investments, which, as a rule, pay very well, and all our poor customers
just give us no peace till we put their money on them. This makes it
very necessary for us to know the state of the American stock market,
and how this and that is going. You will not maybe quite understand, but
so it is.”
“I understand,” Mrs Ogilvy said.
“And this one, you see, was sent to us a day or two ago with this
object. It’s from one of the towns in what’s called the wild West, just
a ramshackle sort of a place, half built, and not a comfortable house in
it. But they’ve got a newspaper, such as it is. And really valuable to
us for the last week or two, showing the working of a great scheme.”
Would the man never be done? He laid the newspaper across his knee, and
pointed his words with little gestures made over it. A glance would have
been enough to show her what it was. But no, let patience have its
perfect work. By moments she closed her eyes not to see him, and spoke
not a word.
“Well, you see, the business of overlooking these American investments
comes upon me; and I get a great many of their papers to glance
at--trashy things, full of personal gossip, the most outrageous
nonsense. I don’t often look beyond the share lists. But this morning,
when I first came into the office, this thing was lying on my table. I
had glanced at it, and taken what was of use in it yesterday. It’s just
a wonder how it got there again. I gave another glance at it by pure
chance, if you’ll believe me, as I slipped on my office-coat. And my eye
was caught by a name. Well, it was only an _alias_, among a lot of
others; but I’ve been told that away there in these wild places you can
never tell which may be a man’s real name--as like as not the fifth or
sixth _alias_ in a long line.”
He looked up at her by chance, and it seemed to him as if his client had
fainted. Her face was drawn and perfectly white, the eyes half closed.
“Bless me!” he cried, starting up; “it’s been more than she could bear.
What can I do?--some water, or maybe ring the bell.”
He was about to do this when she caught him with one hand, and with the
other pointed to the paper. Something like “Let me hear it,” came from
her half-closed lips.
“That I will! that I will!” he cried. It was a relief that she could
speak and see. He took up the paper, and was--how long--a year? of
finding the place.
“It’s just this,” he said; “it’s an account of a broil in which some of
those wild fellows got killed: and among the lot of them that was
present, there was one, an Englishman they say--but that’s nothing, for
they call us all Englishmen abroad. Our fathers would never have stood
it; but what can you do? it’s handiest when all’s said--an Englishman
that had been about a ranch, and had been a miner, and had been a
coach-driver, and I don’t know all what; but this is his name, ‘Jim
Smith, _alias_ Horse-breaking Jim, _alias_ James Jones, _alias_ Bob the
Devil, _alias_,’” here he held up his finger to arrest her attention,
“‘Robert Ogilvy. It is suspected that the last may be his real name.’”
Mrs Ogilvy was incapable of speech. She signed for the paper, raising
herself a little in her chair.
“That is just all there is: you would not understand the story. I’ve
just carefully read it to you. Well, madam, if you will have it.” The
old gentleman was much disturbed. He let her take the paper because he
could not resist it, and then he went of his own accord and rang the
bell. “Will ye bring a little wine, or even a drop of brandy?” he said,
going to meet Janet at the door, “if your mistress ever takes it. She
has had a bit shock, and she’s not very well.”
She had got the paper in her hands. The touch of that real thing brought
her back more or less to herself. She sat up and held it to the light,
and read it every word. There was more of it than Mr Somerville had
read. It was an account of a tumult at which murder had been done--no
accident, but cold-blooded murder, and the names given were of men more
or less involved. The last of these, perhaps, therefore, the least
guilty, was this man of many names, Robert Ogilvy--oh, to see it there
in such a record! The bonnie name, all breathing of youth and cheerful
life, with the face of the fresh boy looking at her through
it!--Robbie, her Robbie, _alias_ Jim, _alias_ Bob, _alias_---- She
clasped her hands together with the paper between them, and “O Lord
God!” she said, in tones wrung out of her very heart.
“Just swallow this, swallow this, my dear lady; it will give you
strength. She has had a bit shock. She will be better, better directly.
Just do everything you can for her, like a good woman. I was perhaps
rash. But she’ll soon come to herself.”
“I am myself, Mr Somerville, I am not needing any of your brandy. I
cannot bide the smell of it. Janet, take it way. I have got some news
that I will tell you after. Mr Somerville, I will have to take time to
think of it. I cannot get it into my mind all at once.”
“No, no,” he said, soothingly, “it was not to be expected. I was too
rash. I should have broken it to you more gently: a wee drop of wine, if
you will not have the brandy?--though good spirit is always the best.”
“I want nothing,” she said; “just give me a moment to think.” And then
out of that bitterness of death there came a low cry--“Oh, his bonnie
name, his bonnie name!”
“Ay,” said the old gentleman, full of sympathy, “that is just what I
thought--my old friend’s name, douce honest man! that never did anything
to be ashamed of in all his days.”
The blood came back to her face with a rush.
“And how can you tell,” she said, “whether there’s anything to be
ashamed of there? You said yourself it was a wild place. They cannot be
on their p’s and q’s as we are, choosing their company. I am a decent
woman myself, and have been, as you say, all my days; but who could tell
what kind of folk I might have got among had I been there?”
She rose up and began to walk about the room in sudden excitement. “He
would interfere to help the weak one,” she said. “If there was a weak
side, he would be upon that; he would be helping somebody. Him--murder a
man! You were his father’s friend, I know; but did you ever see Robbie
Ogilvy, my son?--and, if not, man! how daur you speak, and speak of
shame and my laddie together, to me?”
Mr Somerville was so taken by surprise that he could not find a word to
say. “I thought,” he began--and then he stopped short. Had not shame
already been busy with Robbie Ogilvy’s name? But however much he had
been in possession of his faculties and recollections, silence was the
wiser way.
“There is one thing,” Mrs Ogilvy said; “if this be true, and if it be
_him_--there will be a trial, and he will need defence. He must have the
best defence, the best advocate. You will send somebody out at once
without losing a day. Oh, I’m old, I’m weak, I’m an old woman that knows
nothing! I’ve never been from home. But what is all that. What is all
that to my Robbie? I think, Mr Somerville, I will go myself.”
“You must not think of that,” he cried. “A wild unsettled country, and
miles and miles, in all probability, to be done on horseback, and no
certainty where to find him--if it is him--on one side of the continent
or the other. For, you will see, none of them were taken. Not the chief
person, who will doubtless be a very different sort of person, nor--any
of the others. They will all be away from that place like the lightning.
They will not bide to be put through an interrogatory or stand their
trial. I will tell you what I will do. I will write to our
correspondents most particularly. I will bid them employ the sharpest
fellow they can find about there to follow him and run him down.”
“Run him down!” she cried, with a mixture of horror and
indignation,--“my boy! You use words that are ill chosen and drive me
out of my senses,” she added, with a certain dignity. “But you are well
meaning, Mr Somerville, and not an injudicious person in business so far
as I have seen. You will write to no correspondents. There must be sharp
fellows here, and men that have been about the world. You will send one
of them. If I go myself or not, I will take a little time to think; but
without losing a day or a moment you will send one of them.”
“It will be a great expense, Mrs Ogilvy--and the other way would be
better. I might even cable to our correspondents: that means telegraph.
It’s another of their new-fangled words.”
“The one need not hinder the other. You can do both. Cable, as you call
it----”
“It is very expensive,” he said.
“Man!” cried Mrs Ogilvy, towering over him, “what am I caring about
expense?--expense! when it’s him that is in question. It will be the
quickest way. Cable or telegraph, or whatever you call it; and since
there’s nothing that can be done to-night, send the man wherever you may
find him--to-morrow.”
“You go very fast,” he cried, panting as if for breath.
“And so would you, if it was your only son, your only child, that was in
question. And I will think. I will perhaps set out to-morrow myself.”
“To-morrow is the Sabbath-day,” said Mr Somerville, with an
indescribable sensation of relief.
This damped Mrs Ogilvy’s spirit for the moment. “It’s not that I would
be kept back by the Sabbath-day,” she said; “for Him that was the Lord
of the Sabbath, He just did more on that day than any other, healing
and saving: and would He put it against me? Oh no! I ken Him too well
for that. But since it’s not a lawful day for travelling, and there’s
few trains and boats, send your cable to-night, Mr Somerville. Let that
be done at least, if it is the only thing we can do.”
“There will still be time; but I will have to hurry away,” said the old
gentleman reluctantly, “to Edinburgh by the next train.”
And then there ensued a struggle in the mind of the hostess, to whom
hospitality was second nature. “I did not think of that; and you’ve had
a hot journey out here, and nothing to refresh you. Forgive me, that
have been just wrapped up in my own concerns. You will stay and
take--some dinner before you go back.”
“No, no,” he said; “it’s a terrible thing for you to refuse a dinner to
a hungry man. You never did the like of that in your life before. But
it’s best I should go. There’s a train in half an hour. I’ll take a
glass of the wine you would not take, and I’ll be fresh again for my
walk to the station. It’s not just so warm as it was.”
“You will stay to your dinner, Mr Somerville.”
“No; I could not swallow it, and you could not endure to see me eating
it and losing time.”
“Then Andrew shall put in the pony, and drive you down to Eskholm,” Mrs
Ogilvy said. This was a relief to her, in the unexampled contingency of
sending a visitor unrefreshed from her house--a thing which perhaps had
never happened in her life before.
She went out to her habitual place outside a little later, at her usual
hour. She was not capable of saying anything to Janet, who followed her
wistfully, putting herself forward to bring out her mistress’s cushion,
her footstool, her book, her knitting, one after another, always hoping
to be told what Mrs Ogilvy had promised to tell her after. But not a
word did her mistress say. She did not even sit down as she usually did,
but walked about, quickly at first, then with gradually slackening
steps, sometimes pausing to look round, sometimes stooping to throw away
a withered leaf, but always resuming that restless walk which was so
unlike her usual tranquillity. She had her hand pressed upon her side,
as one might press a handkerchief upon a wound. And indeed she had the
stroke of a sword in her heart, and the life-blood flowing. Robert
Ogilvy, Robbie Ogilvy, the bonnie name! and after the silence of fifteen
years to hear it now as in the ‘Hue and Cry,’ at the end of all that
long string of awful nicknames. It was only now that she had full time
to realise it all. Yesterday at this time what would she not have given
for any indication that he was living and where he was! She would have
said she could bear anything only to know that he was safe, and to have
some clue by which he could be found. And now she had both, and a wound
gaping in her heart that required both her hands to cover it, to prevent
her life altogether from welling away. Robert Ogilvy, Robert Ogilvy--oh,
his bonnie name!
After a while, her forces wearing out, she sat down in her usual place,
but not with her usual patience and calm. Was that what could be called
an answer to her prayers?--the sudden revelation of her son, for whom
she had cried to God for all these years night and day, in anguish and
crime and danger? Oh, was this an answer? Her eyes wandered by habit to
the landscape below and the road which she had watched so often, the
white road, white with summer dust, upon which every passing figure
showed. There was a passing figure now, walking slowly along as far as
she could see. On another day she would have wondered who the man was.
She took no interest in him now, but saw him pass and pass again as if
it were the merest accident. It was not until she had seen him pass
three or four times that her attention was roused. A big figure, not one
she could identify with any of the usual passers-by, strangely clad, and
carrying a cloak folded over one shoulder. A cloak? what could a man
like that want with a cloak--an old-fashioned cumbrous thing. Whatever
he wanted, he kept his face towards the Hewan. Sometimes he passed very
slow, lingering at every step; sometimes very fast, as if he were
pursued. Other figures went and came--the farmers’ gigs, a few carriages
of the gentry going home. It was late, though it was still so light.
What was that man doing loitering always there? Her attention was more
and more drawn to the road. At last she saw that nobody except this one
man was within sight, not a wheel audible, not a creature visible. The
figure seemed to hesitate, and then all at once with a dart approached
the gate, which swung at his touch. Was he coming here? Who was he?
Long, long had she watched and waited. Was he coming home at last this
June day,--this night of all nights? And who was he, who was he, the man
that was coming? It will only be some person with a message--it will
only be some gangrel person, Mrs Ogilvy said to herself.